Chapter 22
Taio
Castellano & Associates sprawls across the top three floors of a Midtown high-rise that screams old money.
The kind of place where the elevator buttons are polished daily and the conference rooms have actual fresh flowers.
I’ve memorized every painting in the hallway, but this visit hits different.
No more strategy sessions about my father’s case.
Just delivering these final documents, then walking away.
I’m not going to let this consume my life again.
One trial was enough hell to last a lifetime.
I slide the stack of folders across Bradley Castellano’s mahogany conference table. “That’s everything. Bank statements, transaction records, correspondence—all highlighted and annotated like you asked.”
Bradley nods, but something’s off. He’s not reaching for the folders. Neither are the two junior associates flanking him. They’re all just…looking at me. With expressions I can’t quite read.
“Great work as always, Taio,” Bradley says carefully. “Very thorough.”
“Thanks. So listen, I need to head out. I’ve got a flight to catch.” I check my watch. “I’m afraid to ask, but how much is all this going to cost? The appeal, the new trial prep—give me a ballpark so I can start figuring out payments.”
The silence stretches between us like a taut wire about to snap.
Bradley’s eyes dart to his associates, a silent message passing between them. The younger man shifts his gaze to the city skyline beyond the glass. The woman beside him begins clicking her pen rhythmically, studying its silver clip as if it is the most fascinating piece of equipment.
“All right. What?” I look between them. “What’s going on?”
“Taio…” Bradley folds his hands on the table. “There’s something we need to discuss. Has your dad contacted you about the appeal?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “I think I had a missed call from the correctional facility, but it’s not like I can call back whenever I please. Is something wrong with the appeal?”
“There isn’t going to be an appeal.”
The words don’t compute at first. “What do you mean? The Wright evidence—”
“The Wright evidence is solid. Great catch on Rina’s part. Under normal circumstances, it would absolutely be grounds for appeal.” Bradley’s jaw tightens. “But your father has now made that impossible.”
“It’s barely been a week.” My stomach drops. “What did he do?”
Another exchange of glances. Bradley sighs heavily and slides a printed email across the table toward me.
“Your father sent this to our office three days ago. He very thoroughly outlined a strategy he wanted us to pursue.”
I pick up the paper and start reading.
The first paragraph proposes bribing the judge who would likely be assigned to hear the appeal. The second suggests blackmail as a backup plan, complete with research my father apparently did on the judge’s extramarital affair. The third paragraph—
I stop breathing.
The third paragraph names Charlie Riley as the financial backer for these schemes. He describes her as “my son’s wealthy girlfriend” and suggests her “entertainment industry connections” could help identify additional pressure points.
“This is insane.” My voice sounds far away. “Charlie has nothing to do with any of this. She doesn’t even know the details of my father’s case.”
“We know that.” Bradley’s tone is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “But your father put an illegal plan down in writing to his counsel. Our firm’s protocol is to report it.”
“Report it to who?” I ask. “What about attorney-client privilege?”
“That privilege is revoked for soliciting us in his illegal, fraudulent activity. We report that to relevant authorities: the Bar association, potentially the court.” He pauses.
“Taio, your father didn’t just kill his appeal.
He committed additional crimes in the process.
Conspiracy to bribe a federal official. Conspiracy to commit extortion.
And he implicated an innocent third party. ”
Third party? No. This is way more personal. He implicated Charlie.
“What happens to her?” I manage.
“Nothing, assuming she cooperates. The authorities will want a statement from her denying any involvement. On record. It should be straightforward—there’s no evidence connecting her to any of this beyond your father’s delusional email.”
“On record,” I repeat the words slowly. “Meaning public record.”
“Eventually, yes. These things have a way of getting out.”
The room tilts. I grip the edge of the conference table, knuckles going white.
Charlie’s reputation. The thing she’s been fighting to protect since the scandal broke.
The thing that keeps her up at night, that drives every PR decision, every fake smile at Grayson’s side.
My father just painted a target on it. For no reason.
For nothing. Nobody cares what the truth is once her name is attached to bribery and blackmail of a federal judge.
She’s going to be right back in the hot seat, insomnia, hair falling out, endless tears… because of me.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with him?”
“Taio, the thing about your father is that he thinks he’s untouchable.” Bradley’s voice cuts through the fog. “He’s spent his whole life believing he’s the smartest person in every room. Even when he’s catastrophically, demonstrably wrong. To this day he thinks he’s above the law.”
“No, to this day, he thinks he’s above being a good person.”
I think about all the years I’ve spent cleaning up his messes.
The money. The visits. The emotional labor of loving someone who sees you as a resource to be managed.
The guilt I’ve carried for not being a better son, a more loyal son, when the truth is I’ve been the only thing standing between him and complete self-destruction.
And this is how he repays me. By trying to drag down the one person who’s made me smile again after all the hell he caused? That’s how a father treats his only son?
“I’m done.”
It comes out calm. Steadier than I feel.
Bradley blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m done. With him. With all of this.” I stand up, and for the first time in years, my shoulders don’t feel like they’re carrying the weight of my father’s sins.
“You guys can stop here. I’m not paying for this anymore.
He can find another legal team. Another son.
Another someone to manipulate. I’m out.”
Maybe they should be advising me against abandoning my father, especially when he’s about to go through the hellfire he personally ignited. But instead, all I get is a resounding, “We understand.” Meaning I am the last person on Earth to have faith in my dad.
Except, I don’t anymore. Now, he has no one.
“Do not contact Charlie until I get a chance to speak with her. This has to come from me. Then, her lawyers will be in touch.” I’m already moving toward the door. “And, Bradley? Thank you. For everything. But I’m serious. I won’t be coming back.”
Bradley’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “About damn time,” he says, rising and extending his hand. I shake it, feeling the finality in his grip. “Good luck out there, kid. I hope life gets easier for you.”
The elevator doors close behind me with a soft chime. The marble lobby gleams under my feet. As I push through the revolving door onto the busy sidewalk, each step carries away another ounce of my father’s gravity.
He endangered Charlie.
I could forgive the money he drained from me.
I could forgive the way he twisted my words, my thoughts, my feelings to serve his needs.
I could even forgive the years where every phone call felt like a hostage negotiation.
But dragging Charlie into his criminal schemes—using information I shared in a moment of vulnerability about the woman who is starting to heal what he hurt—that’s where I draw the line.
That’s where James Wilkes stops being my father.
I’m free.
For the first time since this bullshit scandal started, I’m free.
LaGuardia is a zoo, but I don’t care. I push through the crowds toward the ticket counter, phone already in my hand.
“First available flight to Atlanta,” I tell the agent.
She types, frowns at her screen. “The next economy seat isn’t until tomorrow morning, but I do have one first-class seat on a flight leaving in…” She checks. “Thirty-eight minutes.”
“How much?”
She names a price that would have made me flinch a week ago. Today, I hand over my card without hesitation.
For years, every dollar I earned went to my father’s legal defense.
I’ve lived in a cramped apartment with secondhand furniture and worn sheets.
I’ve denied myself vacations, nice dinners, anything beyond the bare necessities of survival.
All so Dad could have the best lawyers, the fighting chance he never deserved.
Not anymore.
“First class it is,” I say.
The agent smiles and prints my boarding pass.
As I head toward security, I pull out my phone and call Charlie. It rings. And rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m at the airport—I’m coming to Atlanta. I have something I need to tell you, but I’d rather do it in person. Call me when you get this.”
I hang up and join the security line, phone clutched in my hand. The line moves slowly, giving me too much time to think. Too much time to scroll.
The photos from Tampa are still everywhere.
Charlie and Grayson leaving the arena. Her hand in his. His arm around her waist. That practiced smile she wears like armor.
I zoom in on one image—their interlaced fingers, his thumb resting casually against her palm. It’s a small thing. Probably meaningless. But my brain won’t stop analyzing it.
I pivot to find a woman standing behind me in line. Without thinking, I flash my phone screen at her. “Sorry, weird question—in your opinion, does this look like genuine affection or just a publicity stunt?”
She leans closer than necessary, perfume cloud invading my space as her gaze flicks between my face and the photo. “Charlie and Grayson?” Her lips curve into a knowing smile. “Oh, they’re the real deal. Total relationship goals.”
My expression sours instantly. “Right. Thanks for the input,” I mutter, turning away before her lingering look can develop into something I have zero bandwidth to handle.
I pocket my phone.
All this time, my jealousy was just a low simmer, something I could easily rationalize away.
Now, standing in the security line with my father’s betrayal fresh in my mind and Charlie’s voicemail greeting still ringing in my ears, the simmer is starting to boil.
I make it through the checkpoint and head for my gate, trying her number again.
Ringing. Ringing. Voicemail.
“Charlie, it’s me again. I’m about to board. I’ll be landing in a couple hours. I really need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Still nothing.
I check Instagram. Nothing new from Charlie. But Grayson’s account—
My thumb floats, indecisive, above his profile picture. I shouldn’t do it. I know I shouldn’t. This is digital masochism, the finger-pick at a scab I can’t leave alone, the old itch demanding fresh pain.
I tap it anyway.
His latest story is a boomerang of the Atlanta skyline, posted twenty minutes ago. The caption reads: In ATL with my girl. City of love or whatever.
My girl? Who the fuck does he think he is? He’s sitting next to my girl.
The next slide is a photo of two coffee cups on a hotel room table. His hand is visible at the edge of the frame, reaching for one of them. The implication is clear. Intimate morning. Shared space.
I know.
I know it’s fake. Charlie laid it all out, swore on her life it’s just business. She chose me. Wants me. Called me “babe” and confessed she’s falling so hard it terrifies her. Her fingers dug into my skin when I was the one making her come. I can still feel the marks.
I know all of that.
But Grayson is there and I’m not. Grayson is posting possessive captions while I’m stuck in an airport. Grayson gets to have breakfast with her, be photographed with her, call her his girl to millions of followers while I leave voicemails that go unanswered.
I sprint to my gate as the announcement crackle over the speakers. First class, now boarding.
I snag my sad little carry-on, full of dirty laundry.
I don’t even know where I’m headed. If she doesn’t reach out before we land, I’ll tear through every Hatcher-owned property in Atlanta until I find her.
That’s where she retreats when the world gets too close—wrapped in her father’s empire like bulletproof glass.
He’s the only other man I’ll allow near her now.
The only other shield I can tolerate between her and the chaos my father just unleashed.
Charlie needs to know what my father did. She needs to prepare for the statement, the scrutiny, the inevitable headlines. But more than that—she needs to know that I’m here. That I choose her. That I’ll fight for her in ways Grayson never would because he doesn’t actually love her.
I could. Maybe I already do.
Only love could free me from the trap I’ve been in, right?
The realization settles over me like a truth that’s been waiting to be acknowledged. This is the big one. The second chance I always secretly hoped for. My own happily-ever-after, living outside the pages. That’s what I want, at least.
And I’m going to tell her. Tonight. In person. No more waiting.
I board the plane, settle into my first-class seat, and watch New York shrink beneath me as we climb into the clouds.
Atlanta is two hours away.
Charlie is two hours away.
And Grayson better enjoy his stupid artisan hot coffee while he can. Because once I get there, he’ll be wearing it.