The Things We Leave Unfinished by Yarros, Rebecca (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

“It will. My lawyers have always been better than yours. Gran saw to that when she had those same lawyers word the contract to include in so far that Georgia Constance Stanton remains co-owner of Ellsworth Productions. She didn’t trust you with her stories, Damian. She trusted me. You were just too busy counting dollar signs to read the damn thing yourself.” I heard the distinct purr of an engine coming up the drive.

His eyes flared with panic. “Gigi, let’s talk about this. You know how deeply I cared for Scarlett. Do you really think this is what she’d want? It would have killed her to know you divorced me. That you gave up on us.” His expression changed again. Ah yes, guilt.

“Gave up on you? She never liked you in the first place, and this conversation was over the minute the divorce papers were finalized. But I do have one question for you.” I shifted my weight, hating to put myself in the position of needing anything from him.

“Anything.” He swallowed. “You know I’m not married yet, right?” He stepped forward, and the familiar scent of overpowering cologne hit me like milk left too long in the refrigerator—everything good having turned rancid. “We can work this out. Go ahead, ask me whatever you want.”

No thank you.

“Did you know who I was that day we met on campus?”

He startled.

“Did you?” In that moment, I saw myself through his eyes. A nineteen-year-old freshman, desperate for love and validation. An easy mark.

“Yes,” he admitted, raking his hand over his hair. “And I know who you are now, Gigi. Yes, I’ve made some bad choices, but I’ve always loved you.”

“Right. Because sleeping with other women—a lot of other women—is definitely how you show you love your wife.” I paused, giving myself time for the pain to hit, but it didn’t come. “Oddly enough, my mother warned me.”

My front door flew open and Hazel stumbled in, her hair windblown and her eyes wild. “Oh my God, you have to come watch!” She stopped suddenly, her eyebrows hitting the ceiling at the sight of Damian. “What. The. Hell?”

“Hazel.” He gave her a wry smile and a nod.

“Asshole.” Her eyes narrowed at him as she moved to my side.

“Damian was just leaving,” I said with a quick grin as the clock chimed. “His time is up.”

“Gigi,” he begged.

“Goodbye.” I walked to the door and held it open. “Give my best to Paige and…what did you name your son?”

“Damian, Jr.”

“Of course you did.” I motioned to the open door. “Drive safely, now. The pass gets slick this time of year.” The sound of the door shutting was more satisfying now than it had been the day I’d left our New York apartment.

“Did you tell him?” Hazel asked, unzipping her coat and hanging it in the hall closet.

“About the options? I did. It was fun.” I grinned and tucked my hair behind my ears. “Now, what did you fly in here in a tizzy about?”

“Oh!” Her eyes popped wide. “You have to get online right now.” She grabbed my hand and yanked me into the office, all but shoving me into the chair while she brought up YouTube full screen and typed Noah’s name.

“Hazel,” I warned her softly. The last thing I needed was to see Noah on video, traipsing around New York like he hadn’t broken my heart in a million pieces.

“It’s not what you think.” She clicked on a video of a popular morning show, and I tapped my toes impatiently through the five seconds of ads before it began playing. “Hold on, it doesn’t start until about halfway through, and I damn near spit out my coffee.” She clicked toward the middle of the video, skipping the first ten minutes.

“—does he think he is?” the female anchor asked her partner, who shook his head. “You don’t do that to Scarlett Stanton. You just don’t.”

“I’d have to argue that the publisher must have known what they were getting when they hired Noah Harrison to finish it,” he countered.

“Oh God,” I whispered, my stomach dropping out of my body and off the face of the earth. Knowing Noah might get some negative press for my choice and seeing it were two different things.

“It gets worse,” Hazel muttered.

“How much worse?” I wasn’t sure I could take it.

“Watch.”

“I’m not the only one to cry foul,” the anchor said, putting up her hands. “Early review copies are out, and spoiler alert: it’s not pretty. Publication Quarterly calls it, and I quote, ‘An egotistical attempt to outshine the foremost romance novelist of her day.’”

The audience booed, and my hands shot up to cover my mouth. “That’s not fair!” I said through the gaps of my fingers.

“It gets worse,” Hazel repeated.

“How? Are they going to burn a cardboard cutout of Noah?” I challenged.

“Would it bother you if they did?” she asked with mock innocence.

I shot a glare her way.

“The New York Daily took it a step further, saying, ‘Scarlett Stanton is rolling over in her grave. Though incredibly well-written and emotionally moving, Harrison’s blunt disregard for Stanton’s bestselling brand of feel-good endings is a slap in the face to romance fans around the world.’ And I can’t disagree.”

“Make it stop.” My hands slid from my mouth to cover my eyes as they flashed a picture of Noah.

“One more minute.” Hazel yanked the mouse out of my reach.

“The Chicago Tribune weighed in with, ‘Not since Jane Austen has a romance author been so internationally loved, yet so disregarded by men. Noah Harrison’s painful, emotionally sadistic ending to Scarlett Stanton’s own love story is unforgivable.”

“Oh, Noah,” I groaned, letting my forehead fall into my hands.

“But maybe the best review, as always, comes from Scarlett Stanton herself, who said, ‘No one writes painful, depressing fiction masquerading as love stories like Noah Harrison.’” The anchor sighed. “Honestly, what was the publisher thinking? You don’t bring a man into a corner of the industry that women had to claw out for themselves amid the