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

Ellsworth was more than a decade older than Georgia but had only managed to get his foot through the Hollywood door… Shit. It had been right around the time they’d gotten married.

“He used his marriage to Georgia to get to Scarlett.” Asshole.

“Seems like it.” Adam nodded. “Those rights rolled out the red carpet for him, and he still has five of those movies left to make. He’s set. And once it was clear the trips to the fertility clinic weren’t working out, he found someone else.”

My head snapped toward Adam as my stomach soured. “They were struggling to have kids and he knocked up someone else?”

“According to Celebrity Weekly. Don’t look at me like that. Carmen likes to read it, and I get bored when I’m soaking my legs in the bathtub. Legs you continually put through the ringer, I might add.”

Damn. That was a whole other layer of screwed up. She’d started the man’s career and he hadn’t just cheated; he’d emotionally, publicly annihilated her. “It’s becoming clear why she isn’t about the happy endings right now.”

“And the worst part was that she was part owner of the production company, but she signed it all over in the divorce,” Adam continued as we crossed the street. “She gave everything to him.”

My brow furrowed. That was a shit-ton of money. “Everything? But he’s at fault.” How was that fair?

Adam shrugged. “They were married in Colorado. It’s a no-fault state, and she gave it up willingly, or so I read.”

“Who does that?”

“Someone who wants out as quickly as possible,” he noted. We crossed the final street, bringing us to the block my publisher’s building was on, but Adam stopped in front of the one next door. “And, since all but a sliver of Scarlett’s estate goes into a literary trust earmarked for charity work, those millions you mentioned aren’t exactly Georgia’s. I know you like your research trips, but you should Google more often.”

“Holy shit.” My stomach dropped at just how wrong my assumption had been.

He clapped my back. “Feel like an ass now, don’t you?” he asked with a grin.

“Maybe,” I admitted.

“Wait until you realize that the book you’re finishing isn’t listed in the literary trust—”

My gaze whipped over to his.

“—and she still asked Accounting to wire that entire advance to her mother’s account,” he finished with a smirk.

“Okay, now I feel like a jackass.” I ran my hands down my face. She wasn’t even getting paid for this deal.

“Excellent. How about one more? Follow me.” He walked us inside the office building. The foyer was vaulted to at least the second floor, and escalators lined the edges before the elevator banks began, leaving the center open to display a massive vertical glass sculpture.

It started deep blue on bottom, reaching out in wisps of waves that bubbled at the edges as though breaking on an unseen beach. Rising higher, the blue morphed into aqua before the edges lost their rough, foam-like texture. Then aqua became dozens of shades of green as the glass reached out with swirls—branches, narrowing as the sculpture grew taller, until it peaked at twice my height.

“What do you think?” Adam asked with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“It’s spectacular. The lighting is ingenious, too. Shows off the color and artistry.” I glanced sideways at him, knowing this little detour had to mean something.

“Look at the placard.” That grin was still going strong.

I moved forward and read the tag, my eyes widening. “Georgia Stan— What the hell?” Georgia did this? I looked up at it with fresh eyes, and even I could admit my jaw dropped a little.

“Just because she’s not a writer doesn’t mean she’s not creative. Humbled? Just a little?” Adam moved to stand at my side.

“Just a little,” I said slowly. “Maybe a lot.” My attention dropped to the placard again, noting the date. Six years ago. Coincidence or pattern?

“Good. My work here is done.”

She hadn’t just gone to art school. She was an artist. “She won’t listen to me, Adam. She’s hung up on me both times I’ve called. I’m trying to get this thing plotted out so I can dig into it, but the second I start in about the ending, it’s dead on the other end. She doesn’t want to collaborate; she just wants it her way.”

“Sounds like someone else I know. How much listening have you done?” he challenged. “It’s not just your book this time, buddy; it’s hers, too, and for someone who loves primary sources, you’re ignoring the one right in front of your face. She’s your resident expert on all things Scarlett Stanton.”

”Good point.”

“Come on, Noah. I’ve never known you to shy away from a challenge. Hell, you seek them out. Pick up the phone and use that legendary charm to get your foot in the proverbial door. Then get to listening, buddy. Now, I have to shower before a meeting.” He headed toward the revolving door.

“I’ve already tried the charm!” And it got me exactly nowhere, which was professionally annoying and personally…well, frustrating, especially considering the way I was still drawn to her from more than a thousand miles away.

“Not if you’ve only called twice, you haven’t.”

“How did you even know this was here?” I called across the foyer.

“Google!” He gave me a two-fingered salute and disappeared out of the building, leaving me with the proof that I hadn’t been the only creative genius in Scarlett’s office that day.

Then I started my research—not on the Battle of Britain but on Georgia Stanton.

…

I glanced between my phone—which lay harmlessly in the middle of my desk—and the phone number I’d scrawled on the notepad beside it. I was a week closer to my deadline, and though I’d plotted out what I felt was the right path for the characters, I hadn’t started writing. There was no point if Georgia was just going to demand that I change it all.

Use that legendary charm…

I dialed the number, then turned to stand at the massive