Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
It’s all there.
Motion sketches, base geometry, various phases of the big magic ink spot on his belly. It’s clearly developmental work refining the ideas into the finished chubby character we know today.
Only years of practice keep me expressionless.
The fury boiling inside me feels like an unsheathed sword.
Fury, and pain.
This can’t be real.
I refuse to fucking believe it.
“And you can prove that these sketches predate Clara’s . . . how?” I ask sharply. “None of these are dated. Do you intend to carbon-date Lester Sullivan’s sketches versus hers right down to the day of creation?”
Marissa’s expression falls, then tightens into a sneer. “Oh, I don’t need to. This is enough that even if I lose the case, I’ll create a big shitpile. I’ll ruin you, Marshall. I’ll ruin her. Tear her shitty fucking legacy down brick by brick till there’s nothing left. Your precious IP—your stupid fucking penguin—will be worthlessh then!” Her voice descends into another snarling slur as she snatches the sketchbook back, holding it protectively. “Save yourself the trouble. Sell Little Key to me and sh-sail away.”
My lawyers look troubled.
Her lawyers look pained and embarrassed.
I don’t know how the hell I look.
But I know I feel like a chainsaw-wielding maniac.
I keep myself contained—barely—as I meet Marissa’s eyes without blinking.
“Leave,” I clip.
She recoils. “Excuse me?”
“I said leave,” I repeat firmly. “This meeting is done. You’re once again not in possession of your full senses, and I won’t talk deals when you’re under the influence and unable to consent to anything legally binding. Leave, Miss Sullivan. I will ignore the insult of you appearing for this discussion drunk, and hope that this time you can make your way home with assistance.” I can’t resist the pointed reminder. “Perhaps we’ll have a more civil discussion another time.”
She gapes at me.
Her lawyers shift uncomfortably.
I narrow my eyes.
“I am not above having you escorted off the premises, Miss Sullivan,” I growl.
Marissa makes a flustered, angry sound and jumps to her feet.
“You’ll regrets this!” she snaps. “I will ruin you, you preppy fuck. Tear your fucking aunt apart! She took everything from my family—you understand? From me!”
Her voice cracks.
Real emotion.
Genuine grief.
I hate this shit.
Hate the complicated history that makes her feelings valid even while her actions are unconscionable.
Or are they?
I damned well intend to find out.
All I say is “Good day, Miss Sullivan.”
She stares at me for another bitter moment, trembling with rage.
Then she turns and storms out on unsteady steps, her hair whipping behind her with the toss of her head.
Her lawyers stand. One sighs wearily and nods.
“Mr. Marshall,” he says. “Thank you for your patience and your time.”
He turns to follow his colleague and client out, then leaves us alone.
As the door to the conference room closes, Mr. Tanden sighs. “That went well.”
Oxford shakes his head. “I expected a disaster. She’s been publicly falling apart for months.”
“Indeed,” I answer. “I just wonder what’s triggered her downward spiral.” I swivel my chair toward my team. “Would you be able to contact a private investigator without that information becoming public?”
Miss de Silva winces. “That . . . I don’t know what you’re thinking, Mr. Marshall, but stalking your opponent in a civil suit for damages usually doesn’t look good in front of the judge.”
“Then it’s best if the judge doesn’t find out.” I stand, barely able to contain my movements, my teeth grinding hard enough to make my jaw hurt. “Make it happen discreetly. Get me in contact with someone who can find out what the hell’s driving Marissa Sullivan to an early grave.”
I turn to walk out.
“Mr. Marshall? Where are you going?” Mr. Tanden calls after me.
“To find out the truth,” I fling back, right before I slam the door open and step out onto the office floor. I beeline for the elevator, ignoring a voice trailing in my wake.
There’s something Aunt Clara isn’t telling me, and I have to find out what it is.
XVII
BREAK IN THE CLOUDS
(ELLE)
I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.
My idol, the Clara Marshall, is looking at my concept sketchbook.
I’ve never shown anyone this. Not even Lena or Grandma.
I haven’t had time to look at this work in years: I pushed it to the back of my mind, told myself it was impossible to ever go anywhere with my silly little characters, Kiki the Koala and her cast of friends.
Before art school, I wanted to make her the star of my own series.
After art school, after learning about the freelance life, I tucked my sketches away and told myself I’d go back to them one day when the time was right.
Even as one day faded further and further into the back of my mind while everyday life took over, and eventually I stopped thinking about Kiki and her cozy evening cups of eucalyptus tea at all.
Until I mentioned Kiki to August.