Page 18

Eighteen

Willow

For once, my dreams aren’t filled with nightmares.

There’s no Dylan hiding in the shadows, bursting out to terrorize me.

No scary memories of pain exploding in my middle, bruises and contusions carefully hidden by my clothes, my movements, no fists darting out to catch me unaware.

It’s just peaceful oblivion.

And when I wake, it’s gentle.

Because it’s to the soft rumble of a male voice I know in my soul is safe, the same soft rumble that drew me out of the fog that had clung to my mind and kept me in the hospital, carefully ensconced away from Dylan.

My eyes peel back, and the fact that not for one second do I wonder where I am hits deep.

But in the best way.

I’m in Hudson’s arms.

I’m safe.

And I’m listening to him talk, very quietly.

“...yeah, Atlas,” he murmurs. “I’ll let her know as soon as she wakes up. Thanks for the call.”

My head bounces slightly as he shifts, setting the phone on the nightstand, and though I’m tempted to keep lying here in his warm embrace, the strong breadth of his chest beneath my cheek, the thrum of his heartbeat in my ear, his sigh is too troubled for me to ignore.

I lift up slightly. “What’s the matter?”

He touches my cheek. “Promise me you won’t be pissed at Atlas.”

“I—” My eyebrows furrow, but before I can ask him what the hell that means, he shifts us, gathering me close as he reclines back against the headboard.

“Promise me that much, princess?”

My heart thuds hard against my rib cage. “Is he trying to hurt me?”

His eyes go wide. “God, no. Baby, he wouldn’t do that. He got worried after what you shared last night and he did some investigating.”

“Okaaay,” I say carefully.

“Unfortunately…”

My heart thuds again.

“…that digging didn’t take much effort—mostly because Dylan released a statement on social media today.”

I suck in a breath, close my eyes, not releasing it until I know my voice will be steady. “What did it say?”

He gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I think it’s better if you just read it for yourself.” One hand settles on my hip, keeping me pressed to him as he reaches for his nightstand, snags his phone.

My heart…God, it’s pounding so hard now that I can barely breathe, barely think, barely keep my body in this bed.

I want to run.

To allow that fog to slip over me and pretend my life isn’t my life. To hide and cower and live a shell of an existence.

The urge is so strong that I actually feel my muscles tense.

But I’m not the woman who was with Dylan, the broken shell of myself.

I’m more.

I’m a woman who took a chance to make a better life for myself. I’m a woman who’s learning to trust again even after the world has showed me its ugly underbelly. I’m Willow Fucking St. Claire, and that means something.

Maybe not much to the rest of the world who only sees me as Dylan’s fiancée or the washed-up actress or the troubled child star.

But I know it.

Finally, I know it.

So, when he taps on the screen a few times and hands me the phone, I don’t cower away from whatever curveball I’ll be facing next.

I take the cell and force myself to remain calm as I read Dylan’s post on Instagram.

We all have various struggles and challenges in our lives, and Willow is no exception. We’ve all seen her battle the demons inside her and come out victorious. Unfortunately, the war to sobriety isn’t always straight.

It’s an uphill battle with many valleys and sheer cliffsides and mud-filled puddles. There are mountain lions and rattlesnakes and black widows, all poised in the shadows, waiting to take a bite out of a bright, beautiful woman who I love with all my heart.

And recently, one of those predators has finally pierced flesh.

A few weeks ago, Willow relapsed and made the brave decision to enter a rehabilitation facility in order to get back on track. Production of our next film together has been pushed back to allow her this time?—

I gasp.

“I know, baby.”

My eyes burn and I shake my head. “I know it’s the least of my problems,” I whisper, blinking rapidly. “But I was so excited to stretch myself with A Whisper in Time. Now, I’ll be lucky to not be dropped from the film altogether.”

“Princess,” he murmurs, lightly stroking a hand along my side. “I’m so sorry.”

I nod.

“We’ll figure it out.”

I’m not sure we will.

But I know that I haven’t come this far not to at least fight for it—and if I still lose…

Well, I know I’ll survive that too.

My eyes go back to the screen and I keep reading.

—and we look forward to welcoming her back when she feels well enough to work again.

In the meantime, I’ll continue doing what I’ve always done for the woman I love: taking care of her, watching out for her, and holding down the fort until she can return to our house and make it a home again.

Please be kind, and know that addiction is a serious illness and the trauma that clings to our young actors is a difficult mantle to shed. Let’s all show Willow how much we love her and shower her with love and support and compassion instead of derision and hate.

-D

“He’s a fucking bullshit artist,” Hudson growls.

“He’s always been a great writer—probably why he’s so popular.” I sigh. “Too bad it’s mostly a web of lies.”

“Atlas is on the case,” he says. “I have complete faith that he’ll find a way to turn the right screws and get you back on the project. Plus, he’s called Madeline Aronson and they’re going to work together on this.”

“The attorney?” I ask, mouth dropping open.

Madeline is famous in the business, no nonsense and smart.

He nods. “I phoned her a few weeks back to start looking into this, but her and Atlas working on this together means that things will move faster.”

“And…she’ll help me?”

Another nod. “If there’s anything Madeline hates, it’s when someone is being taken advantage of.”

My eyes sting. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you all for this.”

“And I don’t know how to convince you that none of us would be doing this if we didn’t want to.”

“It’s too much.”

“It’s not.”

I open my mouth to keep arguing, but he presses a finger to my lips, says gently, “So, Madeline and Atlas are on the case dealing with the conservatorship, and Royal got Kate Martensson involved?—”

My eyes go wide.

Kate is like the best of the best when it comes to tricky publicity management.

And she has the waiting list to prove it.

“So, Kate is now on the case with that bullshit statement. And don’t say he or Kate don’t have to do that,” Hudson adds in a hurry. “They want to help, and Royal’s not going to stop until Dylan’s curled up in the corner sobbing.”

I smile at that image.

“Better,” Hudson says, tracing the curve of my lips. “Now, I know you don’t have access to your accounts right now, but Atlas said the conservatorship is supposed to deposit five thousand dollars a month into your account for incidentals?—”

I set the phone on the mattress and shake my head. “ What?”

He stills. “Can I take that to mean you didn’t know about the deposits?”

“Dylan has never deposited money into an account I can access. I had a credit card that sent him an alert to approve every purchase, big and small, and sometimes he would give me cash. But I haven’t had free access to any of my money—no matter the amount—not since my mom signed over the rights to him. ”

Hudson’s big chest inflates then relaxes. “Okay, princess,” he says. “That’s not good exactly, but it sure as shit gives Atlas some ammunition.”

Finally some good news.

“And hopefully we can use it to gain access to some of your money so you don’t have to feel like you’re relying on me and can finally have your freedom.”

I freeze.

Then my eyes start burning again.

Because…

This man is good. This man gets it.

This man won’t shove me into a tiny box and put me up on a shelf.

“You’re like my dad,” I whisper.

His hand on my side tightens slightly. “Your dad, princess?”

“I-I—” My exhale is shaky. “I didn’t know him because he died on 9/11 just a few months after I was born.”

Hudson jerks. “Shit, baby.”

“But you remind me of the man I created in my head growing up—the hero, the person who would climb a hundred flights of stairs to save people, who would put himself on the line because he valued the greater good over his personal safety. And he was kind and caring and he loved me.” I close my eyes and a tear escapes.

“Or at least, that’s what the surviving man from his crew, Jim, told me. ”

Hudson wraps his arms tightly around me.

“The rest,” I say, “I created, held in my head and heart, desperate to have someone who loved me for me.”

“ Princess ,” Hudson rasps. “Christ, baby.”

“Jim gave me that,” I say. “And he tried to stay connected to me, tried to be that dad while I was growing up. But when I was seven, he was diagnosed with cancer and it wasn’t much later that he was gone.

My mom…well, she took his loss hard, and I had far too much freedom for a young kid.

It was pure dumb luck that I was spotted by a talent agent and not someone who truly wanted to harm me.

Luckily, the agent was legit. Modeling came first. Then acting. Then…Hollywood.”

He settles his forehead against mine. “Damn lucky, princess.”

I nod. “I know.” Then I sigh and straighten.

“I can deal with Dylan taking the house and almost everything inside. I can deal with starting over and an empty bank account. But—” My throat is tight and I just barely manage to push the words out.

“I just…before Jim died, he gave me a box with a memory book he made and some of my dad’s belongings.

” Tears cling to my lashes and my words are watery as I remember Jim’s handwritten stories, the medal issued to my dad, pictures, a trophy.

The set of keys, a bottle of cologne, a sweatshirt that smells like my dad.

Small things. Invaluable things. And most invaluable of all?

The only picture I have of my dad and me.

I dash away my tears, hold Hudson’s gentle gaze.

“I can’t let that box go. It’s all I have of him.”