Page 102 of Between the Lines

I walk toward the car and look through the driver-side window while he answers the call. His voice is low, but I hear Eric’s name.

The seats are gray leather. They look comfortable, and there’s not a single scratch on the upholstery. Brand new. He’d bought me a brand new car to use in the upcoming weeks.

“…how can that be? Did Francis not— No. I’ll be there right away.”

Aiden gives me another look after he hangs up. “At least take it for a test drive,” he tells me, striding to his Jeep. “I’ll see you later.”

I watch him open the gate and back out of the driveway. And only when he’s gone do I open the door. It still has that new car smell. I slide into the seat and run my hands over the smooth leather of the steering wheel.

Maybe I should take it for a spin.

CHAPTER 37

AIDEN

Los Angeles gleams outside my windows, a vast expanse stretching into the far distance. Shining like it always does with an artificial kind of prettiness. A poor replica of the night sky only visible far away from light pollution.

I take another sip of my scotch. It’s far too good to be wasted on a night like this. But it’s a dulling agent against the anger burning inside me.

News stories have been making the rounds since this afternoon. And all of them were like a fucking dagger between the ribs.Accusations brought against new Titan Media CEO for tax fraud.

This is the exact headline I’ve wanted to avoid. Successfully evaded the past two years and was able to find my footing in the business world instead.

I eradicated my father’s misdeeds from the public’s memory one inch at a time. Replacing his dealings withit was unfortunate indeedandwe have no contactuntil all they saw was me steering Titan Media on the right course. I worked to prove myself, day in and day out, and to restore some semblance of honor to the Hartman name.

Fraud is the last fucking thing I ever wanted to be connected to.

I’ve been in crisis mode from the moment Eric told me yesterday. On the phone with lawyers, with my concerned sister, with my executive team. The Board called an emergency meeting.

The negotiations with Caleb and Nora Stone have ground to a halt. We had come so far—me trying to convince them to accept the deal that would make us all legends in this industry, and launch their fun, garage-born small idea into a global success. I had the Board convinced.

We were so close.

And then some fucking bozo in accounting had missed a zero, opened us up to an investigation, and the news outlets have found a delicious story to run with.

This day has been long enough already. The fight with Charlotte this afternoon had taken the last of my patience, and then Eric called to tell me that the story had hit the mainstream.

I’ve been putting out fires ever since. It’s late, too late, and I’m trying to douse the last one with another glass of scotch.

There are traces of Charlotte everywhere. Her shoes are in the hallway, put neatly to the side. Her sweater is thrown over the back of the couch I’m sitting on. I reach out and run my hand over the soft fabric, and it feels like a silky caress on my skin. Like her hair.

Where she is, I don’t know.

Probably asleep upstairs.

The car in the driveway had been moved, though. I noticed it when I came home. It’s now parked next to her disastrous red Honda. So I know she took the Audi out for a drive.

I take another long sip of the scotch.

The timing couldn’t be worse. For the deal. For the memoir. This press release could derail everything I’ve been working on for years.

Fury rolls through me. At the people across this city in their little specks of white light, filling up the night sky with so much brightness that we’ve drowned out all the stars. At my accounting team for creating and not catching this fuckup. At my lawyers and PR people for not getting a handle on the story earlier and killing it before it gained traction. At my father for opening us up to this kind of scrutiny in the first place. At his petty greed, his ego, his wants. His way of handling the trial that made it into a news story of its own.

And at myself, for not being better.

I knock back the last of my drink and brace my head in my hands. Fire races through me. It burns and soothes at the same time. I want to run a lap through the house, but also yearn to lie down on the couch and fall asleep. For a few moments, I consider going to the gym and hitting the sandbag hanging there.

I want, and I want, and I want. And I can’t make myself move.

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