The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk

stretched

s living room floor. Alex had left to "spin the narrative" wit

lone with

jump. Every email notif

was nothin

text. He probably had Erich read his messa

The paparazzi were still there, eating takeout on th

he last time she saw Holt

The Fortress. Her apartment had a termite infestation, and the trust lawyers

o the main kitchen

as t

towel. His skin was damp, his hair da

es. But in person? He was... overwhelming. The sheer scale of

a glass of water. He didn't

asked. His voice wa

vy had s

wrist-a cheap, pink velvet thing-had snapped and

e went to pick it up,

chie in his large hand

mine,"

didn't sniff it, not explicitly,

e said. "And

," Ivy w

e feet to her messy bun. For a second, just a second,

had said, tossing the

eraction had lasted two minutes. I

u

vibrated, snapping h

ooked

nd

eath h

e screen with t

re two m

ord:

He was mocking he

second

st script you could come

the words. M

ers did. When he typed it, it felt diff

o. He hadn't said "I

laying w

ack, her fi

ipt that keeps me

dots appear. They da

disappeare

to the couc

was that the calm b