Chapter 28
Six months later
The shutter of Fletcher’s camera snapped. Peeling the viewfinder away, she looked up at all sixty-five stories of the Cartwright Media building. A limestone monolith, its windows were capped with art deco flourishes, and the golden revolving doors spun into a marbled lobby.
Some part of her brain wondered when she started looking at this building like an interesting piece of architecture and not a place that gave her heart palpitations.
May had blossomed, drenching the city in color.
Around her, New York danced to a symphony all its own—one of taxicabs and squealing train brakes and jaywalkers shouting about having the right of way—and Fletcher found a new rhythm that didn’t involve panicked dry-cleaning runs or copying memos.
She’d strolled Central Park. She’d consumed enough bagels to last a lifetime.
She’d even stopped waking up from night terrors about sleeping through her midyear review.
Still, her palms grew slick with condensation as she watched her former coworkers come and go through the gilded doorway. That was mostly the coffee’s fault. She was halfway through her vanilla latte when Waylon ambled onto the sidewalk.
“I came all the way from Brooklyn, and somehow you’re the one who’s late,” she said as she lifted his iced Americano out of the cardboard drink carrier.
His smiles came easier these days. Each one belonged singularly to Fletcher, like she’d been the spark that lit him up again. “That’s a weird way to say ‘I love you.’ ”
“I do love you,” Fletcher said warmly, “and you’re late.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple, loosening his tie with one hand. Waylon Cartwright in a three-piece was already a sight to behold, but a loose tie? Alert the press. “The board meeting ran a little over, but we finally secured funding for that wildlife conservation project.”
“What convinced them? Was it the taxidermied lion? Or the taxidermied zebra. Don’t tell me it was the taxidermied capybara.”
“Funny enough, it was actually the sustainability models and the carbon-offsetting ROI analysis.”
Fletcher cocked her head, a sly grin working over her lips. “Look at you and your three-letter acronyms.”
Waylon scrunched his face up in mock distaste.
In the months after returning from Lydell, they’d worked to clean up the mess Dyer left behind.
To start, they had developed the long-expired film from Fletcher’s borrowed camera, and even with a timeworn grain and a few faded sunspots, the image of Melv holding Waylon at gunpoint had been damning enough evidence to pin the crime on the late lawyer.
Rightfully so. Melv got what he wanted in the end: notoriety and a lasting legacy built on a stolen inheritance.
Generous bereavement packages were extended to the families of those lost on Lydell. It wasn’t enough, but shy of searching the earth for the Fountain of Youth or a necromancer’s potion, they did everything they could.
The island’s animal population was being carefully reintegrated to their natural habitats. (Although the stuffed ones were a bit more challenging to rehome. Eclectic billionaire decor taste wasn’t exactly universal, and there were only so many natural history museums.)
Mounds of paperwork had to be reviewed, reverting Dyer’s will to the most recent iteration prior to Melv’s meddling, but ultimately all of the Cartwright assets were peacefully transferred to Waylon.
He still moonlighted at Subtext, but he’d hired a general manager to take over the day-to-day so that he could have his mornings and afternoons free for meetings like these.
While he hadn’t stepped in as Cartwright Media’s CEO, he’d assumed a position on the board of directors, helping guide the company in a new direction.
One that looked forward instead of back and watched out for others rather than only itself.
Waylon checked his watch. “Where’s Jepson?”
On cue, Jet-Setter’s new senior designer bustled through the doors. Ford greeted them with grabby hands, and Fletcher ushered a coffee into his open fists. Ford took a sip. Sighed. “Remind me how I survive when you’re traveling?”
“Miserably and much less caffeinated,” Fletcher said with a laugh.
Her recent endeavors had whisked her away from New York for weeks at a time, her passport filling up with stamps.
She was her own boss now as a freelance travel photographer.
The eviction notice on her door hadn’t vanished while she was on Lydell, but even though her tiny studio apartment got Saksified, she could now work from anywhere in the world.
(Plus, Waylon’s Brooklyn loft had plenty of natural light, and after surviving on Lydell together, cohabiting was a breeze in comparison.)
Ford dry-heaved. “A terrible existence, honestly. Are you sure you don’t want to come upstairs? I could show you the plans for the summer issues. I think we’ve got a couple assignments for you.”
“Respectfully,” Fletcher said, “I am never stepping foot in that office again. It’s called boundaries. Say it with me. Bound-a-ries.”
“Okay, okay. Fair enough. In that case, this should suffice.” He pulled open a manila folder to a stunning proof of the June edition of Jet-Setter.
Fletcher skimmed through the early edition on luxury seaside escapes, past titles like “What to Pack for Your Coastal Getaway” and “C?te d’Azur’s Best-Kept Culinary Secrets” until she found the featured article on the Ligurian coast’s historic villages.
The lead image rendered Cinque Terre in stunning clarity.
Coastal blues made the pastel stucco buildings pop.
The foreground boasted a balcony railing and the stripes of linen curtains billowing in the open doorway.
Fletcher could still taste the air’s sharp citrus, feel the Aperol buzzing through her veins.
Waylon leaned close, reading over her shoulder. His hands settled around her waist as Fletcher scanned the page. Her breath hitched. There, in the corner, printed in little white letters read, Photo by Fletcher Spence.