Another ping comes straight through. Another from Josh.
Have you seen what the hell is happening with Connor yet? Fucking hell, Ells. He’s screwed up bad. Real fucking bad. He’s gonna be destroyed after this shit. Farewell, motherfucker.
I get a rush of electric up my spine, the tiny hairs on my neck prickling with static.
Keep an eye on the news…
Daddy knew.
Whatever is happening, Daddy knew.
Thebreaking newsisn’t hard to find. It’s the first thing I see on my feed when I call up social media.
The London Timeshas released behind the scenes footage, and a writeup of the drink, drugs and ‘attacks on hookers’ lifestyle Connor’s been caught up in. My fingers are quaking as I try to take in the words.
Connor has been paying hookers and degrading them in front of his entire backstage team. He’s been making women snort cocaine off his dick and spitting in their faces, offering them $1000 a go and then giving them the middle finger when they ask for the cash at the end of it.
He says they are lucky, apparently. That hookers are worth fuck all, and he’s worth millions. He’s a god in the making, don’t they know?
Absolute fucking wanker.
I can’t help it. Even through the shock, I have a very distinct feeling User 762 has had something to do with this. It’s come from a journalist working for The London Times news corporation, one of the major outlets in the country… they must have been on the case for weeks now. Weeks if not months.
Surely not. Surely User 762 can’t be a part of this.
I call up the details of the LT News Corporation team, the people involved in the breaking story. I dig around until I find the profiles of the people in charge. The people at the very top of the food chain.
And there he is, mydaddy.My heart nearly leaps out of my chest when I see his professional photo on LinkedIn.
Fucking hell. No way.
Daddyis Editor in Chief for The London Times. Otherwise known as Charles Henderson.
I grin up at the roof of the cab, because what the fuck? What the holy fucking fuck?
The article is no holds barred, and the public outrage is already kicking off at the rockstar who shot to the stars. Josh was right. Connor is royally fucking screwed after this shit. And he deserves it. Scanning the details of the story, the asshole really fucking deserves it.
Oh my God. Thankyou,Daddy.
Or more specifically, thank you,Charles.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two weeks feel like yet another lifetime in limbo, but this time it’s a good limbo to be in. Nervous excitement is far better than wallowing on a sofa, afraid of the world.
I give my all to my clients, but outside of my proposals my mind is spiralling with thewhat ifs. There’s a tension there along with the relief. A rumbling fear that has taken root now that the De Chante has worn off.
I think it’s called reality.
Reality can be a tough one to take. A nasty intruder in fantasy land.
What if Heath is so freaked out, that this proposal is his time to say goodbye?
What if we get swallowed up in a gutting reality that we’ve forever lost the joy we found in Cannes?
What if Heath’s walls are up? Guarded? What if he’s nothing like the man we came to adore?
Or what if it’s the opposite? An explosion of emotions that can never be contained. What the hell do we do about it then?
