Ever since I came back, I've been sprinting inside a machine that keeps dropping screws. The New York cinematic glow and starlight? Gone.
When I got back, I thought I'd move my things to the apartment upstairs, wait for Ben like I promised, but when I walked into my old house, there was no Richard—just the hollow outlines of where his suits used to hang, and the counter bearing a single, spiteful welcome-home gift: utility bills stackedneatly.
Richard always insisted finances were his kingdom.I'm good at it, you're not.So leave it to me.And I did.
Numbers make me itch, so I let him handle everything, including Carl's calls about royalties, and my own bank account.
I don't even know how much I've made from my two previous books, which leaves me now... a financial toddler.
After the public declaration of love, I thought Richard would want to write me off as a sunk cost as soon as possible, but my lawyer says he's delaying. Why? I know him well enough to do the emotional math. He's waiting for me to crash hard enough that I come crawling back, mouth pressed to his royal hand, begging, but that won't happen.
Instead of panicking, I grabbed Lu for ice cream. Because sometimes when your world is smoldering, you eat frozen sugar. Mint-chocolate for her, raspberry for me, just like the good old days.
We wandered the streets, and she told me her exhibition had gone so well, she'd sold most of her pieces, includingThe Anatomy of Eurydice, which was both amazing and disappointing since I wanted that piece for my new apartment.
She's with Sophia now, and Micah keeps haunting her canvas. She's as happy as I am and honestly, everything feels too perfect.
Now, I'm on a video call with Carl.
He fills the screen, ginger hair slicked immaculately, striped cashmere sweater pristine. He's cradling Bridgette in his arms—the two of them matching outfits.
Behind him is a green wallpaper of herons and the faint gleam of a home, where Tod is currently sinking into a plush sofa with a glass of wine. It's like watching a Gucci campaign.
"My darling." Carl smiles brightly. "Back from New York and practically radiating bestseller energy."
I smile back. "Hi, darling. How are you?"
"Forget me. The book? Incredible. Always knew you could do it again. Patrick wants you on tour." His fingers splay wide, painting the image. "A proper tour. Bookstores, theatres, champagne receptions, standing ovations."
Tod screams from the background: "Watch out, he's already planned your outfits for six cities."
"Notplanned, Tod," Carl corrects him pointedly. Then turns back, Bridgette's head bobbing out of frame for a second. "It's just... suggestions."
I raise a brow, amused. "You know the word suggestion?"
Tod bursts out laughing from behind. "There you go. Thank you, Emma. This is what I have to deal with on a daily."
"Stop it, Tod." Carl shoots him an unimpressed look. "Weren't you supposed to be making a cake or something? This is a private, professional conversation. You're ruining my genius."
Tod throws his hand in the air, pretending he's not listening, but he's an even bigger drama lord than Carl, so I know he's eavesdropping.
"I don't know about the clothes, Carl. I like to handle my wardrobe myself now, which brings me to something else, more important." I clear my throat. "Richard won't be in charge of myroyalties anymore, because we're breaking up."
Tod jumps up on the sofa just as Carl freezes mid-preen. Then Carl puts on his frameless glasses to see me better.
"No way. What happened?"
I tell him everything, all of it, even the cheating disaster—no longer trying to hide my flaws.
Carl leans closer to the laptop, for once actually listening—the way people binge a limited series in one night, incapable of looking away so they don't miss the next twist.
By the end, Tod drifts into the frame behind him, holding a bowl of cake batter in his hand, and both of them stare at me like I'm no longer Emma Lawson.
Which is true because that Richard's "version" has been discontinued, and now comes Emma 2.0, the unedited.
"Oh my god," Carl finally breathes, voice drenched in disbelief. Then he casually checks his nails. So casually, I know it's not. "Is your new relationship serious?"
"Yeah, it is—"
