The next morning, I stepped outside the air-conditioned lobby of the Omni Hotel clutching the thumb drive full of evidence. Harper stumbled out a moment later, glaring at me when the valet coasted to a stop in my Mercedes.

“No limo?”

I waited until we were in the car to ask, “Have you looked at your contract, Harper?”

She rolled her eyes. “My attorney went over it with a fine-toothed comb. What do you think took me so long?”

I knew every worthwhile attorney in Austin, and her guy? Yeah, no. He was an ambulance chaser who would take anyone’s case. But then, in my plans for Armageddon, I’d contacted, and retained, every attorney that could damage me or Twin Souls.

“Well, then,” I said, as I pulled away from the hotel, heading south towards the airport. “You do understand what constitutes a ‘hit’ album, legally speaking?”

Harper was looking out the side window, but in the reflection, I saw her brow crease in response to my question. “I know what a hit album is,” she huffed.

“Do you know how many hit albums it takes to afford twenty-four-hour limos at your disposal and first-class tickets, and let’s say—a little house in LA?”

Harper’s face fell by increments. By the time we hit the freeway, her bottom lip was in her lap.

“If you wanted money, Harper, asking for a hit album wasn’t the way to go.”

Panicked, she whipped her head around. “You mean I won’t make any money?”

Sad truth? Promoting Harper would be easy. I wouldn’t have sent her to Metro if I didn’t think she had it—that special thing. I might not have it, but I recognized it in others.

With my help, Harper’s album would be a success, and she would make money. Unfortunately, the girl was stupid and greedy, and she’d blow it all on Chanel purses and shoes from Louboutin’s latest collection. And without another album to back it up, she’d burn out. All I had to do was sit back and wait for the inevitable fizzle.

After waiting the appropriate amount of time to watch Harper squirm, which in this case was the ten minutes it took us to get to Austin Bergstrom Airport, I said, “You’ll make money.” And something about the recollection of her trailer park roots and hand-me-down clothes softened the rough edges for two seconds. Long enough for me to add, “Get a financial advisor.”

And then the bitch rolled her eyes again, and I was done.

Because we were short on time, I dropped Harper off with her suitcase and went to find a parking space. Honestly, I couldn’t stomach being around her any more than I had to. I’d even booked our tickets on opposite sides of the first-class cabin.

After my car was secured, I pulled out my phone and, rolling my head from side to side, I tapped out a text to Tori. Not feeling well. I’ll be in tomorrow.

I winced as I hit send. I’d be back tomorrow, so a follow up text would be needed. And I never lied to Tori. My last lie was such a whopper, it haunted me to this day.

Wake up, Belle. We’re waiting for you. Rhenn’s waiting for you.

I had whispered that deception every day she was in her coma. Selfish. I didn’t want to lose her. Couldn’t bear it.

Shaking off the memory, I pulled up Chase’s contact information, smiling at his last text.

Miss your face, friend. Call me.

Blowing out a breath, I swiped my finger over his name.

“Where are you?” he rumbled in that sexy morning voice of his. “And why did you leave so early?”

“Good morning to you too,” I said as I unfolded myself from the seat. “I had an unexpected business trip.”

Hauling my rollaway out of the backseat, I headed for the bank of elevators.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow night.” I winced at the background noise, his and mine. “Where are you?”

“I’m on a job site. What time tomorrow? Nine?”

“Oh …” I glanced at my ticket as I walked into the terminal. “About that. Eight fifty-five, actually.”

I smiled at the attendant in the first-class line who promptly took my ticket and ID, proffering a boarding pass a moment later.

“Will you call me when you get back?” Chase asked.

I walked to the front of the security line and then turned over my ticket. “Of course.”

“Have a safe trip, Sweet Taryn.”

Grinning like an idiot, I threw my rollaway onto the conveyor belt and then tossed my phone into the bin with my laptop.

When I retrieved the device, I was surprised to find a text from Tori.

Do you need me to come over? I can bring soup.

Guilt swamped me as I tapped out my response.

No, I don’t want you to catch anything. My fingers hovered over the keys, and with my anger gone, I added: I love you.

On the plane in my plush leather seat, I sipped my orange juice, staring out the window at the Austin skyline.

The flight attendant paused and said to me in a whisper, “You’ll need to set your phone to airplane mode. We’re about to push back from the gate.”

“Oh … yeah. Sorry.”

When I picked up my phone, the four words on the screen from Tori made the trip almost bearable. Almost.

I love you too.