Chapter Eight
Twelve Years Ago
Rhys checked his watch, anxiously waiting for the Escalade to arrive outside the federal courthouse, then glanced out the stuffy conference room window. They should be celebrating, but the years of emotional legal wrangling, continuances, and testimony had ended with an exhausted sigh of relief.
Their caravan of shiny black SUVs arrived and followed the police officers’ directions to pull over near the legion of reporters, news crews, fans, and protestors.
Who the hell protested the sentencing hearing of a clearly guilty man?
Rhys didn’t understand people.
He didn’t understand the vitriol thrown at Jules.
He didn’t understand the proposals lobbed at Jordan Everett.
But he was painfully aware of how done with this shit show he was.
Rhys needed to get out of this town with its limelight and influencers and backstabbing maneuvers, as it seemed everyone wanted to climb up the ladder that Jules Lowry had topped.
Wes exited the black Escalade closest to the waiting press gathering. “Here and checking in.”
The security threats had been high leading up to the sentencing, and Rhys was glad to have someone from Titan alongside him if something went wrong. “Roger that.”
Wes paced toward the law enforcement stationed alongside the metal-gated barriers to keep the crowd at bay. “They’re ready.”
The unknowns, with their cell phones out, posed the highest risk.
They could be generic celebrity seekers or simply hate Jules.
There was no telling. Rhys skimmed the mass of people bundled together, then eyed the reporters waiting in front of a lectern covered in microphones.
News crews, photographers, paparazzi, and influencers with press badges and cell phones hummed with energy now that they’d noted the arrival of the vehicles that would whisk Jules away from the nightmare.
Hopefully, she would leave the courthouse and never look back, just forgetting this part of her life.
But she’d never let go.
In the world she lived in, a five-minute-old trend was ancient. She had a way of hanging on to the embarrassing mistakes, like how a naive teenage girl had let a sick conman sweep her off her feet.
Rhys shook out his fists and wouldn’t spare Everett another thought. He turned to Jules and Abigail and raised his chin to her attorney. “Ready when you are.”
Her attorney popped up like she couldn’t wait to put on a show for the crowd.
She smoothed back her hair then her black skirt, trimmed in white, down.
The US attorney who oversaw the prosecution’s case stood from the conference table and adjusted her bloodred pantsuit.
Both grinned like barracudas that had had a very successful day. And they had.
Jules had. This was what all the tears had been for.
Except Jules didn’t smile. Exhaustion weighed her down like someone had bagged up every press release, every newspaper, and every magazine article and hung them on her shoulders.
Abigail, who had hovered protectively next to Jules, grasped her sister’s hand like one might a child’s before walking into a crowd. “I’m making cocktails when we get back to your place. Something bubbly and celebratory.”
The bright flicker of a smile on Jules’s face was as fake as he’d ever seen. The woman wanted a good book and a nap. Abigail probably knew that but was somehow part of the peppy show despite her usual no-nonsense demeanor.
The backup attorneys and their assistants, all of whom had touched up their hair and makeup while waiting for the press conference, flanked the sisters.
They were like extras in a movie or backup dancers on a stage.
Important but also for show. He didn’t know why a press conference was even needed.
The judge had said everything that needed to be said.
A legal “Fuck you” to the man who had taken the woman Rhys now guarded with his life.
The two main attorneys led the parade out of the conference room, past the security that Rhys had posted by the door. “We’re on the move.”
“Roger that,” Wes said.
They wound through the halls, past the large entrance where bags were scanned and people were wanded, until they stepped into the sunshine. Black Skirt and Red Pantsuit moved efficiently toward the horde of reporters and cameras.
Black Skirt lauded her client’s strong will and composure.
My client. My client. My client.
Yeah, lady. The world knows Jules chose you. Rhys wanted to move this song-and-dance along.
Red Pantsuit was more direct. “The sentence reflects the severity of what this defendant did. Justice was served today. Thirty years to life. That’s what we asked for. It’s what we got.”
Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions.
Rhys kept his head on a swivel. Eyes up, eyes down.
He clocked hands, movement, facial expressions.
Their security team had a large presence, but there were too many people.
People who had cheered on Jordan Everett’s defense, who had called Jules a liar, or were hoping for attention.
People he wanted to physically toss across the damn street.
The attorneys finished their victory lap.
About time.
Rhys pivoted toward Jules. She didn’t move.
Her eyes were locked on his, and in that slice of a public moment, he read her most intimate thoughts.
Thirty years to life. Rhys had been the reason for that.
Even if she’d been embarrassed in the process of locking up that son of a jackass, Rhys had done what needed doing.
She might always hate him for that. She definitely didn’t trust him.
But if she wanted to work in this town that her parents controlled, she had to play by their rules.
She had to be with him. Even if she’d never forgiven him.
“Thank you,” she mouthed.
And for that single breath of appreciation, Rhys couldn’t move.
The crowd did, though.
He snapped out of it, acknowledging what she’d said with a nod, and flew into action.
A minute later, he and Wes packed her into the Escalade. With two pats on the door, the vehicle pulled away. They wouldn’t see each other again for three weeks, when they traveled to London for the red-carpet premiere of a movie.
“Ready to get out of here, man?” Wes asked, narrowing his eyes on him then the disappearing Escalade.
Rhys shook out his fists as the crowd scattered like ants around them. “Never more so.”