Trust - Page 97

I was kind of pulling an early shift too, having got out of bed and spent far too long on the phone persuading my personal trainer to help me sort out this ridiculous home gym. Later, Stewart was coming over. For now, though, I was on my own, and my mind kept wandering.

I missed Reuben all the time we were apart. He’d become much more tactile, constantly be touching my face, stroking his fingertips down my arms, making me shiver with every little touch. But he was also holding back. At night, we mostly slept and cuddled, with the odd little jolly where I’d end up with his dick in my mouth.

I didn’t mind. It made it all that more fun. Exciting. Building up to something else.

Because I wanted more. I wanted so much to show him all the things his body could do.

I’d ordered stuff that had arrived in discreet packaging as promised, hand-delivered by the dude in that concierge office, which was, yes. Cringe. But I’d lost my old plug somewhere, and I knew the kind of lube and condoms I liked.

We live together. I silently cheered every time that little thought popped up in my head. Him and me, in this house. Also, I’d paid for private medical insurance for us both. Well, for him. The insurance Blitz management had set up for me was still active, and a nurse was coming out to get the two of us tested. Job done.

If I didn’t have meetings, Reuben made sure I had things to do. He left his laptop on the kitchen worktop so I could look for recipes and home insurance. Go me.

I even watched TV on his streaming account now I’d managed to get the Wi-Fi set up, but once again the internet wanted to smack me in the face, and I squirmed when I came across the trailer for The Great Big Blitz Tour movie we’d apparently made and exclusively sold to this big streaming service. I couldn’t even watch the trailer for it and slammed the screen shut, panicking, breathing, ignoring the pain in my chest.

I could deal with it.

I could. Because I was finally growing up.

I’d even promised to sort out the pile of mail on the side, which was turning into another of those insurmountable things.

I needed help. Lots of it. Which was why, an hour later, Stewart was sitting at our kitchen table reading my emails, scratching his head and demanding I make him another cup of tea.

Like I was his slave.

Which I was. Kind of.

“Does it make any sense at all?” I asked weakly, putting the cup down next to him—poured from the teapot Reuben had bought. Wanker.

“Well, if I’m very honest?” He laughed. “Moving your kitchen table was much more straightforward. You sure you have no other furniture you need me to move? I can mow the lawn?”

“We have a communal gardener, apparently.” We’d actually read the contract for the house, Reuben and me. It had been very enlightening. We’d also had stern words with the concierge in the security office about not giving out personal information and a hundred percent not telling strangers which tenants were at home…or not. Well, Stewart and Reuben had stern words. I mostly hid around the corner ready to bolt.

I needed help. And I needed people.

“So the financial advisor is coming at three?” Stewart scratched his head again as he pored over our collection of spreadsheets.

“Yes,” I said proudly. That was taking major control for me. I had my own, independent financial advisor, recommended by Michelle. He handled most of her big clients, she said, so I was in good hands. Even so, Stewart would sit in on that meeting and make sure I didn’t sign away my hard-earned cash for nothing.

I still didn’t understand most of the legal and financial side, but I was starting to make some sense of it. Partly that was about asking for and accepting help. I’d even asked for help during another meeting with our lawyers, straight up admitted I had no clue what any of it meant. As it turned out, neither did Josh.

Michelle said I needed a PA. I didn’t want a PA, but watching Stewart scratch his head and roll his eyes at me, I could see her point.

“So, there are a couple of court orders, mostly with regards to…not sure. You need to check with someone who understands all this legal jargon.”

“Tell me about it. What I do understand is that I wrote all these songs. They were credited to me and whoever helped write the music. Which meant I got paid royalties. Then suddenly, they were not credited to me anymore but credited as having been written by Blitz Industries. Which meant—”

“You got paid peanuts,” Stewart filled in. “So it wasn’t just you and the boys who got cut out. Every penny went back to the company.”

“It’s not right.” I sat down next to him. “I mean, we should have earned loads this year. I bought my house with last year’s royalties. This year, I’ve made what? £12,000 according to this. Makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense if you own Blitz industries.” Stewart sighed. “But I get why the lawsuit has to happen. It’s your work. Your property. And they’ve been blatantly stealing it. Looking at Kieran Williams and this other guy, Soren Kvist. He’s ranked as one of the UK’s highest earners. Pays himself just under a million per month.”

“Money that’s ours.” I honestly didn’t care that much, other than it was my money, and I was entitled to it. The worst thing?

“The security contract. Am I still paying for that?”

“Well, that’s up to the courts now. The monthly payments were ridiculous. You were paying upfront for the driver, the security, the alarm, the twenty-four-seven people in your house, and on top of that, you were paying Lauren for her work.”