Page 81 of Last Chorus

“I promise you, Wilder, we’ll fight this with everything we have. The second we get off the phone, I’m sounding the alarm. Cease and desist letters will be sent within the hour. It might stop them.”

We both know it won’t stop them all, or even most. Especially if the story was juicy enough to be grabbed by multiple outlets. That means whatever is coming was deemed as having enough merit to risk defamation suits. It means he’s already convinced people.

Shelley knows as well as I do that no matter what she does, no matter how good my lawyers are or how aggressive our defense is, I won’t escape unscathed. And that means Evangeline won’t, either.

I look across the room at where the Steinway used to sit, now occupied by cozy armchairs. My vision blurs. In the distortion, I see two kids huddled on the piano bench arguing about a song bridge.

The fire in my blood flares hotter.

“Call Anita Allman and make sure she knows what’s coming. Tell her what I told you last month.”

“Wilder—”

“No,” I interject firmly. “Her job is to protect her client, not me.”

She huffs in frustration. “Fine, but we both know it won’t be up to her. And from everything you’ve told me about Eva, she’s not going to let you take a fall to save her own face. Neither will Lily Aoki—you’re her kid’s godfather, for Christ’s sake.”

“I know,” I assure her. “All I need Anita to do is stall them from making any statements for a few days.”

In the following pause, I imagine her eyes narrowing to slits behind her glasses. “Is this about the hint you dropped last month? If you have ammunition up your sleeve, now’s the fucking time to share it!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s not my information to share. I’ll be asking someone else to put their neck on the line. I’ll talk to them today, but I need you to proceed like we don’t have a smoking gun.”

Shelley’s exhale crackles in my ear. “Fine. Sorry for snapping. Keep your head up, okay? A lot of people have your back. In fact, I think you’re going to realize just how loved you are.”

My throat thick, I say, “Thanks, Shelley. I’ll get back to you soon.”

As I end the call, movement snaps my head toward the hallway. My dad’s eyes lift from the phone to my face. He frowns in concern.

“I only heard the end. Is it happening?”

I nod. The tiny movement is an earthquake, cracking my control. My next breath is a strangled gasp. He rushes forward right as my legs give out, catching me and lowering me to my knees. He guides my head down, a warm hand on my back.

“Breathe, Wild.”

He counts for me, breathes with me, until the worst of the dizziness passes. I lift my head, still shaky and slightly nauseous.

“It’s over for me, Dad.”

“You don’t know that,” he says gruffly.

“What I know is to not underestimate Clay Eaton.” I shake my head with a resigned sigh. “As fucked up as it sounds, I don’t even care about losing my career. Not for my sake, at least. And as hard as it will be for all of us, the guys will recover. They’ll move on. All I reallycare about is how it will affect Evangeline. Whatever Clay is about to throw at me will follow me no matter what. I can’t protect her from it—from me. Once again, I’m going to fuck up her life.”

My dad’s eyes burn with intensity. “I had a similar mindset once. Martyrdom with a side of victimhood. You know what it got me? Almost dying in a car accident and losing your mother.”

I stare at him in shock; he smiles grimly. “Trust me,Wilder, women don’t want our protection—at least not the kind where we decide what they can and can’t handle. What they want is to be invited to fight our battles beside us.” He clasps my shoulder, placing his other hand over my heart. “Who you shouldn’t be underestimating isEvangeline. Stop treating her like she’s fragile when she’s always been your greatest source of strength.”

The words resonate, sending chills down my body. Whatever expression I’m wearing lifts my dad’s eyebrows.

“What? Did I say something profound?”

My laugh is closer to a wheeze. “Something like that.”

“Good. Oh, one more thing.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what I call his talisman: a vintage pocket watch that was a gift from his first sponsor before he died. He grabs my hand and puts it in my palm. “I want you to have this.”

I look down at the watch, my fingers tingling. I’ve never seen him without it, and holding it feels surreal. Like I’m staring at a vital piece of who he is.

“I can’t take this. No way.”

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