45. Done And Dusted
DONE AND DUSTED
NORA
"I think my time in LA is up," I say, staring at the half-packed suitcase on the floor.
There's a pause on the other end of the line. Then Camilla laughs—the bright kind that always makes me smile even when I don't feel like smiling.
"Thank god," she says. "I was starting to think you'd actually convinced yourself you belonged there."
"I did. For a while." I look around the sterile rental apartment. "But I don't anymore."
"So you're coming back? For good?"
"Yeah. I'm coming back."
Saying it out loud makes it the only choice that makes sense.
"Good," Camilla says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Because I need help planning this wedding and you're the only person I trust not to let Jay talk me into a Lord of the Rings theme."
I laugh despite despite the fact that I'm about to blow up my entire career for a future I can't quite see but desperately want.
"I'll be there," I promise. "Soon."
"How soon?"
"Three days. Maybe less. I have some things I need to handle first."
"Things or Wes?"
"Both."
"Burn it all down, babe. You deserve better than anything that city and that piece of shit gave you."
When the call ends I move to the suitcase again, folding clothes with slow intention. There's no urgency in my body—just clarity.
When I unzip the side pocket of the bag, something familiar brushes my fingers.
Alfie's parcel.
I sink onto the floor, back against the bed, and open the envelope with careful hands. A photograph falls out first and the moment I see it, tears start streaming down my face.
My throat closes up and I have to remind myself to take a deep breath before I pass out .
It's a photo I'd forgotten existed.
Jake, Nate, and me in Gracie's bookstore, taken by Alfie himself.
I can't be older than eight or nine. Jake is holding up The Chronicles of Narnia like it's treasure, grinning at the camera with that wild, unguarded joy he always had.
I'm reading The Wizard of Oz, completely absorbed, one hand holding the book and the other twisting a strand of hair the way I always used to when I was concentrating.
And Nate.
Nate isn't looking at the Peter Pan book in his hands.
He's looking at me.
Even this young, there's something in his expression—something soft and certain and completely unaware that the camera's on him.
We were so young. So unaware of what was coming. All the pain and loss and years apart. All the ways we'd hurt each other while trying to protect each other. All the time we'd waste being too afraid to admit what was right in front of us.
I set the photo aside gently and unfold the letter with shaking hands.
Lenora,
If you're reading this, it means I've finally gone where all good stories end—into memory.
And if there's one thing I've learned from a lifetime of books, it's this: We don't belong to places. We belong to the people who make us feel understood inside them.
You were always meant for more than the quiet shelves of Gracie's bookstore. But you were also always meant to find your way back to what mattered most.
Like Dorothy, you had to leave Oz to understand Kansas. You had to wander to know where home really was.
Which is why I'm leaving Gracie’s to you—because you are the only one I trust with it. I hope it’s not a burden and you see it more as a promise.
A promise that stories still matter.
You have a heart that listens, Nora.
Trust it.
It knows the way back.
P.S. The boy in the photograph never stopped looking at you that way. Not once in all the years I knew him. Some loves are inevitable.
Stop running from yours.
With love,
Alfie
I press the letter to my chest and sob hysterically.
Alfie knew. Of course he knew. He saw it when we were eight years old and he saw it every summer after that. Saw what we were too young or too scared or too damaged to see ourselves.
Home.
The word sits heavy in my chest, familiar and tender all at once.
Eden wasn't perfect. But some places leave a mark on you—the kind you don't erase, no matter how far you go. Some people become home in a way geography never can.
I fold the letter carefully, tuck it and the photograph into my journal where I can keep them safe.
For the first time since leaving Eden, I don't feel torn.
I feel sure.
The Horizon Pictures building is exactly as I remember—all glass and steel and the kind of architectural arrogance that screams we're more important than you.
I walk past the receptionist with the confidence of someone who has nothing left to lose. She calls after me but I don't stop. Just head straight for the executive floor where I know Wes will be.
His assistant—Elise, young and perpetually anxious—jumps up when she sees me.
"Ms. Wells, you can't just—"
"Is he in a meeting?"
"Yes, but—"
"Perfect. I love an audience."
I don't wait for permission, just open the door to Wes's office and step inside. He's at his desk, on the phone with what I'm sure is someone who thinks they're more important than they actually are.
The irritation that crosses his face when he sees me is almost satisfying enough to make this worth it all by itself.
“Steven, I’ll call you back," he says into the phone, then hangs up. "You finally decided to come home, did you?"
“We both know this was never my home. We need to talk about my film."
He leans back in his chair, that condescending smile I used to find charming now just making me want to throw something heavy at his fucking head.
"Your film now?"
“Always was. You just convinced me otherwise for a while."
I pull the envelope from my bag—the one Alex spent two days reviewing and finalizing—and set it on his desk with deliberate care.
"I'm removing you from the project. Effective immediately."
He laughs, actually laughs. Like this is the funniest thing he's heard all week.
"You can't do that."
"I absolutely can. And I'm going to enjoy it way more than I probably should."
I open the envelope and spread the contents across his desk with the kind of casual efficiency that would make a card dealer proud.
Photographs. Medical documentation. Timestamped text messages. A signed affidavit from a witness at the New York premiere.
His face goes pale.
"What the fuck is this?"
"Evidence." My voice is cheerful. Almost sunny. "Of assault. Multiple incidents, actually. I'm very thorough when I decide to be."
I point to the first photograph—my wrist, bruised purple and yellow, taken the morning after the New York premiere fight.
"That's from the first time you grabbed me. The night of the premiere. You apologized with flowers, if I remember correctly. White roses. Expensive kind. Very romantic. Really sold the whole 'I'm sorry I left marks on you' angle. Too bad I hate roses.”
My tone is conversational, as if we're discussing the weather.
He starts to speak but I hold up a hand.
"I'm not finished. This one—" I tap the second photo, "—is from three months later.
Kitchen argument. You didn't like that I wanted to go Boston for Christmas to spend it with my family who I hadn’t seen in a year.
You twisted my arm hard enough to not only leave fingerprints, but a small fracture.
That's when I started documenting everything.”
I meet his eyes, and my smile doesn't reach mine.
I remembered what Lydia went through growing up. She spent years documenting Scott's abuse because she knew no one would believe her without proof.
"Nora, you're being ridiculous. Those were all accidents—"
"Accidents." I nod like I'm considering this. "Right. The kind of accidents that happen repeatedly, always when you're angry, always in places that can be hidden by long sleeves."
The sarcasm in my voice could cut glass. I pull out the next document—a medical report.
"This is from the urgent care visit after you pushed me and I fell down the stairs. You remember that day, right? When we were in Aspen and you were drinking, shouting rounds for all your big exec pals?” I hold the report up.
“Because I remember the day vividly. Even have fractures to remind me of that one too.”
His jaw clenches.
"I never—"
"Yes, you did. And if you even try to you claim it was an accident again, so help me God.”
I lean back, crossing my arms.
"Here's the thing, Wes. This has all been sent to Alex Monroe from Monroe and Parks. I believe you two may even know each other. He’s an excellent entertainment lawyer, you'd like him if he didn't think you were the literal definition of garbage—and he's drafted up a very interesting proposal."
I slide the contract toward him.
"You're going to sign over all rights to the film. You're going to remove yourself from the project entirely. You're going to relinquish any claim to profits, creative control, or involvement of any kind. And you're going to do it quietly, professionally, without making this messy."
"And if I don't?"
I smile. It's not a nice smile.
"Then I go public with all of this. Every photograph. Every medical report. I file a police report. I file a civil suit. And I make sure that every single person in this industry knows exactly what kind of man you are." I lean forward, hands flat on his desk.
"How to Gaslight Your Fiancée in Ten Easy Steps: A Case Study. I think that's a catchy title. Variety would run it. Deadline would love it. Hell, I'd write the exposé myself. I'm very good at writing, if you recall. It's why you wanted my book in the first place."
His face has gone from pale to red.
"You're bluffing."
"I don't bluff. I plan, and then I execute.
" I straighten up, smoothing down my blouse.
"So here's what happens next. You sign this agreement.
You walk away with your reputation mostly intact—I'm feeling generous, must be the California sunshine.
You get to tell people it was a mutual parting of ways, creative differences, whatever corporate bullshit makes you sleep better at night. "
I pick up a pen from his desk and set it down in front of him with a decisive click.
"Or you fight this, and I make sure the only thing anyone ever associates with your name is 'that producer who assaulted his fiancée.' Your choice. Make it quickly, I have a flight to catch."
He stares at me like he's never seen me before.
Like I'm a completely different person than the woman he thought he knew.
Good.
That was always the problem, wasn't it? He never actually knew me at all.
"You really think you can do this without me?" His voice has an edge of desperation now. "The studio won't want to work with someone who's so difficult—"
"The studio will work with whoever owns the IP," I interrupt. "Which is me. And I've already had conversations with producers who would love to take this on."
"You're making a mistake."
"No." My voice is pleasant. Almost friendly. “The only mistake I made was when I said yes to you."
I tap the contract.
"But I'm a big believer in learning from my mistakes. Personal growth and all that."
His hand moves toward the contract, then stops.
"If I sign this—"
"You don't get to negotiate," I say, and my voice goes cold. "You lost that privilege the second time you put your hands on me. This isn't a discussion. This is me being extremely generous by giving you an out that doesn't involve criminal charges and royally fucking your future.”
I glance at my watch.
"You have two minutes to decide. After that, I walk out of here and straight to the police station."
The silence is deafening and after a few seconds, he finally picks up the pen. I watch him do it, feeling absolutely nothing except a distant sense of satisfaction.
When he's done, I collect the papers, sliding them back into the envelope with care.
"Pleasure doing business with you."
I walk out, my stride confident, my head high.
Now, it’s time to head home.