Episode 16
Autumn
The Resno’s restaurant faces Puget Sound, giving every guest a picture-perfect view of the Pacific’s coastal waters. Its panoramic windows stretch from the ceiling to the floor, showing the backside of Seattle through thinly-plated glass.
“I think you’re at the wrong place, Miss.” The woman at the hostess stand smiles at me. “We have a strict dress code for club-level members. No offense.”
“I wasn’t told anything about that.” I look over my jeans and white blouse. “I’m here to meet a lawyer.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay…” She crosses her arms. “Well, what’s your name?”
“Autumn Jane.”
“Oh, I—” Her entire face pales. “My sincere apologies, Miss Jane. Right this way, please.”
Confused by her sudden change in demeanor, I follow her through an elegant dining room full of well-dressed patrons.
“Here is your table.” She stops in front of a white-clothed table in the back corner.
It’s set for one with a wine glass, a menu, and a stack of papers.
Avoiding my gaze, she pulls out a chair.
“If there’s anything you’d like to eat this evening, our top staff members are on standby waiting to serve you. Request whatever you want, even if it isn’t on our menu, and we’ll make sure you receive it.”
“I don’t want to make things difficult for anyone,” I say. “Do you have a Caesar salad?”
She rushes away without responding.
Less than a minute later, a server sets a fresh plate of bright green lettuce in front of me.
A second server appears, dressing it with a fresh layer of shredded cheese and pepper.
Before I can process what the hell is happening or why they’re treating me like I’m some type of royal, a man in a suit clears his throat on my left.
“You’ll need to sign off every fifth page of that stack, Miss Jane,” he says. “I’ve earmarked them with yellow post-it notes to make things easier. I’ll be downstairs in the lobby to take them the moment that you’re done.”
“Aren’t you supposed to walk me through the terms to make sure I’m receiving a fair deal?”
“With all due respect, Miss Jane,” he says, setting a pen next to the stack, “God himself couldn’t craft a better deal than this one. You just need to sign.”
He walks away, and when I look over at the dining area, I notice that all the other patrons are long gone.
The room is empty.
What the…
Two servers move near the windows, watching my every move, waiting for me to make a request.
I push away the salad. Then I pull the sheets closer.
Nate’s signature is already present on the pages, ready and waiting for mine.
Don’t think about it, Autumn. Just get this over with.
Clicking the pen, I take my time reading, quickly realizing that my new lawyer is correct.
This is one hell of a deal.
I’ll receive the BMW Nate took away from me, two hundred thousand from his savings account, and generous stock options with his company. Half of his boastful art collection that stands in a private gallery is now mine, and he’ll have to pay me for something called “years of lost opportunity.”
I squint to read the fine print.
Nathaniel Taylor will compensate Autumn Jane for four years
of lost opportunity from Mayfield Musical Arts College.
Mr. Taylor promised to cover Miss Jane’s tuition upon his firm’s success.
This offer was never fulfilled during the marriage.
My heart aches at the memory of that broken promise I’ve tried to forget over the years. All of the times Nate said, “You don’t need college anymore,” or “You’re already a master at playing violin, no need to waste money studying more of it,” while holding his education over my head.
Mr. Walsh previously told me that asking for something like that would be a long shot, and now a part of me feels slightly less guilty about his demise.
I reread the clause a few more times before pressing my pen against the dotted line.
Ten pages later, a post-it note asks if I want to fight for the house, but I crumple it between my fingertips.
I have no desire to ever return, let alone own that place.
As I’m signing the last page, I hear a deep and familiar voice.
“You’re so fucking naïve, Autumn.” Nate is standing across from me, holding papers of his own. “I mean, Jesus Christ. You deserve everything that you’re about to get in life.”
“We really don’t have to talk anymore, Nate.” I stand to my feet, relieved. “The deal is done.”
“Yours is just beginning,” he says. “Enjoy repaying whatever devil you called to arrange this deal.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the same one you know.”
“Can’t be,” he hisses. “I don’t know anyone who plays this fucking dirty.”
“So, he’s mafia?”
“He’s Satan.” He shakes his head. “Whoever the fuck he is, anyway. You should know all about him, right?”
I raise my eyebrow. I’m convinced that we’re not discussing Ryder at this moment.
Before I can take the last word, his mistress rounds the bar and loops her arm in his.