But when I see who it is, Roland and sin-blue eyes vanish from my mind. I stare at my phone in disbelief. There’s no way. No way.
The number belongs to Easterly Ribbon.
16
Play It Again (Roland)
I despise starting my day with calls.
Mornings are for centering, honing my mind into an arrow pointing straight and true at the day’s goals. Phone calls send that arrow spinning, pulling me in sputtering directions until I’m stretched too damned thin.
The first thing I did this morning was call the head of HR, then conference in the compliance and benefits officer on her team. A twenty-minute conversation made everything clear—and privacy was imperative.
I’m stepping in to help Alvin Landry.
Not by splashing his name all over the headlines again, certainly. The paparazzi would light up with the story of the former front man of that band entering rehab. Then tracing the money back to me, and to Alvin Landry’s daughter...fuck.
It’d be a grim repeat of the past.
Callie caught in a lie just like her father, people more interested in scandal than truth—or in the people they’re hurting.
I won’t let that happen.
That’s why I lay out demanding instructions, including what to do if her company insurance doesn’t cover every last penny of his top-notch treatment. I’ll handle the excess through the same backdoors I handle my donations, leaving no one the wiser, save Wanda.
By the time the call ends, I’m almost to the nine a.m. mark where I usually lift my self-imposed embargo and stop shunting all calls to Wanda.
I can’t be too pissed when Frank breaks the unspoken yet widely known rule and bombs my phone. If my head legal counsel is calling me before noon, there’s trouble.
I have no idea how right I am.
Turns out, it’s good trouble for a change. The kind of trouble I want.
“Frank,” I say, lifting my phone to my ear and lounging back in my chair. “How many heart attacks have you had so far this morning?”
“Only one,” he grunts. “We’ve got a new case coming in, boss. Heavy-handed lawsuit and a SLAP order.”
I groan. “What now? Last week’s stories were tame, practically PG-13. Who’s overreacting now?”
“Well, it’s not a suit against The Tea,” Frank says slowly. “It’s against Just Vibing. While they’re technically covered under our legal umbrella—”
“The suit could still crush them,” I finish, rocking forward and pounding my elbows on the desk. My interest piques like I’ve just smelled fresh blood. “Who the hell would threaten Just Vibing?”
“An attorney representing Mr. Vance Haydn,” he says numbly.
Shit.
Fuckity fuck.
I stop short of making a single audible sound.
My body steels to the bone, tension arcing through me like a live current.
“Haydn the music exec?” I ask like I’m the dumbest man alive. I try to keep my tone casual. “What’s got his panties in a twist?”
“The Easterly Ribbon interview,” Frank answers with a sigh. “His attorney delivered a pretty damn heavy-handed evidentiary document. Mostly big threats of questionable consequences, but the actual passage in question is a brief two-line mention so innocuous I can’t believe it warrants all of this, except...” Frank trails off like he’s gathering his words delicately.
“Except?” I demand.
“Except he’s claiming defamation. Apparently, there are anonymous accounts popping up on Twitter promising tell-alls that expose some deep dark secret, rather than the lines Easterly parroted. He even sent printed screencaps of tweets.” My fist tightens. It’s amusing to hear someone as old as Frank so disgusted with such a stone-age move. “The suit argues Just Vibing printing anything about his relationship with Easterly is prompting ‘malicious actors’ to engage in slander and libel that affects his professional reputation. He believes we’re responsible for inciting it, boss. Go figure.”
I can’t help the slow, carnivorous grin that spreads across my face.
If Haydn’s jumping to this panicked defense over Twitter rumors, it means one thing.
He’s feeling the heat.
And like any chestnut over a fire, there’s only one way this goes.
Sooner or later, he’ll crack wide open.
I can almost smell his fear.
That’s the thing with the era we live in now. No matter the cause, the rights and wrongs, the truth and the lies—eventually the terrible truth or some version of it falls out.
Those skeletons in the closet don’t stay put in the digital age.
Eventually some victims feel brave enough to come forward, and once they speak, they damned well won’t be silenced.
There’s a reckoning on the way for Vance fucking Haydn.
I have zero qualms about expediting it with a jet engine strapped to its back.
“Get in touch with these anonymous accounts, anything you can source,” I say quickly. “Advise them to seek their own independent legal representation and have that legal rep get in touch with us.”
Frank sounds puzzled, falling silent for long enough to be awkward.
“Mr. Osprey? What are you planning?”
“We need to protect those girls for breaching their NDAs,” I answer quickly. “If there’s a loophole, we’ll find it.”