His hands slide up my back, warm and steady. And for the first time since the letter arrived, I feel like I can breathe.
By the time I finish my coffee, my stomach is a twisted knot.
There is no universe where I can walk into the studio today and pretend I’m fine. I pull out my phone and text Toby.
Derrick: Hey, I’m not going to be in till later today.
Toby: The lunch went that well, did it?
Derrick: Something like that.
Toby: I’ve got you. Don’t worry. You do you, boo.
Derrick: Thanks.
Charlie watches me quietly, leaning against the island in his sweatpants, arms crossed over his chest. “You ready?”
“I guess.”
He grabs his keys and slides his hand into mine, squeezing once. “We’re walking. Fresh air.”
We head out onto the street, and the morning sun is already warm on my skin. I feel jittery, restless, like my body doesn’t know what to do with all the emotions crowding inside me. Charlie stays close, his hand brushing mine every few steps, like a reminder that I’m not doing this alone.
Jackson’s office is only a few blocks away, near the Dirty Texas Records office and my studio. We walk in, and security nods when they see us arrive. He then tells us Jackson is waiting. We head up to the next floor, and as soon as the elevator doors open, Jackson is there.
“Jesus, Derrick,” he mutters, taking one look at me. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Feels like it,” I admit.
He gestures to follow him into his office and tells us to take a seat. “Sit. Talk.”
Charlie and I sit side by side, his knee pressed against mine, his arm resting behind my chair like he’s ready to intervene at any second.
Jackson sits slowly, eyes sharpened, locked onto mine. “What happened?”
I hand him the letter. He reads it faster than humanly possible, eyebrows dropping lower, jaw clenching, the muscle in his cheek ticking.
“Your father’s dead?” he asks gently.
I nod. “A year ago.”
He taps the letter. “And these brothers … Rowan and Callum Sinclair. Scottish titles.”
“Always knew I was a queen,” I joke, which earns me a smile from Jackson. “It’s … a lot,” I whisper.
Jackson leans back in his chair. “Okay. First things first, you don’t contact anyone yet.”
My stomach flips. “Why?”
“Because you’re vulnerable,” he says plainly. “And whether these guys are saints, scammers, or something in between, I am not letting anything hurt you.”
Charlie nods firmly beside me, like he’s been waiting for that exact sentence.
Jackson continues, “I’ll run their names, their titles, their records, their locations, their social media, their mother, their PI, all of it. Every angle.”
“You can do that?” I ask.
He gives me a flat look. “Derrick. Please. I’ve done worse things for less important people.”
