Page 108 of Wistful Whispers
“If he doesn’t give a shit?” I clench my fist helplessly.
“You walk out with your head high.” Connor glances at Ronni and back to me. “Then we move to Plan B.”
“Connor and I can work on this in the background until you have the conversation.” Ronni leans in. “We’ll find the right crisis PR, work on controlled messaging and, if necessary, devise some strategic outreach strategy for the women he’s trying to manipulate. It’s important you get a list of all the women together, sweetheart.”
Shame envelopes me at the thought if this task. My chest feels like it’s in a vise although, for the first time since I learned about Caldwell’s plan, there’s also a flicker of resolve. A blueprint forming.
I glance at Marcella. Her eyes hold mine, steady and sure.
Maybe this is what it means to grow the hell up. Face the fire. Apologize for your blind spots. Fight like hell for your future.
Marcella leans forward, her tone clipped, composed. “What about the women?”
Connor doesn’t flinch. “You’ll need a strategy for them too.”
I brace for what’s coming.
“Some may want apologies. Some may want distance. Some might want money.” Ronni doesn’t sugarcoat.
I blink. “To keep quiet?”
“To walk away,” she says simply. “That’s how this works, Seamus. The bigger your star, the more leverage people think they have. Especially if Caldwell is whispering into the right ears.”
There’s a long beat of silence.
Connor turns to me. “How many are we talking about?”
I hesitate. I’ve been avoiding this number, even in my own head. Now, with all eyes on me—Marcella’s especially—I force it out. “Forty, give or take. Realistically, I can’t remember all of their names.”
Ronni brows hit her hairline.
Marcella doesn’t speak. Not at first. She blinks once. Then again. Her lips quiver briefly—I catch it. Her eyes stay trained on the coffee table like she’s reading something only she can see.
I want to reassure her, say something. I don’t. I get it. If the roles were reversed—if she’d told me she’d blown forty different men in the stairwell to work on technique—I’d be rattled too.
“Okay. Well, could be expensive.” Connor exhales, slow and even.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “No shit.”
Marcella juts out her chin. “We’ll figure it out. One by one if we have to.”
I hear how hard she’s working to keep her voice steady. If it hadn’t already before, in this moment it really hits me—not the professional fallout. Not the possible lawsuits or PR blowback. The emotional cost. The way this lands on her. The way it shifts something between us, even if she won’t admit it to herself or say it out loud to me.
She’s still here. Still on my side. I can see how everything I did before her might make her reconsider our future. All I can do is try to be the man who’s worth staying for.
Ronni shifts on the couch, turning slightly toward Marcella. “You know this already, I’m going to say it anyway—Seamus can’t use you as his lawyer.”
“I know. It’s a conflict.” Marcella’s voice is steady. “Having me involved would weaken his stance, if Caldwell found out especially.”
Ronni meets her eyes. “Honestly? It’s for the best. You don’t want to know the details. Not all of them. He’s going to have to remember every interaction, every minute, every stairwell—under the protection of attorney-client privilege.”
Relief floods through me like a sudden gust of wind. I didn’t want distance from her—didn’t want to keep secrets or push her out. The truth is, no one would see her as objective and any move I made would be torn apart. She’d fight like hell for me and her fire would burn us both.
“I can put you in touch with my LA lawyers,” Ronni continues. “They’re experts in a crisis. They’re worth every penny and kept Connor and me afloat during the worst time of our lives. Having them in your corner is the smartest insurance policy you could get.”
It’s close to midnight. There’s a plan. A team. A direction.
When Marcella rises to grab our coats, Ronni gently touches her arm. “Hey—come to lunch with me this week. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Let me grab my calendar.”
