I wonder if she noticed me trying not to melt down for the entire two-hour flight back to Washington.
“Love you too,” Elle calls, staying in place as I exit the luxurious plane.
Back into the real world.
A light rain mists my face as I walk down the passenger stairs. To my relief, no journalists or cameras are waiting on the tarmac, but I guess that’s the advantage of flying private.
No gaggle of black cars waiting past the building with the tall fence either. At least no one seems to know where I am, although that probably won’t last.
Especially when I need to see Brady.
They’ll assume we’re broken up.
I try to feel like that’s a good thing, but it’s really just another nail through my heart. It makes it harder to focus when I get to the parking lot and try to hail a ride with the app.
Despite the fact that I didn’t ask, August texts me a brief list of lawyers’ names.Take a look at your convenience. Let me know which one you prefer and I’ll call.
That hits different.
For a man as outwardly grouchy as August—Elle is like the only one who can make that beast smile—he sure has a kind heart.
Mental note: Thank him properly later. Elle too.
They’ve been talking about getting a puppy, and you can hook them up.
I scroll through the list, idly flicking through a few of their websites. All of them seem comically overqualified for this, with their Ivy League degrees and impressive records unraveling real cases, but I guess that’s the benefit of having rich friends.
Right now, even though I hate, hate, hate the thought of August and Elle spending money on me, I know I’ll need a good lawyer or three to put Harry Jay down. Ideally, before I do something really illegal, after all.
Sorry, Elle.
If that means swallowing my pride, I will.
This isn’t about me, judging by those articles that told me how many people he’s screwed over. I have to do my part to make sure he never gets another chance to hurt anyone ever again.
And if it clears my name while I’m at it, cool. As Mom would say, if wishes were fishes, we’d be eating for a month.
More than anything, I need to be realistic.
I need to fight.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call, and for a second, my heart leaps.
Brady?
Then I remember what that number is, and my heart sinks to my knees.
. . . Luis?
Obviously, there’s no beef with the assistant. He’s a swell guy and a decent friend to Brady, who doesn’t seem to have a lot of them despite his ginormous social circle. Even if he’s cashing checks from his boss, he cares.
Still, if it’s Luis calling, things are not good.
If Brady wanted to see me to sort things out, he’d call me himself, wouldn’t he?
Sending Luis just adds another layer of distance.
DistanceIinsisted on the minute I ran.
