Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Dexter
“Tell me again why I shouldn’t sue every last one of these parasites into extinction.”
That’s the first thing out of my mouth when I walk into the conference room.
I should at least pretend. Nod. Say good morning.
Ask if there’s coffee—maybe even whiskey—because it’s five in the fucking morning and I’ve been awake since three, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the things I can’t undo.
But I don’t.
Because pretending has never saved me.
And I’m done performing for people who only ever watch to see when I’ll break.
I’ve managed to avoid drinking through this entire shitstorm.
No rehab headlines. No anonymous check-ins at luxury treatment centers.
Just meetings twice a week and late-night calls to the therapist who talks me down when I spiral.
She’s good. Calm. Has a voice that makes you think maybe the world isn’t collapsing, even when you’re certain it is.
She’s kept me from saying fuck it and flying to wherever Aly is.
Not because I don’t want to. I do. God, I do.
But there are things I have to finish first. Even when everything in me is clawing to go back to her—to that feeling, that pause where I felt like maybe I was someone worth keeping.
I have to make this right.
Because no matter how badly I want a kiss, a morning, a moment with her . . . I can’t build something new on ashes, gossip, and lies.
The conference room smells like too much caffeine and panic stuffed into suits. Legal pads everywhere. Headlines circled in red. Drafted statements stacked like they mean something. The Vaughn Records legal team looks like they haven’t slept in at least a day.
Eddie’s nursing his third espresso, his tie draped around his neck like it gave up being professional hours ago.
“So tell me again why I shouldn’t finish everyone,” my voice grits out before I sit.
“Because it’s not about extinction,” he says without looking up. “It’s about control.”
“I’ve been controlled my whole damn life,” I snap, dropping a folder onto the table with enough force to send a few pages sliding off the top. “This time, I bite back. If I don’t, this will be haunting my children one day. This doesn’t go away on its own.”
Someone clears their throat. One of the younger lawyers—nervous, overpaid, terrified I’ll throw something.
“We’ve filed preliminary suits against three publications,” the one who speaks—Harris, I think—says carefully.
His voice is level, almost clinical, like he’s seen too many of these explosions and stopped flinching years ago.
“But we can’t go nuclear on everyone at once, Dexter. It’ll look like retaliation.”
“It is retaliation,” I say, leaning forward. “Because what they’ve printed isn’t just false. It’s invasive. They’re writing fiction and calling it legacy. If we don’t shut it down now, it’ll be worse next time. And there will be a next time if we don’t nip it.”
Across from me, Eddie rubs his temple, looking more tired than usual. His eyes are bloodshot, but he’s still too stubborn to admit he needs rest. “You want justice, not revenge,” he says quietly. “There’s a difference.”
“Not to me.”
We sit in the stillness that follows. No one moves.
He doesn’t fight me on it. Don't try to convince me otherwise. He just slides a new folder toward me. “These are the official filings. Your stepbrother’s listed as the source. We’re pursuing defamation, breach of contract, and emotional distress.”
The paper touches my fingertips, but I don’t open it yet.
My jaw tightens at that word—stepbrother.
I don’t ask which one. I don’t need to. There’s only one who would sink this low.
Only one who ever smiled while watching the world burn.
Only one who knows just enough of the truth to twist it into something cruel.
My stomach coils. It’s a slow, acidic twist. Not rage. Not even betrayal anymore. Just exhaustion. The kind that settles into your bones when you realize family doesn’t always mean protection. Sometimes, it means proximity to ruin.
“What do we have on him?” I ask.
Harris hesitates, then flips a page in the packet. “We’ve traced the leak to an online account tied to him. He sold the voicemail recordings—selectively edited—and a scanned portion of your father’s will.”
He pauses, like the next part requires extra care.
“PulseWire, Variety Weekly, and AccessNow all ran with it. The others—Backstage Confidential, StarLine Digest—passed for now, but they’re circling.”
I blink at the names. Familiar. Too familiar.
The ones that never needed facts to run a story—just a whisper, a hint, a headline that hummed like scandal.
Eddie adds, “He signed an NDA in 1999 when he tried to get a share of the publishing rights. That gives us a foothold.”
“Did he need the money?” I ask, though I already know the answer. He didn’t do it because he needed anything.
He did it because he could.
“He wanted attention,” Eddie says. “And you gave it to him by staying silent this long.”
I shake my head. “I stayed silent because my grandfather didn’t want this to become a fucking carnival. And now look at us.”
Harris clears his throat again. “We’ve drafted a formal response to the allegations. You can review and revise. The tone is assertive but careful. You deny the claims, reaffirm your separation from your father’s estate, and clarify the inaccuracies in the timeline.”
“I’m not reading a press packet like I’m on a talk show.” My voice drops. “If I’m going to say something, it’ll be mine.”
“That’s risky,” Harris says, watching me too carefully. “You’re emotional. And understandably so.”
“Good,” I fire back. “Let it sound like I actually wrote it—not a conference room full of lawyers on my payroll trying to sanitize the truth. Let it sound like someone who’s done being gutted for soundbites.”
Eddie gives me a look. It’s not disapproval—not exactly. It’s closer to fatigue. Like he’s already counted the ways this could blow up and knows he won’t stop me either way. Like he’s already halfway through the clean-up, and we haven’t even lit the match yet.
“You write your version,” he says after a beat. “But you don’t send it without me seeing it first.”
I roll my eyes and lean back in the chair. “Fine.”
But that’s only one part of this mess. I still have to go through the lawsuits.
I pick up the first file and skim the page.
The words melt into one another—allegations, damages, exhibits, breach of contract.
Legalese that flattens a life into something clinical.
A past reduced to black ink and bullet points. My pain, filed in triplicate.
“Fuck. Why is he always selling me out?” It’s obviously a rhetorical question. The name feels thick in my throat. “Malcolm.”
The word tastes like metal. Like betrayal that should’ve come with warning signs but never did.
Eddie doesn’t look up. “Why do you sound surprised? He always does.”
“Sure,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “I thought he’d at least pretend family meant something after you paid him off the last time.”
Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “Let’s get real here. Malcolm is not family. You know who your real family is.”
He’s right. My real, very crazy, chaotic family includes him and is made up of my best friends. The ones who I fight with sometimes because we disagree. I have four brothers, two sisters, and a nephew who I don’t share blood with, but they love me and support me.
Someone slides a pen across the table. Gold. Too shiny. Probably engraved. I don’t reach for it.
I just stare at it.
The light hits the barrel, and I’m seventeen again, sitting at the edge of my grandfather’s studio, listening to him explain how loyalty could be negotiated if the price was right.
That contracts were the real love language in this business.
If you didn’t want to be burned, you kept your name out of the ink unless you were prepared to bleed.
The pen catches the light, winking like it already knows what it’s about to force me into.
I lean in. “What are we doing about him?”
Eddie doesn’t flinch. “We named him in the suit. We’re filing for an injunction because of a breach of NDA and slander. If the court grants it, we can block him from pushing anything else out—interviews, more clips, even backdoor leaks.”
“And you think that’s going to be enough?” I ask. “That this actually stops it?”
Harris clears his throat. “We’ve also filed for a cease and desist. If the judge agrees with our interpretation of the NDA terms, he won’t be able to speak publicly about you or your father again—not in print, not online, not even under pseudonyms.”
“And if he does?”
Eddie answers, his tone flat. “He loses everything. Any residual payouts, royalties your father arranged, even the trust access. The clause is airtight. We just have to enforce it.”
Malcolm’s face flashes in my mind—smug, calm, always acting like he was the victim while twisting the knife with a smile.
“Good,” I say, voice low. “Let him lose something for once.”
No one disagrees.
The folder is still open in front of me. The words haven’t changed, but I finally pick up the pen. Not to sign. Just to hold it. Just to remember I still can. I run my thumb along the barrel. My initials are etched near the clip. A gift from someone who thought I’d one day be the man they needed.
“I’ll write the statement tonight,” I say.
Eddie nods once. “Make it smart,” he warns me. “Make it sting without drawing blood you can’t take back. I have to approve it.”
“I know exactly what I want to say.”
The legal team begins to rise, murmuring to one another in quiet tones as they gather their binders and briefcases. I don’t move.
I’m still staring at the file, at the photocopy of the will peeking from the folder Malcolm leaked—the one he thought would wreck me.
But it won’t.
Not this time.
This time, I’m taking the narrative back.