Chapter 37
Ben: Did you get proper sleep?
Ben: I take that as a no
Me: Decent amount. Why are you suddenly my sleep tracker?
Ben: Because starting tomorrow you won't be sleeping much
Me: Okay. Threat or promise?
Ben: Yes
Me: :P did you fix your bed?
Ben: Yeah. Paul and I revived it, it lives. So does the memory of you in it
Me: That's cheating. Real men wrestle with the ruins of their sexual demons alone
Ben: Real men conserve their energy for their girlfriends
Ben: Any word from your lawyer?
Me: Yes. Apparently Richard is in between financial advisors, and having a crisis, so he needs more time to respond. I tried calling him, tell him I don't want a cent, just want to sign and be done, but it's like he evaporated
Ben: I knew I should've snapped his wrist back when I had the chance, signed it for him, problem solved
Ben: What else have you been up to?
Me: Don't you know? You keep spying on me, I know it
Ben: Don't flatter yourself, baby. I check on you only when I miss you.
Ben: Which is every five minutes
Me: *heart-eyed-emoji* I actually found a great apartment. It has a small library because some contemporary author lived there before, and it's near Lu. Hope I get it
Ben: No
Me: What do you mean no?
Ben: I mean you're not signing a lease. I'll take care of extending the sublet upstairs
Me: It's fine, I need to start taking care of myself
Ben: Emma. Listen to me. Don't sign anything. If you do, I swear to God, I will get very, very angry
Me: Stop bossing me around
Ben: I'm not bossing. I'm telling you. Do not sign. I don't care if Hemingway lived there. Wait until I'm back
Me: You're intense, you know that?
Ben: No. I'm serious. Don't test me on this
Me: Sigh. Alright
Ever since I came back, I've been sprinting inside a machine that keeps dropping screws. The New York cinematic glow and starlight? Gone.
When I got back, I thought I'd move my things to the apartment upstairs, wait for Ben like I promised, but when I walked into my old house, there was no Richard—just the hollow outlines of where his suits used to hang, and the counter bearing a single, spiteful welcome-home gift: utility bills stacked neatly.
Richard always insisted finances were his kingdom. I'm good at it, you're not. So leave it to me. And I did.
Numbers make me itch, so I let him handle everything, including Carl's calls about royalties, and my own bank account.
I don't even know how much I've made from my two previous books, which leaves me now... a financial toddler.
After the public declaration of love, I thought Richard would want to write me off as a sunk cost as soon as possible, but my lawyer says he's delaying.
Why? I know him well enough to do the emotional math.
He's waiting for me to crash hard enough that I come crawling back, mouth pressed to his royal hand, begging, but that won't happen.
Instead of panicking, I grabbed Lu for ice cream. Because sometimes when your world is smoldering, you eat frozen sugar. Mint-chocolate for her, raspberry for me, just like the good old days.
We wandered the streets, and she told me her exhibition had gone so well, she'd sold most of her pieces, including The Anatomy of Eurydice, which was both amazing and disappointing since I wanted that piece for my new apartment.
She's with Sophia now, and Micah keeps haunting her canvas. She's as happy as I am and honestly, everything feels too perfect.
Now, I'm on a video call with Carl.
He fills the screen, ginger hair slicked immaculately, striped cashmere sweater pristine. He's cradling Bridgette in his arms—the two of them matching outfits.
Behind him is a green wallpaper of herons and the faint gleam of a home, where Tod is currently sinking into a plush sofa with a glass of wine. It's like watching a Gucci campaign.
"My darling." Carl smiles brightly. "Back from New York and practically radiating bestseller energy."
I smile back. "Hi, darling. How are you?"
"Forget me. The book? Incredible. Always knew you could do it again. Patrick wants you on tour." His fingers splay wide, painting the image. "A proper tour. Bookstores, theatres, champagne receptions, standing ovations."
Tod screams from the background: "Watch out, he's already planned your outfits for six cities."
"Not planned, Tod," Carl corrects him pointedly. Then turns back, Bridgette's head bobbing out of frame for a second. "It's just... suggestions."
I raise a brow, amused. "You know the word suggestion?"
Tod bursts out laughing from behind. "There you go. Thank you, Emma. This is what I have to deal with on a daily."
"Stop it, Tod." Carl shoots him an unimpressed look. "Weren't you supposed to be making a cake or something? This is a private, professional conversation. You're ruining my genius."
Tod throws his hand in the air, pretending he's not listening, but he's an even bigger drama lord than Carl, so I know he's eavesdropping.
"I don't know about the clothes, Carl. I like to handle my wardrobe myself now, which brings me to something else, more important." I clear my throat. "Richard won't be in charge of my royalties anymore, because we're breaking up."
Tod jumps up on the sofa just as Carl freezes mid-preen. Then Carl puts on his frameless glasses to see me better.
"No way. What happened?"
I tell him everything, all of it, even the cheating disaster—no longer trying to hide my flaws.
Carl leans closer to the laptop, for once actually listening—the way people binge a limited series in one night, incapable of looking away so they don't miss the next twist.
By the end, Tod drifts into the frame behind him, holding a bowl of cake batter in his hand, and both of them stare at me like I'm no longer Emma Lawson.
Which is true because that Richard's "version" has been discontinued, and now comes Emma 2.0, the unedited.
"Oh my god," Carl finally breathes, voice drenched in disbelief. Then he casually checks his nails. So casually, I know it's not. "Is your new relationship serious?"
"Yeah, it is—"
"Because Julian Vexley—yes, that Julian—" he jumps in, brows lifted, "—asked about you when he was here."
I frown, trying to recall that guy. "What? You mean the writer? Why would he ask about me?"
"You know..." Carl waves his hand, trying to sound casual. "He's my main client now. He asked how serious your marriage is. If you ever read his books. How long I've known you. Seems like the guy really likes you."
I blink. "The guy who writes six-hundred-page epics about psychopaths in love is into me? Eh, no. Not my type." I dismiss it with a flick of my hand.
Carl tips his head, blinking like he heard wrong. "Not your type? Julian's everyone's type."
I make a face but he's already skimming through a magazine that's been on his table, searching for a particular page before he flashes Julian's portrait in my face and says, "Here he is!"
Okay, I admit that Julian is handsome, like.
.. very handsome. Has those piercing grey eyes, brown hair and that groomed look that's probably always brooding.
White button shirt over his broad chest, intellectual for sure, and you can tell there's something magnetically twisted about him.
So I guess, even if he was a psycho, which he probably is, women would still fall for him.
"Think of the press—Emma Foster and Julian Vexley, the tortured heartthrob and the romance darling dating..." Carl says dreamily and flashes a grin. "It's publicity gold—you two should get photographed at my New Year's Eve party. He'll be here; he even asked if you're coming."
"No, Carl," I jump in, shaking my head determinedly. "I'm very, very serious about Ben. Plus, we're going to be in New York for Christmas."
Carl exhales through his nose, but doesn't push anymore.
Instead, he asks Tod for a glass of wine, takes a sip, and his voice comes out lower: "Can I tell you something?"
I pause at the sudden change because if Carl asks for permission, it's serious.
"Yeah, tell me."
"I always had a bad feeling about Richard. He's not the guy he polishes himself to be."
That throws me off, even though I already know. I push myself closer to the screen. "Why would you say that?"
"Remember your last book? When you asked me why I was a little off? Well, it was because we discussed your royalties, going back and forth. Richard got angry and said I wasn't doing enough. He even rang the publisher behind my back, said you two didn't need their pennies."
"He what?!" I shout, eyes blazing.
Carl nods, once, his entire face pulling back in irritation. "He lectured about percentages and how they have to stop screwing you, or the deal is over. Patrick called me furious. I had to deal with all that mess." He shakes his head. "I didn't get it. The deal was fair. It felt like... sabotage."
"Why didn't you tell me that earlier?"
Carl's lips purse, weighing whether he should tell me, but I push him with a look.
"When I spoke to him, he insisted you were too fragile to handle these things. Too fragile to handle... anything, really. He said you had mental issues and I didn't want to disturb you if you were going through something."
Fragile. The word lands heavily. Fragile like a myth, people decide is true because it suits them.
I feel sick to my stomach.
"So this is why you avoided him. You should have told me. And I guess I should have asked you a long time ago." I rub the bridge of my nose and suck in air. "But it's done. I'm not fragile anymore. I'll handle my things and you don't have to worry about me."
Carl smiles then—not the dazzle he uses for publishers but almost paternal.
"Good. Try to make it to the party," he says, like I didn't already say no. "Bring your boyfriend, of course. We'd love to meet him. It'll be grandiose."
"I'll think about it," I say even though I won't, and mentally I'm already gone.
My mind runs ahead, sprinting toward the kind of independence you can only buy by tearing your life into pieces.