Chapter 16 #3
By the time I glance over my shoulder, he’s gone completely silent.
“How much?” Grant says eventually.
I keep my back to him.
“For which?” A slight pause. “No. Absolutely fucking not.”
I clamp my lips together to keep the smile off my face. I can feel his stare between my shoulder blades, urging me to turn around.
“Send it.”
He hangs up.
“Vale House offered nineteen point eight million dollars for your catalogue.”
I pivot with the glass still in my hand. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
I flutter my eyelashes, feigning innocence. “What reaction would make you comfortable? All I did was go to a company that’s been trying to pay me for my work since before you decided free was more convenient.”
His nostrils flare. “You said you came home to figure us out.”
“I did.”
“While Beckett makes a twenty-million-dollar play for your music?”
“The two things are separate.”
“The hell they are.” He starts pacing, dragging a hand through his blond hair. “He’s using this. He’s waited seven years for a chance to get between us.”
The audacity is so pure it almost deserves funding.
“Sloane got between us. Beckett sent paperwork.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I’m exhausted, Grant. Cute left somewhere near Chattanooga.”
“Reject it. That catalogue belongs with me. With Mercer.”
I glare at him, setting down the glass. “Say that again. And this time, make me believe I heard you correctly.”
“I said your catalogue belongs here. Don’t make a rash decision because you’re furious with me. Please. Hate me. Make me sleep downstairs for a year. Make me earn every inch back. But don’t let Beckett use what I did to take something we built together.”
I’ve had enough of this inane conversation. “I won’t make any decisions tonight.”
Relief melts his whole face.
He hears I won’t sell. He hears I’m still yours. Grant has always been talented at turning my sentences into whichever version lets him sleep.
“Okay, baby. Let’s eat. I spent hours making all of this for you.” He sweeps a hand over the spread, gesturing at what his brain apparently thinks is a peace offering.
“No, I think I’m good. It’s been a long day, and I’m just going to head off to bed.” The flicker of excitement across his face when I mention bed makes me clarify, “The guest room, Grant.”
“Guest room?”
“Yes. I’m going to spend the whole night sneezing on you with that cologne you’re wearing.” I sniffle to make my point.
He jerks back, one hand flying up to shield his face. “Okay. Let’s do that. I’ll put everything in the fridge so we can have it for breakfast.” He hesitates. “And, Laurel, I know there isn’t a version of sorry big enough yet, but I’m going to find one.”
“Why not just shove it up your ass?” I mutter under my breath as I head for the bedroom.
“What did you say?”
I paste on my brightest smile. “I said, have a lovely night, Grant.”
He mirrors it with a wave. “You too.”
I’m drained by the time I shut the door behind me, checking the lock twice before I finally let myself collapse onto the bed.
When I reach for my phone, four messages are waiting.
Mama wants to know if she should start driving, Evelyn says Grant’s admission about Daniel matters and tells me to write down every word while it’s fresh, and there’s one from Beckett, too.
Beckett: Offer delivered. Sleep before you decide anything.
The fourth is Sloane.
Sloane: He froze the album. All promo. Everything. My agent says the label is preparing to blame the song issue on me if this becomes public. I know I deserve what comes from the affair. I did it. But Grant told legal he gave me a cleared song. I have that in writing.
I scoff at the irony, my nose wrinkling as I remember how Sloane helped Grant humiliate me.
Now she’s learning the oldest rule in his religion: when Grant Mercer has to choose between protecting a woman and protecting Grant Mercer, the woman should wear comfortable shoes because she’s going under the bus.
I screenshot the messages and move them into the file where I’ve been keeping everything she’s sent me.
Sloane will get what she deserves, but I refuse to let Grant rewrite this affair into another story where a woman made him do something.
If Sloane burns, she burns for the decisions she made. He burns for his.
I forward the file to Evelyn with a message telling her to add it to the preservation file, then open Beckett’s thread and type one line.
Laurel: Proceed tomorrow.
God, it’s going to be a very long day.
Dr. Mehta forwarded me the specialist’s information after my last evaluation, and I was finally able to book a session. It’s also tomorrow.
I take the wedding ring burning a hole in my finger off, drop it into the bedside drawer, and head for the bathroom, craving a long, steaming bubble bath. I made damn sure Grant didn’t touch me with those hands of his, but being anywhere in his radius has me itching all over.
The tests from the hospital cleared me of everything, and I’m grateful the idiot didn’t give me anything. But there’s never enough soap for this kind of filth, is there?