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He melts into the sofa, his shoulders slumping as he presses against his temples. “No surprises. It was exactly what we agreed upon.”
“Look at me.” One little command and his eyes snap to mine obediently. “How are you?”
He shrugs, looking confused, as if my question is unwarranted. “Fine.”
“Dex.” I hold his stare. “You don’t need to placate me. I want your honesty.”
He closes his eyes. “I just paid a woman six million dollars tonotlie and publicly say I tried to drug and sexually assault her during a dinner date. How do you think I feel?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Grandma, after the investigation, they found out she had the waitress spike her champagne…and she actually drank it.”
I’m aware of the theatrics women are capable of to get my grandson’s attention, but none of us anticipated this. “You have no fault or blame in this.”
“I know that, but she roofied herself to try and frame me.Who goes that far?She could’ve seriously hurt herself, all for a payout. Briar was certain that my reputation is so fragile I would just give in to her demands... And I hate that she was right.”
The latest scandal Dex was roped into was cruelty at its most extreme. The woman, Briar, didn’t have a court case, not by far. Mainly because Dex was innocent. But also because there was no evidence outside of her baseless accusations. Jail wasn’t what he was afraid of. It was the social media shitstorm. The scariest threat of this generation. You don’t have to be guilty of anything to be punished by the internet.
“Oh, Dex. I’m sorry.”
He exhales, and it comes out like a shudder. Pressing his lips together tightly, he recomposes himself. “Every time this stuff happens, I’m worried about what’s coming next. It just keeps getting worse and worse. There’s never a day I’m not looking over my shoulder. I’m going to need these women to sign a fucking contract of consent before I feel safe taking my pants off.” He checks my expression and hangs his head. “Sorry. You didn’t need to know all that.”
I tilt my head and give him a smart-ass smile. “Goodness gracious. You’re telling me you’re not a virgin? Shocking.”
“Hilarious,” he mutters.
I set my drink down and reach for him across the coffee table. He holds my hands firmly in his, studying my wrinkles, blatant evidence of my age. The reminder wears on me; it means time is running out. Soon, he’ll be alone, without me. Without a soul to trust. And I’m running out of time to keep him from making the same mistakes that I did.
I flinch when he turns my hand, the wrong angle making the pain in my wrist flare up. “Ow.” I wince.
“Oh shit, Grandma.” He loosens his grip. “I’m sorry.”
I let out a warm hum as he tenderly squeezes my hand. “Pay it no mind.”
“Sensitive today?” he asks. “Do you want me to grab your pain medication?”
I shake my head. “I was writing. I need to feel the pain so I know when I’ve pushed it too far.”
He sets my hands back on the table so gingerly, the way you’d lower a wounded baby bird back into its nest. “Writing who?”
“An old friend.”
Staring at my grandson, it’s like Jacob’s here. Cloudy, hazel eyes. Deep dimples carved against slim cheeks and a strong, square jaw. Thick, dark hair. A shocking likeness. It’s good I only have one grandchild. It wouldn’t have been fair. Dex would’ve outshone the rest. He was always destined to be my favorite.
He quirks a brow. “You guys can’t call each other, instead? For the sake of your wrist?”
I look away from his face, tearing myself from the beautiful, haunting reminder of my broken heart. I was hurt when I lost my husband, Harrison. I did love him in a way. When my daughter died, she took half my heart. But when Jacob passed, my only true love, he took the rest. I’m not sure what’s still feebly beating in my chest, keeping me alive each day. All I know is if I were to lose Dex, the world would go dark. I would have no more business here. My body isn’t fighting to keep revenue up andgainshares high. I’m not here to earn more money and secure the Hessler legacy.
I’m only here for this boy in front of me. Right now, he’s hurting, and it’s my job to fix it.
“Writing letters is a lost art, honey.”
“What’s that thing you always told me? Anything worthwhile, you should say it to their face. Right? Letters are for lost apologies.”
Don’t I know.It’s why I write so many.
Ignoring my grandson using my own wisdom against me, I inform him, “I got you an early birthday present.”
“We don’t do presents,” he says, scrunching his face. “Just dinner at Rooster’s like usual. I already made the reservation. What’s gotten into you?”
I raise my brow, daring him. “I wanted to get you a birthday present, so I did. Or are you in the business of telling your grandmaand bosswhat she can and can’t do?”