“There’s nothing a useless worm like you can say that will ever make me think twice about protecting Reagan.”
“You know her real name.”
“I know everything.”
Something sparkles in his eyes, just for a split second, before they wither away, as if he’s finally figured something out, finally, realized the truth. “Oh, I get it now. I’ve been there, too…so madly in love…obsessed. It’s what she does… You two deserve each other.”
“Yeah, she deserves someone like me to be her husband, not you, not Shane. Me. Reagan is mine.”
“Shane?” An unhinged laugh rattles in his chest. “You think…” His eyes roll back, and froth starts foaming around his lips. “I’m gonna enjoy watching you from hell…when you find out the truth.”
“Why don’t you watch while I bury my cock deep in her sweet pussy and she screams my name right here next to your filthy corpse? Sure you’ll enjoy that more.”
A gurgle that might be a groan chokes in his throat. “How about this, Morra? I leave you with a little parting gift, and when we meet in hell, you tell me if that pussy was worth it.”
“Just die already.”
“I did start the Butterfly Man game…but I didn’t finish it. Someone else…left that note on her pillow…not me. But I guess…you already know that.” His hands jolt toward my head and bring my ear down to his lips. I yank his hands off me, but not before he manages to whisper his last lie.
“Fuck you, Abel. Enjoy hell.” I watch the light leave his eyes.
CHAPTER 44
Birdie
I lean forward into the camera, my hands steady now after an hour of trembling. The interviewer’s eyes are kind, expectant, waiting for my final words. The studio-style lights cramming my home office feel warm instead of suffocating for the first time today.
“To anyone out there who is made to believe the lies that you’re nothing without them, that no one else will ever love you, no one will ever believe you, that you deserved it—” I pause, feeling the weight of every woman who might be watching, every person still caught in that web. “You are not alone. Your voice matters. Your truth matters. And when you find the courage to speak it, the whole world will shift to make room for your freedom. Don’t let anyone—not even someone who claims to love you—silence that voice again.”
The interviewer’s eyes glisten. “Birdie, thank you so much for sharing your incredible story with us today.”
As the cameras stop rolling, I feel something I haven’t felt in years—lightness.
Martha practically bounces toward me, her heels clicking against the floor. Behind her, Tristan stands like a sentinel, his eyes scanning the room even now. Always watching, always protecting.
“Birdie, honey, you were phenomenal!” Martha grasps my hands. “The phones started ringing before you were even finished. Seven of your books just hit number one on every listthat matters, and,” she lowers her voice, eyes glowing, “I got the call twenty minutes ago. Provided that you’ll leave them out of your memoir, which by the way is being auctioned for a high seven-figure as we speak, the house will give you your rights back and ten percent over the number you wanted. How crazy is that?” She muffles a squeal.
“What memoir?”
“The one you’re going to write very soon, silly.” She waves a dismissive hand. “And guess what? Your new series, Butterfly Man, another house is interested, for double the original offer. They doubled it for crying out loud. And with the cinematic rights that are already in negotiation, we’re talking eight figures.”
I blink, the numbers not quite registering. “Eight figures? For books I haven’t even written yet?”
“Yes, baby. It’s the least you deserve. You’ve been through hell and back, and we’ve all been oblivious. I can’t imagine the amount of pain you’ve had to deal with every day for years. He almost killed you, Birdie, and no one lifted a finger.” Tears touch her gaze, but then she grins from ear to ear, brushing into her chirpy self. “Enough of that. May he rot in hell. You have full control now. You’re free, Birdie. Financially, legally, completely free.”
Free. Another thing that doesn’t quite register. Not yet.
Tristan steps closer, and his hand finds the small of my back. The touch grounds me, reminds me I’m not dreaming. “You ready to get out of here?”
I nod, suddenly desperate for air that doesn’t smell like hairspray and television lights.
Outside, the Ducati gleams in the afternoon sun next to Tristan’s bike. “You had it shipped to Martha’s Vineyard, my filthy rich bodyguard.”
He laughs. “Ready to take it for a spin?”
My dream ride I wasn’t allowed to have. Without thinking, I put on the helmet. Luckily, I’m already wearing pants. “Race you to the cabin?”
“You bet.”