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“That mother fucker.” The words come out strangled.

Mom snatches the papers from my trembling fingers, scanning the legal jargon. Dad leans toward her, reading over her shoulder, and I watch both their faces go pale.

“What exactly is he suing you for?” Dad’s voice carries the dangerous edge he used on the guys at brunch the other day.

“Everything I sold while I was in New York.” I sink into the kitchen chair. My bones feel heavy. Even breathing, as natural as it is, hurts. “Which wasn’t much, but apparently Theo needs to make this look believable. He can’t claim my work is his and then let me profit from it, right?”

The words are ash on my tongue. The pieces I actually managed to sell, maybe a dozen paintings total over a few years, barely covered rent for a month. But Theo’s playing the long game here, building his narrative. The tortured artist betrayed by his psycho ex-girlfriend.

Too bad it’s the other way around. God, I hope someone shoves a bat covered in barbed wire up his ass.

“We’ll figure this out.” Mom’s features harden stubbornly. “We’ll hire a lawyer, fight this thing.”

Dad nods firmly. “I’ll call the bank tomorrow. We can take out a second mortgage on the house⁠—”

“Absolutely not.” The words burst out of me. “You are not risking your home because my ex-boyfriend is a lying piece of shit.” This is my problem. Not theirs. It’s my mess to clean up.

“Callie Mae,” Dad begins.

“No, Dad.” I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. “I got myself into this mess. I’ll figure my own way out.” I’m an adult. That’s what adults do. So why do I feel like curling into the fetal position?

Mom exhales, nodding. “At least talk to someone. Mr. Davidson has been practicing law for years now. He helped Annette settle that lawsuit, you remember that, right?”

I want to argue, but the fight drains out of me. The summons sits on the table between us like a ticking bomb, and I’m running out of ways to defuse it. Mr. Davidson might be able to help me. It’s not like I can afford anything else. Theo made damn sure to ruin my credit. I’ve been trying to pay it off as fast as I can, which means my bank account is pretty pathetic.

“Fine.” My voice sounds defeated even to my own ears. “I’ll call him.”

“That bastard won’t win.” Dad’s hands clench. “He can’t steal your life’s work and then sue you for it. That’s not right.”

“He won’t get away with it,” Mom agrees.

But as I stare down at the legal papers, Theo’s smug face flashing through my memory, I’m not so sure. What’s right and wrong means nothing when you have family with deep pockets.

Chapter Twenty-Four

CALLIE

Mr. Davidson is a busy man. The next appointment isn’t for another week, but with no other options, I take it. In the meantime, as much as I want to curl into a ball and hide under the blankets, I force myself to keep moving. I can’t keep living with my parents.

I love them, but the next time I crash out, I don’t want Dad there to witness it. I’d like to fall apart in peace, thank you very much.

The sunlight streams through the dusty blinds of the second-floor apartment Lily is showing me, casting stripes across the luxury vinyl plank floors. I trail behind her as she flits from room to room.

“And this is the kitchen!” Lily spins around, arms outstretched like she’s presenting a game show prize. She’s ridiculously good at her job. It’s no wonder she’s risen up through the ranks at Big Ridge Property Management. “Updated appliances, granite countertops, and look at this backsplash.”

I run my fingers along the cool stone surface, trying to summon enthusiasm that feels as distant as my art dreams once did. The apartment is nice enough. Better than nice, actually. It’s exactly the kind of place I would have killed for back in my cramped studio days, but the only reason I’m here is because I’ve been forced to start over.

The anger that’s been simmering in my gut starts to bubble. I take a breath to tamp it down, refocusing on Lily.

“The rent includes utilities except electric,” she continues, opening cabinets to show off the storage space. “And there’s a washer and dryer hookup in that closet.”

My stomach churns as I think about the number she quoted me outside. It’s reasonable for what I’m looking at, but reasonable and affordable aren’t the same thing when you’re staring down the barrel of a potential lawsuit.

We make our way to the primary bedroom, and Lily opens the door with theatrical flair. “Ta-da! Look at this natural light. Perfect for an artist.”

The comment hits like a punch to the gut. The remnants of the tattered canvases are still covering the basement floor. I haven’t worked up the courage to clean up what I’ve destroyed.

Lily must catch something in my expression because she stops mid-sales pitch. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Okay, spill.”