Chapter 8 - The Aftermath of Fire
Spencer Reed left the estate on foot.
He had no car.
He had no money.
He had nothing but the clothes on his back.
I watched from the window as he walked down the long driveway,
the same one my father’s SUVs had roared up the night before.
"It’s over,"
my father said,
joining me.
"Are you okay?"
"I’m more than okay,
Dad,"
I said,
resting my head on his shoulder.
"I feel like I can breathe for the first time in years."
But there was one more piece of business.
Paisley Dawson had been calling my father's office all morning.
She was trying to sell her story to the tabloids.
She was trying to claim she was the victim.
I picked up my phone and called the editor of the largest magazine in the city.
"This is Phoebe Harrell,"
I said.
"I have the security footage from the Pierre Hotel."
"And I have the text messages from Paisley Dawson."
"Would you like an exclusive?"
By that afternoon,
Paisley was a pariah.
Every brand that had been considering her for a campaign dropped her.
She was banned from every club and restaurant in the city.
She had wanted to belong to the elites.
Now,
she was a warning to them.
I spent the rest of the day in the garden,
planning my first major project for the Harrell Foundation.
I wanted to build a shelter for women who had lost their voice.
Women who had been told they were embarrassing.
Women who were waiting at home for a man who would never love them.
May you like
I realized that Spencer hadn't just given me a reason to leave.
He had given me a mission.
