Chapter 32 #3
His answer comes without hesitation. “Then don’t. I don’t want to be the next thing you disappear into either.”
Nora saves me from whatever catastrophic decision I’m about to make by dropping into the booth with two glasses of water and the expression of a woman who has spent the last five minutes gathering evidence.
“I’ve assessed the situation.”
“Nobody asked.”
“That has never stopped me.” She sets one glass in front of me, turns to Beckett, and gives him a slow once-over so shameless I consider kicking her under the table. “You’re richer in person.”
Beckett blinks. “I’m not sure that’s visible.”
“Your watch looks insured.”
“Nora Keene.”
She waves me off without looking away from him. “And you’re the man Grant Mercer has been blaming for everything except climate change.”
The corner of Beckett’s mouth moves. “Give him time.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Nora turns to me with the pleased expression of someone whose preliminary findings have just been independently verified. “I like him.”
“Please stop reviewing men like restaurants.”
“Three and a half stars. Service excellent, parking unclear.”
Beckett laughs under his breath and pushes his chair back, which is probably wise because another thirty seconds of this and I’ll be explaining to Nashville police why my oldest friend died by cocktail napkin. “I should go.”
Nora offers him her hand. “Nora Keene.”
“Beckett Vale.”
“I know. You’ve got buildings.”
He shakes her hand with the composure of a man who negotiates eight-figure deals for a living and has therefore encountered worse things than Nora before dinner. When he releases her, his attention comes back to me.
“Rest your voice.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve ruined those words forever.”
His mouth curves. “Goodnight, Laurel.”
“Goodnight, Princess Beckie.”
A low chuckle follows as he heads back to Jonah. Nora, to her credit, waits until he is several tables away. Three whole seconds.
“Oh, you’re fucked.”
I pick up my water. “Drink yours.”
“He looks at you like—”
I groan. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Fine.” She takes a long sip, eyes fixed on me over the rim of the glass. “But I’m keeping notes.”
A laugh escapes me and immediately earns a warning scrape from my throat again.
Nora points at me with vindication written all over her face. “See? Even your damaged vocal fold wants me to shut up.”
“Finally, something we agree on.”
∞∞∞
Monday arrives with courtrooms, lawyers, and Sloane Avery in a cream suit outside Davidson County General Sessions Court as three photographers shout her name.
I don’t attend, but Evelyn does.
My security consultant submits the vehicle logs, photographs from outside the townhouse, the Vale House incident report, recordings of the calls, and proof Sloane used caller-ID spoofing after I blocked every number we knew belonged to her.
Her attorney argues she never entered my property, never threatened me with physical harm, and only went to Vale House because she remains involved in a contractual dispute over company records.
The judge seems far less interested in her reasoning than the repeated contact after she’d been told, in writing and more than once, to stop.
By lunch, there’s a temporary protective order. Sloane has to stay away from my home, anywhere I work, my medical appointments, and me. Any legitimate business communication goes through counsel until the petition is resolved.
Evelyn calls from the courthouse steps. “She is furious.”
“Feels like her baseline now.”
“She shouted at a reporter that you’re trying to silence her.”
I shift the phone against my ear. “Did the reporter ask why she was parked outside my house?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She got into the car.”
I lean against the kitchen counter. “Karma has terrible branding. I expected thunder.”
“Most consequences are paperwork.”
“Disappointing.”
“You’ll survive.”
An hour later, Sloane’s publishing administrator freezes future advances pending a review of her representations surrounding Magnolia Rain. Her former management company files an arbitration demand for unpaid commissions and damages under the termination provisions of their agreement.
None of it comes from me. She isn’t destitute by dinner.
She still owns a house, still earns royalties, still has fans willing to turn every photograph of a crying woman into proof of persecution.
But the people whose job it was to keep betting money on her have started asking what exactly they’re buying.
That question is a different kind of problem.
Across town, Grant’s promoter cuts his guaranteed fall compensation by thirty-five percent and demands a larger performance escrow after two sponsors walk. The lender on his term facility sends another collateral notice that afternoon.
Evelyn forwards the financial update because it affects the divorce disclosures.
I read three pages, close the document, and go grocery shopping.
Maybe this is the strangest part of revenge. You can spend years imagining the moment someone finally gets what they deserve, only for it to arrive between running out of olive oil and remembering you need toilet paper.
I’m standing in Kroger comparing two jars of pasta sauce as a couple near the dairy aisle discusses my husband’s tour problems loud enough for me to hear every word. I consider abandoning the cart on principle.
A teenage girl spots me first. She hesitates beside an endcap, gathers her courage, and walks over.
“Are you Laurel Bellamy?”
I brace myself for Grant, Sloane, the divorce, or whatever fresh piece of my life has made it onto TikTok.
Instead, she says, “My mom used to play Paper Saints when she cleaned the house.”
My throat tightens. “Did she?”
She gives me an eager nod. “She says you wrote it.”
“With my friend Nora.”
“I love that song.”
Her mother calls her from another aisle, and she hurries off after apologizing three separate times for bothering me.
I stand there holding marinara sauce like an idiot when my phone buzzes with a message.
Nora: Write with me Thursday. Two hours. No pressure. You can sit there and insult my chords.
Laurel: Two hours. Your studio. And if you rhyme fire with desire, I’m leaving.
Nora sends twelve exclamation marks and a photograph of her middle finger.
I laugh in the middle of Kroger.
My life has gone so quiet I can finally hear myself in it. Grant’s, meanwhile, is getting louder by the hour.