Chapter 8 #2
“He used the management email,” she says at last. “We both had access.”
“Which is why I accepted the reply as legitimate. I still asked to speak with you. Grant said you didn’t want another pitch.”
Her thumb digs into the edge of the paper. “I would’ve taken this. Not as written—your recoupment clause was bullshit, and I would’ve fought you on half the deal—but I would’ve taken it.”
“It was. And I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t fought me on it.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I would’ve taken the deal, Beckett.”
“I know.” I lean back in my chair. “You spent an entire lunch trying to improve a contract you weren’t happy with. People with no interest in a deal rarely arrive armed for combat.”
She exhales through her nose, almost a laugh. Small victory. I’ll take it.
Then she pushes out of the chair and crosses to the windows, one hand settling at her hip. The navy dress remains a fucking nuisance. Impeccable timing. I lower my eyes to Grant’s email before my brain develops any further opinions no one requested.
“For years, I told myself I chose him,” she says.
“Whenever anyone asked why my career slowed down before the injury, I gave them the same answer. We made a practical decision. Grant had momentum. We couldn’t both tour full-time.
The label was young. Someone needed to help build it.
” Her reflection floats faintly in the glass, shoulders rigid.
“And every single time, I stood by it. By him. By us.”
The last word comes out thinner than the rest. Her lips press together, and I watch one swallow work down her throat. She stays facing the window for another second before turning back to me, eyes bright, jaw set. Whatever nearly got through has lost the fight to anger.
“I spent years defending a choice I never fucking got to make.”
The fury on her face sends an answering heat through my blood, inconvenient when none of this was done to me. I disliked Grant even then, but I’d filed him away as an insecure asshole with territorial instincts. In hindsight, insecure had been generous.
“He made the decision,” she continues, quieter now, “and let me spend years believing I was the one who chose to give everything up.”
My attention shifts to the email open on my monitor. “Did Grant ever tell you what I said to him?”
Confusion creases her brow. “What did you say?”
She comes around the desk, and I angle the laptop toward her. My reply sits above his email, seven years old and exactly as diplomatic as I felt like being at the time.
Stop making her smaller so you can feel bigger.
I watch the meaning land, pain flaring in her expression so fast it hits me somewhere I’d rather not examine. Fuck. Maybe she didn’t need one more thing dropped on her tonight.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“And you still walked away.”
“You were married. You had representation, and your husband was telling me you’d made your decision. I pushed twice. Going around him after that—hunting down his wife so I could explain why her own answer was wrong—would’ve made me another man deciding I knew better.”
She keeps her eyes on mine, weariness stamped plainly across her face. “What do you think he was so afraid of?”
“You.” A breath leaves her, her brow drawing in, and I glance at the contract between us before giving her the longer answer. “More specifically? What happened once everybody else figured out you were every bit as good as he already knew you were.”
Tears spring into her blue eyes, glistening in a way that makes me shift in my seat, suddenly unsure what the hell I’m supposed to do with my hands.
I don’t make her ask for the rest. I walk her through everything—the original proposal, the draft structure for the imprint, the correspondence between my publishing department and Mercer management, including an email from my former head of publishing calling Laurel’s unreleased catalogue “one of the most underexploited assets in contemporary country.”
A bitter laugh escapes her, and the fist around my chest finally loosens.
“Asset.” She settles into the seat in front of me again, and a soft sweep of jasmine follows her, filling my senses. I catch myself breathing her in with my eyes closed. Jesus. Fucking creep. “Would you still make that offer?”
I force my attention back to her face.“No.”
Laurel’s eyes widen, a flicker of disappointment crossing them. “No?”
“Not tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because from where I’m sitting, your husband’s been cheating you a lot longer than you realized.”
The color drains from her face. “How did you know Grant was cheating on me?”
Well, fuck. So the bastard really was sleeping with Sloane.
I know more about Grant Mercer’s extracurriculars than I ever wanted to.
A few months ago, I saw him leaving the Conrad with her at an hour when label business would’ve been a generous interpretation, and Nashville isn’t a large town once people start fucking where they shouldn’t.
I never had proof, only a suspicion I had no reason to investigate.
Laurel just answered the question for me.
“Let’s just say I’ve seen plenty. Putting a contract in front of you tonight would make me an asshole, Laurel. You’re angry, humiliated, and operating on whatever got you through my front door. I don’t want your signature while you’re feeling like this.”
She studies me for a moment. “Is this your way of telling me you don’t want me at Vale anymore?”
“No. It’s me telling you to get independent counsel, a forensic accountant, and someone paid to protect your interests and nobody else’s.
I’ll give you names if you want them. I’ll also turn over every record Vale House has involving you.
Once you know exactly what you own, what was done in your name, and who touched what, come talk to me. ”
“And if I take the catalogue somewhere else?”
“Then I lose the deal.”
“You’re fine with that?”
“No.” I sit back. “I want the catalogue. I want your publishing. Vale House isn’t a charity, and I’m not going to insult either of us by pretending I suddenly stopped liking money.
But I’d rather lose the deal than win it because Grant Mercer blew up your life and I happened to be the first bastard within reach holding a term sheet. ”
For the first time since she walked into my building, Laurel smiles. It lasts less than a second and has no business melting me from the inside out. I ignore the effect with the discipline of a man who has spent over a decade being told an idea is brilliant and asking to see the fucking numbers.
She looks down at her wedding ring, her thumb circling the band. “I need a lawyer.”
“Evelyn Shaw.” I write the name and private number on a card.
“Entertainment and matrimonial?”
“Her firm handles both. She will make you choose separate counsel if the interests cross.”
I give her another.
“Forensic accountant? Right. I need someone to tell me exactly what my twenty-one percent of Mercer Records is worth when the man holding the other forty-two percent is my ex-husband.”
Past tense.
I keep my face neutral. “It means he can’t make your twenty-one percent disappear just because he controls the larger share. It’s yours. I want you to know exactly what that means before you sign anything, agree to anything, or let anyone convince you that you’re entitled to less than you are.”
Laurel takes the card with an appreciative nod, slips it into her purse, and stands. At the door, she pauses. “Did you mean what you wrote to him?”
“Yes.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “Was it that obvious?”
I shift in my chair. “To me? Yes.”
Her mouth twists. “Makes me feel fantastic, knowing that.”
“You were his wife. I was the man trying to sign you. We weren’t looking at the same man.”
She regards me for a long moment, then nods. “Send me everything.”
“It’ll be in your inbox before you reach your car.”
“Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for answering me yourself.”
She walks out, leaving me with the lingering scent of jasmine and a room that suddenly feels too quiet.
I look at the closed door and back at the second offer still open on my desk.
Seven years ago, I thought losing Laurel Mercer was a business decision.
Tonight, I’m beginning to wonder what the hell else Grant Mercer kept from her.