Chapter Text
In fairness, Rey tries very hard to convince herself this makes sense.
Ghosting with kindness is so millennial, anyway. Hard blocking exes is the all-new progressive romance! And she would have done the same, too. Ben merely beat her to it. This is what she asked for. To be left alone and have no part in the confusing, twisted world he’s from. Kira tried to go where she didn’t belong and look what happened. This is unquestionably, one-thousand-percent, without a doubt, what she, Miss Rey Nobody From Nowhere Johnson, wants!
Breathe, she tells herself.
In and out.
Still—to what extent is making excuses for people who’ve hurt her tenable before it’s pathetic?
How long must a heart grieve before she’s a masoch*stic psycho?
For now, however, she’s an aberration. As if her brain glitched, stuck on a loop to figure out the pattern within this mess by rehashing in her mind WHY DID BEN QUIT?—WHY DID BEN LIE?—WHY DOESN’T HE WANT ME?—WHY DOESN’T ANYONE CHOOSE ME AFTER I CHOOSE THEM?—WHY DOES EVERYONE LEAVE—WHY—WHY—WHY—(?????)
All things considered, her days stay pretty normal. After work, she doesn’t bail on hanging out with co-workers. And on the weekends, with Rose. Paige has been too busy of late, anyway. Her firm’s been invited to work on some pro bono cases in Central Corellia, another neighbourhood that’s an hour away—and that’s just fine. Rey still smiles. Laughs. Nods. Gets a little high, a little drunk. Hits the beats of “I’m doing so f*cking fine!” well enough to look regular. That she’s not doing all this sh*t with a broken heart.
On one of their coffee runs, she’s commiserating with Kaydel on the grim dating scene when the elevator doors open. A group from the Corporates division poured out, and one of them greets Kaydel.
The blonde flashes a smile back. “Hello, Mr. Hux.”
Once the girls are alone, however, Kaydel makes a face. “Asshole.”
“He’s just saying hi.”
“Before rating us like roast on a spit, you mean? Like, how fun that rules don’t apply to you just—just because,” Kaydel hisses. “Remember that entire brodeo worshipping Solo when he attended a meeting while being high as a kite. f*cking unprofessional. But it’s okay. It’s okay because he closed a bond issuance for the Nal Hutta government that made us hundreds of millions of dollars in fees. Shady as f*ck. But it’s fine because he’s a high performing nepo baby. Boys will be boys. Whatever. But imagine if we acted like that, huh? Would women be given the same grace?”
Rey stares ahead, paralysed.
There’s just no escaping Ben here—no having him, no breaking free.
She has to hear about him. Constantly. Old news, fresh gossip. How he was the first in his business school’s class, that he was a real asset to Hosnian Prime based on that tombstone trophy cabinet holding multiple Global Finance and Euromoney awards. She has to walk by it every day to reach her desk. None of this was a problem before. But it’s different when an ex-hookup’s awesomeness keeps getting thrown in her face.
Often enough, she wants to shout back that Ben Solo f*cking sucks.
Because he’s not all that.
And he’s really only useful for helping a percentage of the female population come. Namely her.
“Poe was the only tolerable ass. Too bad he’s gone.” Kaydel sighs heavily, stretching her arms above her head. “For real, though—which finance bro isn’t a serial killer?”
Other days, someone usually asks about a previous night’s outing. “What happened with whatshisface who plied you with booze all night?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah—” Rey hears herself say. Like clockwork. “He’s a comedian. Actually funny for once. Trying to get gigs with The Daily Show and parties with, like, guys who know somebody who knows another somebody to get a Netflix special.” She doesn’t tell them that she went back to his place. Or that when he went to grab a condom, she bolted for the exit. Not her first time since Ben cut her off. Something always felt wrong—small hands, kissed too gently, not tall enough for her to tiptoe, didn’t make it hurt, wouldn’t bind her wrists when she asked and instead told her to seek out Jesus. “He’s cute. Second date material, for sure.”
But she’ll always run out of ways to stay numb. The worst thing is, she doesn’t tell anyone that she can’t let go.
Who’d listen, though?
Who could understand without delivering another unsolicited pity party about the trials and tribulations of young love? She isolates all the unpleasantness in a place where sunlight doesn’t touch.
Beneath a floorboard.
She pretends that no, no she didn’t text first, didn’t want to reconnect, zero idea on where Ben’s gone nor does she give a f*ck! Because she doesn’t want Paige’s little voice in her ear. If you allow people to take advantage of your kindness, she once said, they know you’ll let them in, even after they threw you away like garbage. Because on bad days, Rey feels utterly used.
If her roommates knew all the ways she let Ben uncover her darkest impulses, they'd riot. Probably get grossed out, too. They’ll say he f*cked her like an animal, like he doesn’t even know her. Their reactions to him will crush her more than Ben himself.
Her world needs to return to the way it was.
He’s not here, she’s not his.
And yet, she can’t stop needing them. Still waiting for a sign, searching for a home everywhere—in foster parents, in Kira, in Ben Solo. Sooner or later, everyone will come back if she’s good, if she’s understanding, if she’s patient enough. Once she’s what they want, they’ll choose her. Eventually.
It’s her greatest weakness.
But this is how she learns.
This is how she finds her way to shore after drifting too far.
This is how she’ll finally get that wanting people who don’t want her back is just life. She’s done it before and she can do it again.
Someday, everything will be okay.
She googles him often.
Too often.
Her daily “downtime” includes sifting through stock images, articles, or any social trend that tells her the latest on the Organa-Skywalker’s heir stepping up, finally taking on an executive role to oversee their Print Media and Entertainment assets. The markets respond well. Share prices are on the rise.
But there’s one picture.
A single, glossy photo of him in a Vanity Fair-esque write-up of last week’s society events.
She finds it online whilst neck-deep in preparing Amilyn’s meeting materials. For a fraction of a second, a horrible lurch of nausea seizes her.
Because just the sight of him among all that—
Dark, velvet rooms for a glitzy fundraiser. Black tie. Jaw-dropping gowns. Bright, dazzling camera flashes. Her eyes trace his features, over and over again. Like he’s left her parched. Like she’s leashed herself all this time and can’t hold back now. Everything is an invitation—a hand hooked in his pocket with an air of indifference, the tailored tux snug over his broad shoulders, that practised smile that’s always a shadow of a smirk, shiny waves of hair styled back, and, of course, those long, thick fingers curling around a (freakishly?) tiny glass of bourbon. And just like that, she’s reminded of how they feel like over her lips, biting into her skin, thrusting in and out of—
She gives herself a soft slap at the thought.
Cut it out!
Apparently, her body doesn’t give a damn that she should forget Ben Solo.
It wants what it wants.
Because the problem is, he hasn’t lost a shred of attractiveness. He still looks good, so f*cking urbane in the right places—
—like someone who’s moved on.
On the bright side, there’s no date hanging off his free arm. He’s posing for the shot with two ladies; Amilyn (Rey had to a) contact the designer a million times for that stupid gown and b) rush it to the dry cleaners twelve bloody hours before the gala) and another woman she doesn’t recognise. Not at first.
Her eyes dart to the printed caption.
—AMILYN LAURA HOLDO, Global Head of Private Wealth Management for Hosnian Prime Banking Group
—BENJAMIN ORGANA-SKYWALKER SOLO, COO of Organa-Skywalker Corporation
—LEIA JOBAL ORGANA-SKYWALKER, Chairman and CEO of Organa-Skywalker Corporation
This, she realises while absorbing the attached list of accolades, is Ben’s mother.
An elegant female with sharp brown eyes. Thick hair, thicker lashes. A stern mouth. Possibly in her early fifties. And despite her small stature, Leia’s impeccable posture speaks a different story, brimful with the haughtiness of someone who has never been denied.
She reads on, parsing a condensed paragraph on Ben’s family—how the Organa-Skywalker Corporation keep to their founding values of fair and unbiased news as envisioned by Anakin Skywalker; their constant expansion of philanthropy work across the globe; channelling more investment into charitable causes and nonprofits—starting with Corellia, a district that the CEO’s husband hails from—which aid drug and alcohol rehabilitation, and victims of domestic abuse and sexual violence—till it just becomes walls and walls of text.
A Forbes piece shifts to Ben’s efforts in perfecting an intelligent, problem-solving software, in hopes it could predict future variables with frightening accuracy. Anything from political landscapes, stock market crashes, natural disasters, the next infectious disease, could be outlined—years in advance—with industry experts calling the “prodigal son” a once-in-a-generation genius.
Just then, Rey’s phone pings.
“sh*t—” Rey groans.
After making a hasty call to room service to deliver Amilyn’s supper, she grabs her laptop to finalise the printouts. Following her boss out of town for “The Wealth Management Summer School” (which is another word for a booze-filled networking snob-fest where the Wall Streets of the world meet trust fund babies) means that Rey had been stuck in a hotel all day long, glued to her phone, collating graphs and revenue projections.
Anxiety-inducing, to say the least. She’s probably grown wrinkles by now.
About twenty-five minutes later, she rides the elevator up, and knocks twice on Amilyn’s suite door before entering the living room.
*****
“Reach out to Gial tomorrow,” Amilyn says, sipping a glass of wine while massaging her neck. “Not convinced the new funds meet compliance.”
“Will do.”
“Am I working you too hard?”
Rey’s eyes flick to her phone. 12:19 a.m. She fights back an eye roll. “Nah—real life starts at midnight, anyway.”
“Young people,” Amilyn says. “What time’s our flight?”
Old people, Rey nearly quips. This is her fourth time repeating this. “Seven. Touchdown at noon. Our pickup service to the airport is all locked in.”
Amilyn gives her a lazy nod. “Thank you, Rey. I don’t say this often, but you’re truly a remarkable assistant. It’ll be a shame to see you go when Kalonia returns next month.”
And Rey will be broke. Again. At least till the agency finds fresh placement. There’s a beat of silence. Another intake of wine. And as Rey supposes that means she’s done for the night, she starts clearing the desk, doing final edits on her laptop until—
“Oh!” Amilyn laughs, pointing at the screen with the gala’s photograph.
f*ck—Rey had forgotten to close that.
But to her relief, Amilyn seems unbothered. “The colour of my dress—I looked like a hag, no?”
“Not at all!” Rey chirps a little too eagerly. “You were stunning.”
Amilyn exhales out a soft ha! before peering at the picture again, gaze narrowing. “He looks so much like her.”
Rey pauses, lifting her head. “Who?”
“Like Leia.” Amilyn smirks, giving a languid shrug. “Well, not completely. Benjamin lacks her patrician airs—that refined, old money. He got that roughness from the father. Makes him a little disarming, don’t you think?”
Rey swallows.
She should say nothing and leave. Talking about Ben won’t make it a clean break. But Amilyn almost never indulges in gossip, especially in an inebriated fashion. This feels like a rare opportunity.
“Did you know them?”
“His mother?” Amilyn strokes her lower lip, reflective. “At Aldera School for Girls, yes. We ran in the same circles. She’s very sophisticated. Gregarious. Makes you feel welcomed. But beneath all that, she’s working things out—real careful-like, so you’re not spooked. By the time she excuses herself, she’s learned every single one of your buttons. I remember being absolutely stunned by how beautiful Leia was.”
If that photograph is any indication, Rey thinks, she still is.
“You heard of Benjamin’s grandfather?”
“Other than the founder of their corporation, not really. Rags to riches, isn’t it?”
“The notorious Anakin Skywalker,” Amilyn says, enunciating each word carefully. “War refugee and self-made man. The story goes that he first laid eyes on his wife, Padmé Amidala Naberrie, at an organised march. She was a heiress to an old, very respected printing business in Europe. Historically, the Naberries have aristocratic lineage, and used their platform to critique foreign policies.”
Rey snorts. “Ironic—considering the Organa-Skywalker channels hardly broadcast any public rally.”
“Oh no, he wasn’t a participant in her cause.” Amilyn gives Rey a pointed glance. “He was the commander of the riot police. Arrested hundreds of protestors, even. He’d done a lot of odd jobs for government intelligence up till then.”
Something about Amilyn’s story leaves Rey unsettled.
She never knew this part of Ben’s life. Stuff online merely states his grandparents met through mutual acquaintances before embarking on a whirlwind romance.
“Nobody really knows how he charmed Padmé—only that they got hitched in a private ceremony. Quite the scandal, truly. He was a bully with an awful temper. But it was him who did it, you see—Anakin transformed her newspaper company into that well-oiled machine.”
Inside her head, Rey could hear Ben’s voice, curt and tinged with acid.
“—all about the image—the Skywalker legacy, the Organa influence.”
“Anyway,” Amilyn says, waving her hand clumsily like they were merely discussing a holiday. “My point is, Leia’s parents had these important connections—all of it setting her up with the top one-percent in the world. Her older brother, Luke, wasn’t anything like her. He buckled under the spotlight.”
Practically on autopilot, Rey’s mind spools back, trying to think, trying to remember—
“—reclusive little sh*t told my mother to send me to therapy.”
“Like most children with such birthrights,” Amilyn continues with a chuckle, “he wielded it like an idiot. Got involved with bad investments. Drugs. Maybe an odd religious cult or two. So, Leia emerged as the favourite—particularly so after Anakin’s unexpected passing.”
“Unexpected? Hadn’t he been ill for ages?
“So they say.” Amilyn hesitates, as if wishing to say more, but decides against it. “In any case, shortly after, Leia got engaged to a Han Solo.” Amilyn’s distaste upon mentioning his name is tangible. “Supposedly made his fortune on horse racing. A real wheeler-dealer. Handsome, yes—but rarely decent.”
"—said he didn’t want me to become a f*cking freak.”
“Was Leia not interested in tying the knot?”
“She never dated, not seriously. And six months after the ceremony, she had a son. So, you can imagine—” Amilyn lifts her eyebrows, the implication painfully obvious. “The speculations went bonkers. PR damage control. Shotgun wedding. Blackmail. Nothing ever came out of it, of course. The family is literally the press—so that appeared to be that.”
“And then?” Rey prompts when Amilyn falls silent.
Stretching her arm out, Amilyn signals for Rey to empty the contents of the wine bottle into her glass.
When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, almost conspiratorial. “My favourite theory was baby trap. Because if you know Leia—really know her—not a single goddamn person can make her do anything she doesn’t already want.”
“That sounds—that’s quite a reputation.”
“A young woman inheriting a media empire? She’d have to use every weapon at her disposal. Too many wish to see her fail.”
“Ben seems very fond of her.” Realising her mistake, Rey quickly adds, “He mentions her—sometimes—outside your office.”
Amilyn gives a sombre nod. “Did you know I attended Benjamin’s first birthday? Well—his introduction into society, you could say. Alert, bright eyes. Tiny hands. Tiny feet. So much curiosity for the world around him—” and Rey could see how proud Amilyn was of him. “Until his father carried him. Then, Benjamin wailed with the force of a hurricane, in full view of every guest. Wouldn’t stop until Leia came back for him.”
At that, an ache builds between Rey’s ribs. “He was just a baby.”
“Indeed—perhaps the foundation was laid even then.” Amilyn nods once, twice, with a hint of sadness on her face. “But I’m old and cynical.”
Sitting on the carpet, Rey draws her knees up to her chest. She knows the awkwardness of rejection well, that it could so easily mean something undesirable about oneself.
“Must’ve been rough for Han Solo—for all of them.”
The older woman’s glassy eyes slide over her. “You’re very perceptive, my dear. But such is the truth. Benjamin is his mother’s son, through and through—apples never fall far from the tree, in the end.” Another minute or so passes before Amilyn sighs tiredly. “I’ve said too much—must be feeling melancholic tonight.”
Once Amilyn sags against the sofa, dozing off, Rey tidies the table methodically—even as her mind still lingers on their conversation.
It’s officially the worst day ever.
Things are blowing up.
Amilyn’s credit card gets declined at check-out. The driver shows up late. A huge accident occurs on the freeway to the airport. Strong winds delay the flight. Too many random numbers keep ringing Rey’s phone—the company secretary (“the Board wants to know the ETA?”), the airline (“could we put you on a later flight that’s less overbooked?”), the card’s call centre (“we did block the card a few days ago due to suspicious transactions on an adult entertainment site, could you confirm if these are valid purchases?”)—and she’s about to lose it.
By the time Amilyn’s ushered—twenty-minutes late—into the meeting, Rey wants to yank someone’s hair out. She takes a breather and a shot of coffee before clearing a bulk of her inbox. She’s in the middle of logging Amilyn’s travelling expenses when she gets an IM.
A frown pinches Rey’s forehead. Her roommate hardly ever calls during work hours, let alone amidst exam season. She pauses her phone’s Focus Mode and is greeted by a flurry of frantic messages, riddled with typos. But when Rose doesn’t pick up, Rey listens to the voice texts—
—each one making her heart sink faster and faster.
“Spring rolls and Love Is Blind tonight? Reply my texts or I’m tripling cilantro in yours.”
—
“You havvveeeeee to see the photo I just sent. There’s coffee and a doughnut on my desk. And a thank you Post-it. Finn’s definitely into me, right? Right? Ugh—I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the male brain.”
—
“Oh God, my eyes are going. So, so bored. Can’t read another chapter about skin disorders. Or appendages that all sound like a penis thing. And f*cking musculoskeletal tissues!”
—
“Hey, I know you’re working, but did you speak to Paige? Can’t get through to her all morning.”
—
“Hellooooooo—pickuppickuppickuppickup—”
—
“Seriously, where are you? We need to talk ASAP. And who the hell is that woman taking your calls? She's the most unhelpful bitch ever!”
—
“Mom and Dad are freaking out. She doesn’t go dark like this. She knows never to do that!”
—
“Rey? I—I think—I think something b-b-bad h-h-happened.”
*****
The moment Rey makes a dash for Republic City General Hospital, the universe blurs. She couldn’t tell if she’d jaywalked. If she’d eaten yet. If she’d gone the right direction. The nurse asking for her ID at the reception sounds odd. Distorted. As if the same Niima detectives with garbled voices showed up to put her through hell again.
The police who eventually drop by say it was a traffic incident. Possibly a hit-and-run that occurred in the early hours of morning. The pickup truck ploughed into Paige and two other paralegals as they exited the parking lot. Paige was strangely fortunate—given she was the furthest from the impact, the paramedics were able to stabilise her. Her companions weren’t so lucky.
Perimeter cameras around the block are being checked to pull a licence plate. But odds are low. Most of the footage has come up grainy, practically unusable.
“—rough area,” they insist. At this point, Rose bursts into tears again. “Corellia’s got one of the highest crime rates in the country. Poverty numbers haven’t improved. sh*t housing. More than likely, it’s some homeless kid who hijacked a car, drugged up to their eyeballs without even realising they caused an accident. Happens fast, happens often. Sometimes it’s just bad luck, you know? f*cking junkies and serial killers running amok in our city—the world’s going down the toilet, I tell ya!”
On the inside, Rey is screaming. This can’t be real.
Why is this happening again?
Why again?
Why—
But deep down, Rey gets it. Because apophenia isn’t just in her mind.
All the little patterns add up.
There’s a balance to restore.
And karma’s making her pay for what she did to Kira.
Close to midnight, a stricken-looking Mr. and Mrs. Tico arrive from out-of-state, having driven for almost an entire day. By then, Paige had been moved out of surgery and into ICU. Still, her vital signs remain erratic. It could take hours before levelling out. Days, even. So, they have to wait.
And wait and wait and wait.
Rey knows all about the crushed hopes that come with waiting.
The sound of Rey unlatching their apartment’s door is loud, echoing through the corridor. Further away, the piercing, rhythmic drills of a construction site drone on. Two days have gone by. The parents have moved in with them, temporarily taking up Paige’s room. Rey throws out the kitchen trash before packing some essentials: a few hoodies, Mrs. Tico’s compression socks, Mr. Tico’s reading glasses, toothbrushes, towels, pillows, blankets, and snacks that aren’t subjected to the hospital’s extortion rates.
And finally, she chugs two cans of Coors on the living room couch.
A rare moment of drinking alone. But she needs it. She’s been needing more—needing anything to keep her from spiralling. Trying to forget her wants, her helplessness, how f*cking depressing and lonely it’s been.
“Hard to say,” a woman with a white scrub coat told them last night. “But we’ve done all we can to stop the bleeding.”
Rey remembers her eyes staring off into the distance, not wanting to linger on Paige’s bruised body, pale, clinically bandaged, and clad in a paper-thin hospital gown with wires poking from her skin. The steady beeping of the heartbeat monitor was a time bomb.
“—the scans, unfortunately, indicate severe damage to the spinal cord. That’s the biggest concern. Nerve functions below her torso are…not where we want them to be.” Everything sounded monotonous. Impersonal. Like Paige was simply another statistic in their records. “We’ll need to keep her here for observation. Once she’s able, the sooner physical therapy can start, the better.”
Minutes later, Rey’s phone rings.
“Hey,” she answers. “I’m almost done.”
“No rush,” Rose says, voice weary, their hours spent at the hospital beginning to creep up. “Saw my text? We just got a bunch of deliveries.”
Opening up their chat, Rey inspects the shared photos. There’s a food hamper from the Ticos’ cousins in Hays Minor; there’s a fruit basket from Paige’s employer and other law associates; and, finally, there’s an enormous care package of artisanal food and personal amenities, combined with an even bigger bouquet of yellow roses, all wrapped with a string and tied to a balloon that reads: GET WELL SOON!
“Who’s that one from?” Rey finds herself asking.
“The card says, ‘Wishing you a speedy recovery, from all of us at Hosnian Prime Banking Group.’ Like, wow—your boss grants you time off, and gives this, too? Not such a slave driver after all, huh?”
Rey blinks.
That’s…nice.
She didn’t think Amilyn had it in her. The older woman barely remembers to send wedding anniversary gifts to her husband, let alone corporate hampers. Maybe Amilyn did have a heart, after all—despite grumbling profusely when Rey asked for emergency leave—despite having arranged for Kaydel to cover her duties.
“Anyway, don’t forget the chips. And the Doritos. Think we still have a jar of salsa left.”
“And risk depriving us of the greatest, most nutritious food substance in all of humanity? Never.”
“I’ll actually cry—also, could you grab my laptop while you’re at it?”
She wanders to the other bedroom and sifts through Rose’s belongings. “Did you leave the charger on the table, too, or…?”
“Check the gym bag. Think I dumped it there after my study group.”
“Need your lumbar pillow?”
“Oh, f*ck yes—the waiting lounge chairs are crap. And who knows how long we’ll…” but her voice tapers off.
“The doctor only said we need to manage expectations,” Rey says, hoping her confidence holds steadfast. “Lots of folks have been known to make full recovery.”
“But it’s just so har-d-d,” Rose gasps in a teary voice, stumbling through each and every word. “I can’t cry in front of M-M-Mom and-d-d Dad-d-d because they—they’re already s-s-so depressed. Paige is their—is their favourite. Always been. And they had-d-d to shut the dry cleaners f-f-for two weeks to come here. It’s gonna be rough on the business. It—it’s already bad enough from the recession and—and now? With these bills—and my parents already—have already p-p-paid so much for med school, and—”
“Employees’ Compensation will cover it, right? Or the insurance plan? Paige’s company said they would. She was on a job then.”
“It’s so basic—it—it doesn’t cover everything she needs to b-b-beat the odds and walk again!” Rose exclaims, her sobs interlaced with dry heaves. “Never the best—just—just enough so she survives!”
“It’ll be okay, Rose,” Rey whispers, her palms clammy. “Don’t give up.”
“What do we do? Should we—do we go out of pocket? More side gigs? How do we even—”
Rey stands in the middle of their apartment, frozen, listening to Rose break down over the phone, softly comforting her until they eventually end the call.
She starts leaving for the hospital—
—but finds herself pausing outside her own room. Through the door, she stares at the dark, hollow space under her bed. Her mind is a tempest. The sounds of a playground carousel and its rusted, metal bars creaking is a familiar song. Scents of damp, muddy earth with the tail end of a cigarette’s smoke becomes an old pathway.
“—no freebies in life, my precious Bumblebee.”
Slowly, her feet move across the floor, her hand reaching beneath her bed frame to pull out the oak case. She flips it open. A brilliant sheen reflects off the rose’s stalk, swirling atop every petal. Embedded along the smooth, golden surfaces of the object are intricate scatterings of diamonds.
She could sell the gift.
The fine print on the authenticity paperwork tells her it’ll help Paige’s hospital costs. Or even with the home medical equipment she’ll need. Not sustainable for the long run, but still. Enough to move the needle for now.
And once it runs out, then what?
What if Rey doesn’t get another job for months after Hosnian Prime, either?
“—you want something, you’ve gotta take it.”
With shaky fingers, she pulls out her phone again. He hasn’t unblocked her number. She’d yet to sink to the level of calling him from random phones. Like a f*cking stalker.
But if there’s one thing Rose Tico taught her lately, if there’s a will, there’s a way.
She hits her Work Mode option and pulls up Hosnian Prime’s email app, scrolling till she finds an old correspondence from Riyo Chuchi, the second-in-command to the gala’s (yes, the fundraiser that produced one stupid photo she spent too many hours shamefully ogling) chairwoman. Riyo coordinated with all the attendees—and for VIPs, with their assistants.
Which means, even Ben Solo’s.
*****
After multiple phone conversations that included attempts to curry favours, Rey is transferred to a mild-toned male.
“COO’s office—Mitaka speaking, how can I help?”
“Hi there—I'm calling on behalf of Amilyn Holdo.”
“Amilyn Holdo from…?”
“Hosnian Prime Banking.”
A beat. “Their Private Wealth division, yes? Is he expected somewhere?”
“Uh, actually—”
“Don’t think we have anything in the calendar today.” There’s another pause. Lengthier. A flurry of keyboard clicks go off in the background before he blurts out, “Is there? Can’t be. I’m very sure there isn’t. Did I mess up? Oh, f*cking f*ck—”
“No!” Rey exclaims, adding an awkward laugh. “There’s—you’re right. Nothing’s arranged. I’m just trying to get a hold of Mr. Solo.”
“You scared the bejesus out of me!” Mitaka hisses. “Mr. Solo’s no picnic, all right? One time, I had to tell him we lost the acquisition bid for Project Droid. Our M&A team were too chickensh*t to face him, you see. Insane, right? I’m not paid enough for this bullsh*t. And—I swear to God—Mr. Solo was gonna rip out my tonsils!”
“That sounds—” nothing like what she remembers of Ben’s behaviour. With her, maybe there was an edge of uncertainty, their emotions built on sand. But to everyone else, he always seemed so in control. Then again, maybe she didn’t really know him at all, “—incredibly stressful.”
Mitaka makes an exasperated noise. “Anyway, what’s this regarding?”
At that, Rey’s gaze drops to her lap, her free hand twisting into the hem of her skirt. “Does he have a few minutes to spare?”
“Not now—and possibly not for another week or so. But Ms. Holdo has his cell, surely? He’ll make time if it’s urgent.”
Would he?
I want you to tell me what you want. Hadn’t he once said that before? She wasn’t ready then, but loss has a brutal way of shaping perspective. And perhaps, the selfish, ugly, desperate parts of wanting what she can’t have—whatever that even means.
But maybe it’s okay not to have all the answers.
“Could—” She swallows, calming herself just a hair. Breathe. “Tell him Rey Johnson called, and that—that if the offer per the last meeting still stands, we’re interested.”
“What time is it?” Rose asks, yawning.
Rey lifts her head from the uncomfortable armrest, peering at her phone. Her neck has gone stiff from reclining awkwardly. “Almost 7 a.m. Want something?”
“Coffee. You want decaf?”
“I’ll go. Need to stretch.”
“Okay.” Rose mumbles and opens her laptop. “Extra shot, please. Need truckloads to get through lecture notes from the ninth circle of hell.”
“And your mum and dad?”
“Nah. They’ll get something from the other kiosk.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Yup.”
They haven’t talked about it since.
They don’t mention again about the impending expenses that are sure to come up any day now.
Rey jogs down the hallway, stopping in front of a vending machine. She’ll head home after, take a shower, and return to Hosnian Prime. First day back. If she’s away any longer, Kaydel will blow a vein as Amilyn’s been driving her nuts. Rey toggles the buttons for coffee. There’s a deep, mechanical rumble. A whirring noise. The wafting of steam as the paper cup is filled. This section of the hospital is quiet at this hour—
—and thus, she realises there’s another buzz from her hoodie’s pocket. Given Amilyn has the tendency to start work at the crack of dawn, Rey picks up immediately, practically on autopilot.
“Hey—good morning.”
Silence.
Rubbing her eyes that’s heavy with sleep, she squints at the number. Not familiar. Looks like any other corporate landline with the financial district’s area code. A slight crackling of static is heard from the other end. But then—
—so very abruptly—
“This is Ben Solo,” is said in a clipped, baritone sound. Oddly formal like he’s never met her. “I’m returning your call, Rey Johnson.”
She doesn’t know how he does it—that she’s instantly rendered mute, her eyes stinging, pulse soaring, overwhelmed with the urge to cry, to roar that she despises him, that she hates how he came into her life and f*cked everything up before leaving her bereft, abandoning her with no warning even after knowing she’s a foster kid so who the f*ck does this motherf*cker think he is?
And yet—
“Ben—” she whispers, her voice watery.
He stays quiet, like he’s waiting for something. A stillness with the kind of patience as if he’s got all the time in the world just for her.
Breathe, Rey.
In.
Out.
“I think—I think I need h—” But her throat tightens, cutting her words off.
You’re pathetic, she wants to scream at herself. Why can’t she grow up, f*cking learn her lesson, and stop making the same mistakes she did as that teenage girl in Niima. Always so needy, so easily attached, and so—
“What?” he murmurs at last, soft, achingly gentle, and her breaths shatter apart into dry sobs. Every atom beneath her skin comes alive. “What’s wrong, baby? You need me?”
