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"It’s off. I couldn’t stomach seeing Nash’s name pop up on the screen one more time. Just give me yours."

She handed the device over. I didn’t call my agent or the record label. I punched in the direct line for the executive producer of a major morning broadcast in New York.

He picked up on the second ring. "This is David Lipton. What can I do for you, Mindy?"

"David." My voice was unwavering. "It’s Sutton Vale."

A stunned pause followed on the other end of the line. "Sutton? My god. Are you okay? We’ve been trying to reach your team for over a week."

"My team is fired. I’m managing myself as of today." I stood up from the piano. "I want to do an interview."

"We’d love that." David’s voice instantly shifted into high-gear producer mode. "We can send a crew to Los Angeles tonight. We can tape it tomorrow, air it next week..."

"No tape."

"Excuse me?"

"Live." Certainty filled me as I paced the floor. Notes fluttered in the ether, coming together to form perfection. Lyrics would follow soon. "Monday morning. In studio. New York."

"Monday?" David stammered, the logistics clearly short-circuiting his brain. "Sutton, that’s... that’s in less than forty-eight hours. Can you even get here?"

"I have a jet. I’ll be there. But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"No script," I stated flatly. "No pre-approved questions. You ask me whatever you want, and I answer. Completely unfiltered. And I want the first twenty minutes of the hour block. No commercial breaks."

David hesitated. Live television featuring a pop star currently embroiled in a conservatorship battle was a recipe for an unmitigated disaster—or ratings gold. "Done. We’ll clear the schedule."

"One more thing." I glanced back at the Steinway. "I want a piano in the studio. I’m going to sing.”

"You got it."

Ending the call, I handed the phone back to Mindy. She stared at me, her mouth hanging open in pure shock.

"New York?" she squeaked. "For a live broadcast?"

"Call the pilot," I instructed, heading for the hallway. "Tell him to fuel up. We’re wheels up by tomorrow. And we’ve got a hell of a lot to do before then."

I turned and headed for my closet, my heart pounding a steady, victorious rhythm against my ribs. Hiding was over. Running was over. But one massive loose end remained before going to war. Retrieving my duffel bag from the closet floor where it had lain since returning from Florida, I unzipped the side pocket. The cheap plastic burner phone Ben had purchased in Marathon sat safely tucked inside. It had been powered down since I left the island.

After plugging it in to recharge, I pressed the power button, and the screen flickered to life with a dull green glow. I pulled up Ben’s contact. My thumbs hovered over the keypad, organizing the chaotic mess of emotions into something clear and undeniable.

Sutton: I figured out why you pushed me out the door. I understand you were trying to protect me, but you were wrong to make that choice for me. I have some big moves in the works to fix this mess. When the dust settles, I’d like to see you again. I miss you. I hope you miss me too.

Staring at the pixelated letters, the truth of the words rang with certainty. Sending the message stripped away the last of my armor, leaving me completely exposed.

Mindy had a new cell phone waiting for me on the jet in Key West. After adding my real cell phone number to the text to Ben, I tapped the send button, and it swooshed away into the digital ether. I tossed the burner phone into a drawer and walked toward my closet to pull down a suitcase. Lyrics flitted around my head, wrapping themselves around a melody that became more solid with every passing second.

Finishing the song was priority number one. Going on national television to tell the entire world exactly who Ben Coleridge was next.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

BEN

Sunday morning sunlight filtered through the window, casting bright, mocking warmth across the kitchen floor. The cheerful weather outside directly contradicted the absolute wreckage inside my chest. Waking up after a restless, grueling Saturday shift usually brought a sense of accomplishment. Today, it merely delivered a hollow, suffocating silence.

The coffee maker gurgled on the counter, spitting dark liquid into the glass carafe. Leaning against the granite, exhaustion dragged at my bones. The cottage was spotless. I had scrubbed every surface, run every load of laundry, and organized my tools in the shed. The manic need to stay busy had failed completely. The place still echoed with Sutton’s absence.