When I open the door, Max gives me a polite nod and clips on Edison’s leash. My dog shoots me one last betrayed look before following Max down the hall.
I step aside to let Radha into my sanctuary of white marble and minimalist furniture.
"You look to be in serious mode," I say, closing the door behind her.
"I'm always in serious mode.”
Most international rockstars don't hire young, beautiful lawyers, especially strictly religious ones who might cast disapproving gazes at their personal activities. But Radha's the best, and she keeps my messy life organized.
I usher Radha into my living room with its floor-to-ceiling views of Manhattan and white-on-white furniture. The space is stark, minimalist – twenty million dollars of real estate that feels more like a high-end hotel suite than a home.
"Should I call room service for coffee?"
"Thank you, that's unnecessary," she says, settling onto the white leather sofa with the practiced grace of someone who spends her days in boardrooms.
"Cameron, I have something very serious to talk to you about.”
"What is it?" I'm not very worried about bad news. Both my parents have been dead for years, and though I'm close with a few friends, I keep most people at arm's length.
What could possibly be the issue?
"Look, Cameron. Something happened five years ago. And that's what I'm here to talk to you about today.”
That immediately puts my antenna on high alert.Lots of things happened five years ago.
Hell, lots of things happened last night.Who is going to crawl out of the woodwork to bite me in the ass?
"All right. What is it?"
She takes a breath. I sense she's steeling herself for whatever bomb she's about to drop.
"Cameron, you have a daughter. Her name is Posey, and along with her uncle, you're her only living relative.”
The words hit me like a gut punch.
The hangover suddenly feels like nothing compared to the ringing in my ears.
A daughter. A tiny human who materialized from a forgotten night.
My meticulously chaotic, self-centered world, built on freedom and fleeting pleasures, just shattered.
"I don't have a daughter." My voice sounds foreign to my own ears. The thought is terrifying and utterly overwhelming, all at once. "What are you talking about?"
"Do you know the name Alice Abernathy?"
"No," I say, but even as the word leaves my mouth, something flickers in the back of my mind. A face? A night? Nothing concrete—just a faint, disorienting echo. A flash of blonde hair. Nothing distinctive. Just another nameless face from a blur of club nights.
Did we hook up during an after-party?A festival? The sheer volume of fleeting connections makes it almost impossible to single one out.
The thought of a specific name attached to one of those nights feels like trying to grab smoke.
"How old is the baby now?" I ask, trying to narrow down a time frame.
"Not quite a baby. She's four years old.”
"Where is she? Why is this woman coming to me now? Does she want money?"
"No. She's gone — died in a hiking accident not long after Posey was born."
