"Photographers might take pictures."
"Let them."
He was quiet for two seconds. Then he walked over, took the rainbow hoodie from my hands, and checked the label. "This brand's quality is mediocre. I'll have someone custom-make a few, better fabric."
I smiled. "Richard, right now you're just supposed to say it looks good."
He looked at me. Something moved in those gray-blue eyes. Then he nodded, completely serious. "It looks good."
I spun in front of him again, satisfied. "Then I'm wearing this out."
"Okay." Richard bent down and kissed the corner of my mouth.
God. He kissed the corner of my mouth. It was almost innocent. I couldn't help but kiss him back, deepening it. Richard's suit pants pressed against me. I could feel his body responding, ready, but—
"Sweetheart, time won't wait. I've got to go."
Richard's breathing got heavier. "Can't you skip it?"
Never thought I'd hear those words from this workaholic. I kissed him again. "Of course not, Richard. Work comes first. You should know that."
As I walked out, I glanced back. He was still standing there watching me, hands in his pockets, shoulder against thedoorframe. Sunlight streamed through the window, outlining him in gold.
In that moment, I thought: God, I'm a lucky woman. Even if it took a ridiculously long time to figure that out.
The comeback went smootherthan I'd expected.
Richard didn't directly interfere with my music work—he'd promised me that much: creative freedom, no meddling, no silent bankroller—but his personality wouldn't let him just sit on the sidelines either. On the shareholder list of my new label, there was an anonymous investor holding stock through three layers of offshore companies. I knew it was him. He knew I knew. But we never mentioned it.
This felt weirdly novel for Richard and me. Novel enough that I couldn't help kissing him. Which I did.
The new songs were coming along steadily. Emma flew in from Vegas every week to join me in the studio, more excited than I was. "Baby, this track is going to blow up."
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time!" She yelled through the glass. "Natalie, you're a genius. I'm not flattering you, I'm stating facts."
I smiled, hand on my belly. The little one was kicking—probably annoyed by the drum track in my headphones. I turned down the volume, switched to something slower.
Days passed like that. Recording, eating, walking, arguing with Richard—okay, not arguing. "Constructive exchanges of opinion." Like when he thought I should rest more, I thought he should butt out less. Like when he thought security shouldfollow me to the bathroom door, I thought he should see a therapist.
"Richard, I don't need someone standing guard while I pee."
"That's in public. The studio bathroom is at the end of the hall, right next to the fire exit—"
"So what? Someone's going to burst through the fire door and kidnap me? Please, it's broad daylight. What kidnapper would be dumb enough to grab me now?"
But I had to admit, after that conversation, I started feeling uneasy.
I began noticing things.
Tucked in the corners of financial news: reports of Carter family setbacks—"Carter Media terminates European partnership," "Olivia Carter exits charity foundation board," "Bay Area development project led by Carter Group indefinitely postponed."
Made sense, really. After Richard fired Olivia publicly, people looking to curry favor with him would naturally go after the Carters.
Once, there was a photo of Olivia. She looked different—haggard, hair loose, nothing like the polished corporate exec. But her eyes... I couldn't place it, but something about them made me uneasy.
The next morning, my phone buzzed me awake. Emma's number. 8:15 a.m. She never called this early.
