Chapter 22
LAUREL
“Come again?”
“Your husband went upstairs with Camille Foster last night.”
The next few seconds belong to the loose thread hanging from the hem of my robe.
I wind it around my finger, unwind it, then wind it again, watching the pale strand curl against my skin like there’s anything in the world worth concentrating on more than the fact that Grant found another woman to fuck before the ink on his last apology had dried.
“Upstairs where?” I ask, though we both know I’m buying myself three seconds.
“The Four Seasons. We were all at Bacco working through today’s press strategy, me, Grant, Camille, and the attorneys.
The attorneys and I wrapped up a little after midnight and left Grant there.
I saw them leave together when I came back downstairs.
Neither of them noticed me, so I watched them head for the elevators.
Camille didn’t come back down until this morning.
Grant followed a few minutes later.” Tessa exhales.
“I’m removing Camille from the account before Mercer Records gets asked whether fucking the subject of a crisis-management engagement falls within the consulting scope. ”
God, I don’t even know if I want to burst out laughing or feel repulsed by the man Grant has turned into. I keep thinking I’ve reached the limit of his stupidity, and he finds a new fucking floor every time.
“Did anyone get a shot of them?”
“I hope not, but I’m checking. Laurel, I’m telling you now because I’d rather you hear it from me than find out when the pictures hit the internet. I don’t know why it’s so damn hard for men to stop fucking everything with a pulse.”
Tell me about it.
“Thank you.”
“That’s it?”
“Would you like me to rate his technique, Tess?”
“Jesus.”
“You called before breakfast.”
A tired laugh escapes her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You didn’t marry him.”
After we hang up, I get every picture Evelyn needs in one pass, save them to my file, and forward the whole thing to her.
Thankfully, Evelyn’s office has already arranged a lease for a furnished townhouse in Green Hills through my separate account, and everything is ready for me to move in.
If I stay in this house another day, I’m going to lose my fucking sanity.
The asshole spends the last week rebuilding our anniversary in flowers, promising therapy, standing outside a locked guest-room door asking if I need water, swearing Sloane means nothing anymore and that losing me has finally scared some sense into him, then proceeds to sleep with a crisis consultant at the Four Seasons.
I begin laughing with my hand pressed over my mouth because once I start, I can’t stop, and this is the sort of laughter that makes a person look medically unwell.
Oh, Grant.
My phone rings again, and I’m still trying to catch my breath when I answer.
“Why are you laughing?” Mama asks after hello, because Vivian Bellamy treats greetings like a speed bump between her and whatever she really wants to know.
“Grant slept with somebody else.”
“Again?” Mama goes quiet for a beat. “Lord, that man is committed to embarrassing himself. I need his schedule.”
“Mama.”
“I’m not doing anything. I want to know where he’ll be while I’m not doing it. Who was it this time?”
I drop my forehead against my hand. “A crisis consultant.”
“He slept with the person hired to manage the scandal from him fucking the singer?”
Saying it aloud makes it even more ridiculous. Or funnier. Possibly both.
I’m still wiping my eyes from laughing so hard when the garage door begins to rise.
“Talk to you later, Mama. Grant is home.”
I send Dean a message before the door finishes opening.
Laurel: Get here as soon as you can. I’m moving out.
He walks into the living room wearing last night’s clothes beneath a fresh wool coat he must’ve bought or borrowed, because Grant Mercer would rather commit adultery twice than appear in public wrinkled.
“You’re up.”
“Astute.”
He stops, the look on his face shifting into the wary expression of a man who knows I’m about to start in on him again. “What now?”
“Camille Foster.”
Every trace of color leaves his face as he sets his keys on the counter with unnecessary care. “Laurel, I can explain.”
“I’m fascinated already.”
He looks toward the stairs, perhaps checking if a hidden jury has assembled. “I was drunk. I had a shit night.”
“Oh, poor sweet Grant. The hardships of being held accountable remain tragically understudied.”
“Can you stop for one second?” His voice bounces off the wall.
“Stop making every fucking thing I say into a joke. All of this is your fault. If you hadn’t told me one day you might sleep with Vale, I wouldn’t have done this.
You put that shit in my head, Laurel, and now you’re acting fucking innocent.
I know you’ve opened your legs for him too, so let’s just call it even.
You got your revenge, I got mine, and we can stop pretending we’re different. ”
I slap him. Hard.
The crack of my palm against his cheek silences the room.
Grant’s head turns with the force of it. He doesn’t move for a second, one hand frozen at his side as he stares at me.
I shake out my fingers, the sting in my palm so damn satisfying, nowhere near enough for what I want to do to him.
“It’s good to know I have more influence over your pruney dick than I realized.”
“Laurel.” His voice breaks into a whisper, rough and unsteady, and for one brief second he looks like he might actually cry. “It meant nothing. You know how much I love you. I can’t—please. Don’t leave again.”
The sight does nothing for me.
I’m far too invested in the imprint of my hand warming his cheek, the red blooming across his skin giving me a thrill I’m not interested in feeling guilty about.
“Are you done with your sob story?”
A flash of disbelief crosses his face, like he genuinely expected the tears to reach me. He gives a small nod.
“Good.” I reach for my phone. “I’m moving out today.”
∞∞∞
Dean arrives later that afternoon in a rented cargo van with Monica in the passenger seat and Mama on FaceTime mounted in the cup holder like a tiny vindictive dashboard saint. I asked him to come alone. He interpreted this as a suggestion delivered by someone unfamiliar with his marriage.
Monica gets out carrying an iced latte, packing tape, and the exhausted expression of a woman who has spent the drive preventing her husband from committing crimes.
“Before he says anything,” she tells me, nodding toward Dean, “I took the tire iron away.”
Dean shuts the driver’s door. “She hid the tire iron.”
“Because you asked what a kneecap costs.”
“I asked hypothetically.”
Mama’s voice explodes from the phone inside the van. “Move the phone. I can’t see my daughter.”
“You can call her yourself,” Dean says.
“I like being included.”
Grant appears on the front steps as I’m about to respond, and every ounce of humor drains out of my brother’s face. I send up a silent prayer that Dean remembers Monica took the tire iron.
Dean and Grant have known each other nearly as long as I’ve known Grant.
They fished off Tybee together. Grant stood beside Dean when Monica’s father died.
Dean once drove through the night from Savannah after Grant called because I’d been admitted for emergency surgery and he was scared to be alone.
People talk about divorce like two people pull apart. Yes, maybe that’s part of it, but a long marriage grows roots through whole families, and when you rip it out, everybody loses some dirt.
Dean stares Grant down for a long moment. “Don’t fucking breathe near her.”
Grant’s hands stay at his sides like he’s actually holding his breath. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Good. Keep having breakthroughs.”
Monica touches Dean’s arm. He exhales and walks past Grant into the house.
Grant looks at me. “You called your brother.”
“I figured I’d need someone who actually gives a shit about me.”
His jaw clenches.
I’m not taking any furniture. Evelyn advised against stripping marital property while the lawyers work through division, and I don’t want the fucking sofas anyway.
I take clothes, personal jewelry, medical files, my Martin, and photographs of my family, packing each box with the strange efficiency of someone who has already accepted that this is real.
Grant watches me pack the music room, and when I lift the box containing my old Grammys, he steps forward.
“Those should’ve been displayed.”
“You’re choosing now to notice?”
He rubs two fingers over his eyes. “I deserve that.”
“Yes, you do.” I tip my chin toward a corner. “Now, please, if you can just leave, it’s exhausting, Grant.”
“What?”
“Your face. Your existence. All of it.”
Dean appears in the doorway carrying two boxes. “She’s being generous. I’d have started with your entire bloodline.”
∞∞∞
Sloane has doubled down.
She gives a twenty-minute interview to a celebrity-news podcast because her attorney has either quit or developed a drinking problem, repeating that I knew she had Magnolia Rain, claiming Grant told her I had “stepped away” from music and was comfortable with Mercer using older material, and insisting the rights dispute became contentious only after the affair surfaced.
She admits the affair now, probably because the Conrad photographs have made euphemism look fucking stupid.
“I made a terrible personal decision,” she says in the clip Monica plays as we’re unpacking in my townhouse kitchen. “But Laurel is using her influence to end my career.”
Monica pauses the video. “I know we’re meant to be evolved women who don’t blame the mistress more than the husband, but can I dislike both with my full chest?”
“Please do.”
“Excellent.”
Evelyn calls five minutes later. “She has repeated the statement in a recorded interview. We’re clear.”
“Do it.”
Evelyn’s firm releases a factual chronology supported by timestamped production records: Sloane’s rehearsal package was delivered to third parties under a working title; the first Mercer document identifying Magnolia Rain by its actual title was uploaded after I arrived at the showcase; my introduction copy contained no song titles; archived communications show I was never copied on clearance correspondence.
Vale House confirms receipt times independently because its servers received the package.
Mercer Records’ own archive matches them.
Within an hour, the story flips so violently I almost get dizzy watching it happen.
Records contradict Sloane Avery's claim that Laurel Mercer knew about the disputed song.
Then another.
Avery Management parts ways with the singer amid rights dispute.
Her agency says the separation was mutual, which is entertainment-industry language for somebody’s belongings are already in a cardboard box.
Sloane posts three stories, deletes two, then uploads one black screen with white text:
You’re all going to feel stupid when the whole truth comes out.
She is losing endorsements, her tour slot, management, and control of the public story, and now she’s spiraling. The more reckless she gets, the higher the flames climb.
“Block her,” Monica says, and without a word, I do.
My phone buzzes immediately from an unknown number.
Unknown: You think Beckett can protect you from everything?
No name required.
I show Evelyn first. She tells me to screenshot it, preserve it, and make no response. Then I send it to Tessa because Sloane remains under contract to Mercer Records, and threats against a director are now a corporate problem whether Grant enjoys that fact or not.
My next message goes to Beckett because he is named in it. I hate that my pulse changes while typing his name.
Laurel: Sloane has entered her ominous-text era. You’re apparently my bodyguard now. Congratulations on the career change.
His reply comes a minute later.
Beckett: Terrible pay. Worse client. Send me the screenshot.
I do, then giggle at his message for far longer than necessary.