"Because Julian Vexley—yes, that Julian—" he jumps in, brows lifted, "—asked about you when he was here."
I frown, trying to recall that guy. "What? You mean the writer? Why would he ask about me?"
"You know..." Carl waves his hand, trying to sound casual. "He's my main client now. He asked how serious your marriage is. If you ever read his books. How long I've known you. Seems like the guy really likes you."
I blink. "The guy who writes six-hundred-page epics about psychopaths in love is into me? Eh, no. Not my type." I dismissit with a flick of my hand.
Carl tips his head, blinking like he heard wrong. "Not your type? Julian's everyone's type."
I make a face but he's already skimming through a magazine that's been on his table, searching for a particular page before he flashes Julian's portrait in my face and says, "Here he is!"
Okay, I admit that Julian is handsome, like... very handsome. Has those piercing grey eyes, brown hair and that groomed look that's probably always brooding. White button shirt over his broad chest, intellectual for sure, and you can tell there's something magnetically twisted about him. So I guess, even if he was a psycho, which he probably is, women would still fall for him.
"Think of the press—Emma Foster and Julian Vexley, the tortured heartthrob and the romance darling dating..." Carl says dreamily and flashes a grin. "It's publicity gold—you two should get photographed at my New Year's Eve party. He'll be here; he even asked if you're coming."
"No, Carl," I jump in, shaking my head determinedly. "I'm very, very serious about Ben. Plus, we're going to be in New York for Christmas."
Carl exhales through his nose, but doesn't push anymore.
Instead, he asks Tod for a glass of wine, takes a sip, and his voice comes out lower: "Can I tell you something?"
I pause at the sudden change because if Carl asks for permission, it's serious.
"Yeah, tell me."
"I always had a bad feeling about Richard. He's not the guy he polishes himself to be."
That throws me off, even though I already know. I push myself closer to the screen. "Why would you say that?"
"Remember your last book? When you asked me why I was a little off? Well, it was because we discussed your royalties, going back and forth. Richard got angry and said I wasn't doing enough. He even rang the publisher behind my back, said you two didn't need their pennies."
"Hewhat?!" I shout, eyes blazing.
Carl nods, once, his entire face pulling back in irritation. "He lectured about percentages and how they have to stop screwing you, or the deal is over. Patrick called me furious. I had to deal with all that mess." He shakes his head. "I didn't get it. The deal was fair. It felt like... sabotage."
"Why didn't you tell me that earlier?"
Carl's lips purse, weighing whether he should tell me, but I push him with a look.
"When I spoke to him, he insisted you were too fragile to handle these things. Too fragile to handle... anything, really. He said you had mental issues and I didn't want to disturb you if you were going through something."
Fragile. The word lands heavily. Fragile like a myth, people decide is true because it suits them.
I feel sick to my stomach.
"So this is why you avoided him. You should have told me. And I guess I should have asked you a long time ago." I rub the bridge of my nose and suck in air. "But it's done. I'm not fragileanymore. I'll handle my things and you don't have to worry about me."
Carl smiles then—not the dazzle he uses for publishers but almost paternal.
"Good. Try to make it to the party," he says, like I didn't already say no. "Bring your boyfriend, of course. We'd love to meet him. It'll be grandiose."
"I'll think about it," I say even though I won't, and mentally I'm already gone.
My mind runs ahead, sprinting toward the kind of independence you can only buy by tearing your life into pieces.
So I do. I hang up, make a plan, and execute one thing at a time.
The day after I open my own account, reroute the royalties, call the bank. Spend hours in a lawyer's office, asking like an idiot about liabilities and joint assets.
