My head is aching, my pulse is throbbing. It’s too much to process all at once. I try to channel some of the icy calm I’ve kept so effectively around my heart these past two years, but it’s splintering with each pounding beat against my ribcage, an animal breaking free of frosted chains after a long, numbing hibernation.
“No,” I breathe, barely audible. “I won’t go back there. Ican’tgo back.”
Not to the label. Not to that life. Not to him.
“If you decide to fight this, I’ll do my best to represent you. But, as your attorney, having seen the way these cases generally play out… I’d be remiss not to advise against it.” He shifts in his plush armchair. “I can see how much the idea of returning to Los Angeles affects you, Felicity. But they have you bound in an iron-clad contract. Fighting them will not only be messy and public… it will behugelyexpensive. They could easily take everything you have in restitution.”
My mouth opens, prepared to tell him there’s nothing I have worth taking… but the words dissolve on my tongue. An hour ago, that was true. I had nothing except a single-bedroom shack on a seaside cliff, so outdated even the cheapest of tourists wouldn’t touch it. But now, with the inheritance…
I wouldn’t be losing the meager coffers in my own checking account. I’d be losing the estate Gran left me. Not just her fortune, but her land. Her guitar collection. And, above all, her hopes and dreams that I’d take that money and use it for something better than court cases and legal battles. If she’d wanted her life’s work to go into lawyers’ pockets, she would’ve let her daughters fight to the death over every last penny.
My stomach turns to lead as I realize I have no choice. I’ve been backed into a corner, outmaneuvered and outgunned by players far more deft at moving pieces on this chessboard. Jerry must recognize the defeat on my face, because he leans forward and takes my hand with a gentle squeeze.
“You’re Bethany Hayes’ granddaughter. You can handle this. You can handle anything.”
I don’t say a word. I just cling to his fingers like they’re the only thing left tethering me to the earth.
“Just a few months,” he murmurs. “Then you’ll have your freedom.Forever.”
“A few months,” I echo hollowly.
As if that’s any consolation at all.
Last time I stepped foot in that city,a few monthswas plenty long enough for Los Angeles to destroy everything I held dear. Last time, all it took wasa few monthsfor my world to spin out of control, for me to lose my grip on the life I’d built, brick by brick, on a foundation of young love and starry-eyed naivety.
I want to cry.
I want to scream.
I want to rage against the fates laughing down at me as they drag me back to the broken fragments of that shattered dream, its shards already drawing blood from the flesh of the wounded organ beating too fast inside my chest.
I do none of those things.
I am Bethany Hayes granddaughter.
I will not dishonor her legacy.
Scarlet lipstick still perfectly intact, I set my shoulders and look straight into Jerry’s eyes. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to call the airline and change my flight.”
Chapter Four
felicity
Francesca Foster is rarely takenoff guard.
A Type-A control freak with a penchant for numbers and a reputation for success in the music industry, the acquisitions agent was the driving force behind Wildwood’s first album. In her early thirties, she often seems much older due to her serious, ever-scientific approach to life’s many problems. Since I first met her, I’ve never seen so much as a single auburn hair out of place in her sleek asymmetrical bob, never witnessed her angular features assembled into an expression of anything except cool, unwavering composure.
…Until the moment she steps into her glass corner office and finds me sitting in her chair with my feet up on her impeccably organized desk.
“Felicity!” Her wide eyes scan my face, saturated with shock. There’s a hand thrown over her chest, as though I’ve nearly given her a heart attack. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Carefully, with studied slowness, I pull my feet off her desk and lean back in her chair, pinning her to the spot with a glare.
“What am I doing here, Francesca?Really? You have the nerve to ask me that?” My voice is cold. Almost unrecognizable. “You sent your flying monkey to my grandmother’sfuneraland served me with a lawsuit.”
“I am not a wicked witch, despite what you might think.” She sighs deeply, a line of concern creasing the smooth skin between her perfectly plucked brows. “I regret the timing of it, but you left me with little choice.”
“I suppose I should be grateful you had him wait until thirty seconds after she was in the ground, rather than interrupting my final goodbyes on the side of the grave, huh?” My laugh is brittle. “Big of you.”