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“That new CEO has a reputation for killing deals. What existed before he takes over never survives. If you don’t want his deal to die, leverage him, or take it elsewhere.”
“Leverage him with what?”
“There’s a cloak-and-dagger situation related to why he left his last studio. I’m digging. What I do know is that there was one exception to his kill program for existing projects. He hates to lose a bid and he held onto one script to keep it from going to another studio.”
“Did he make the project?”
“Yes. It wasStarlight.”
One of last year’s biggest films. “At least he knows how to go big. Get me that cloak and dagger data.”
“More soon,” he says, and he disconnects.
I return my attention to the folder and like all bad things, I don’t wait and see. I rip the Band-Aid off. I open the folder and stare at the envelope sitting on top of a document, that reads “Tyler” in my father’s print.
Tyler–
Here is how this plays out.
You inherit my stock and become controlling partner, but there’s a catch. If you do not meet the guidelines of my will, the stock will revert evenly to all partners, excluding you. To secure your stock, and solidify it as yours and yours alone, you must marry within a year of this letter. On the eve of your wedding, my legal team will officially transfer your inheritance in full.
Additionally, you must put on a show and carry on an extended engagement in the public eye. At least six months to look respectable. You better make it look good, boy. My logic is sound. At this point, Hawk Legal needs stability and a family man as a leader. It will not survive my departure without a moral leader, which I have not been. No need for details. You know enough. You’ll discover the rest. Make this work. Or don’t. I’m dead. You are the one who has to live with my consequences now, not me. I told you to marry long ago, to establish a certain reputation, and you ignored me. Now you will not.
Goodbye, Tyler.
Oh, one more thing...
If you fail, you get one million, not five hundred million. The rest goes to a charity of your choice, but of course, without any connection to you at all.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tyler
I’m reeling with my father’s words.
I grab the form I’d filled out where it still rests on the table. Withers has not filled in the transfer amount.
The door opens and I pop to my feet, expecting Withers, but instead, it’s his secretary, Tabitha, a middle-aged brunette with a no-nonsense attitude. “Mr. Withers had an emergency and he realized he forgot to give you a document. He believes it’s quite important.” She hands it to me and hurries away. In a blink, the door is shut again.
I open the document and curse. Inside, I find the detailed account of a case I was dragged into years ago as co-council to my father. He broke laws to protect a client and cover up crimes. I was told they would kill us if we crossed them. My father also assured me that if I opened my mouth, I’d be disinherited. Now, it’s come back to haunt me. There is a sticky note—a damn sticky note—attached to the documents, with another note written in my father’s script. “Son, don’t be stupid. The minute you take my will to court, this goes public. I don’t give two bleeps what it does to Hawk Legal. I’m dead.”
And I’m buried, I think.
He was ruthless.
He’s ensured I have two options.
I either marry or walk away from my birthright.
My cellphone rings again and I glance at the caller ID. It’s Bella. I answer the line. “Yes, Bella?”
“The studio head wants to see me tomorrow afternoon. I hate to put you in this position, but I think I need my bad cop along for the ride.”
Bella wants me to travel to LA with her, which in my present state of mind is not a safe proposition for her but right now, I don’t give two shits. “I’ll pick you up at your place at three. We’ll fly out tonight.”
“Okay,” she says. “I, uh—Tyler, we—”
“Have business to attend, Bella. I’ll pick you up at five.” I disconnect and sit there a moment, processing what just happened. And I think of Bella. I think about Bella way too much for the good of either of us. I glance down at the folder and open it again, giving the document another read-through and finding no escape clause. “That bastard,” I bite out, accepting the inevitable,
