Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
And Margot?
She made a hell of a lot.
As for Lee, he’s only at the start of a very long, rough road. My name is big enough, and his vendetta personal enough, to make his attempt on my life a big splash in the press.
Ironically, about as big as he wanted.
And now there’s a simmering stir about AI screwing over designers and other creatives.
Part of me hates that Lee’s message didn’t just die in that cellar.
Only, a bigger part of me knows it had to happen, for reasons that have nothing to do with one enraged almost-killer.
More importantly, it’s brought up legal questions about how the OptiSynth software learns, how it pulls so much material from existing designers and artists without compensation.
I’m not the guy to sort it out, so I’ll leave that to the judges.
The crack in the armor is there. OptiSynth will face the issues I tried to warn them about—big questions and a crisis they can’t just sweep away.
The world is talking.
Morals are shifting like desert sands.
I don’t know if Lee Glazkov will ever walk free again, but it won’t be for many years.
For now, that’s enough.
And if he ever does, I sincerely hope he turns his ruined life around.
There’s nothing like opening your eyes and seeing the world right-side up.
Margot stretches sleepily in my arms, her eyes opening in lazy slits of blue.
“Kane.” Her voice is thick with sleep as she pulls the phone from my hand. “What have I said about brooding alone this early?”
“Only after coffee.”
“After coffee. Actually, only after coffee you’ve made.”
“Isn’t that implied, duchess?” I ask, dropping a kiss on her head.
“Mmm. Any news?”
“Nope. Guess some people speculate we broke up because we haven’t been seen together since the dustup.”
“Screw them!” She snuggles closer. “Who cares what they say? They don’t need to know I wake up in your arms wet every morning.”
I like that.
I like that a fucking lot.
“The rest is all good news,” I promise. “Everything we’d hope for.”
“Mmm.” She kisses my shoulder and rolls over, grabbing the worn, bound journal off her nightstand.
It’s one of the final gifts her granddad left for her, tucked behind that stuck glass panel Lee shot out in his fury. On top of it, there was a broken pair of little shoes. Beautifully painted clay and far more intricate than the other lumpy, unfinished sculptures down there.
They were barely held together too by this crude attempt at gluing them together. At one point, they must’ve been fractured into half a dozen pieces.
After the crime scene was cleared, the police handed Leonidas’ stuff over, saying it wouldn’t be much use as evidence.
I don’t think she ever imagined she’d wind up with the old man’s treasures.
She’s been glued to the journal ever since, flipping through the pages to soak up the wisdom, a different entry every single day. He kept it going for years.
Sometimes the entries make her sad, sometimes happy, and sometimes wistful.
It’s the connection she always wanted from the Great Beyond, and I’m happy as hell for her.
She flicks through the pages again, stopping on a random one. I prop my chin on my fist as I watch her read, her forehead lining with focus.
“Now who’s brooding?” I tease, reaching up to smooth away the lines with my thumb. “What’s he telling you today?”
“Do you want to read it?”
“Read it to me.”
She reaches over for my hand and our fingers twine as she starts at the beginning.
“My darling wife,
You were always right, even when I was too blind to see. Lately, my pride has kept me from seeing anything except the beautiful baby shoes you made—the same ones I savaged in a fit of rage a few months ago.
You must know I’ll restore them. I just need time. I need to practice my technique and hope my arthritis doesn’t make art impossible.
I don’t have your talent, May, but I’ll try to do you justice. I won’t stop until they’re the perfect memory of what our Elvira wore in happier, easier times.
Yes, I know.
She deserves to know how sorry I am, too.
One day, she’ll know the truth, and she’ll have the little shoes we lost in that fire. I hated seeing you in tears. The precious shrine to our children was the one thing I could never replace after those goddamned devils turned your studio into ashes.
If I had more proof, you know they’d be in jail. I would rename their lot May Blackthorn Blueberry Farms in your memory.
That’s why you made the shoes she wore as a loving testament. That’s why it was your last project.
I miss you, May.
I miss the easy times.
I miss the old Leonidas you loved, before a tortured old man smashed our daughter to pieces, just like I smashed up the lovely shoes you made.
I pray you’ll forgive me from the other side. Just like I pray she’ll understand how deeply I regret the ways I tore the heart out of this family.