It's the beginning of August, three weeks after I gave my statement at Avery's trial and half n hour ago, we were updated on his sentence. Eight years with chance of parole at six.

It didn't disappoint me. I was glad that he was doing time. But the fact that he would be walking free again in no less than eight years, it bothered me. I suppose it wouldn't be right to assume that he doesn't learn his lesson. Perhaps time locked behind bars will encourage self reflection.

Perhaps it won't.

There should be mandatory hard hitting lessons about the detrimental damage that can be done when men decide to touch us without permission.

Electro therapy perhaps.

"What are you thinking about?"

I'm drawn out of my thoughts by Max, who's sitting on the opposite side of our small table. We decided to get breakfast at a little cafe not far from the studio. The summer sunshine was pouring down on where we sat outside, watching the traffic and people rushing past. A couple of pigeons pecked at bread thrown on the pavement by a toddler who had her parents wrapped around her little finger.

"You know what I'm thinking about," I told Max and he pursed his lips with disappointment. "Don't look at me like that."

"He was sentenced. That's more than some rapists."

I sighed gripped my ice tea, drips of condensation rolled down the glass. It wouldn't be cold for long in this heat.

"You made a difference, Abby. You did. All of the positive response to your speech. Hell, even Bernie benefited from your time on television. You have a meeting tomorrow with Harriet. You're looking at spaces to rent because you two are doing so well. Focus on the positive."

He was right. Even if I did feel that Avery deserved to die behind bars from old age without ever being able to touch another woman again, I had to think about what we did achieve. Not to mention the fact that his business was closing and he wouldn't be able to manage models, even after he was released from prison, made me smile.

"That's better," Max grinned and took a bite of his crepe. "Should we ge—"

"You fuckers ordered without me?"

Max peered past me with exasperation and I didn't even need to turn around to know that Lucas was the one shouting. Even if I didn't know his voice, he always had to make a loud entrance. Patrons attempting to eat their breakfast in peace stared at our brother with tight mouths.

"You're late," Max stated. "We're hungry."

"Not my fucking fault," Lucas appeared beside me and pulled out a third seat, falling into it and letting out a loud sigh. He had his sunglasses on and a T-shirt and shorts which showed off his inked arms and a peek at his thigh piece. I did not want to know how far up that went. "Traffic around here is busier than my balls."

Max nodded while he chewed. "Cool."

"How are you doing?" Lucas nodded in my direction, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms. "Where's your breakfast? Ice tea isn't a breakfast."

"It's on its way," I bit back. "And I'm fine. I'm good. How are you?"

"I'm fucking starving."

He sat up and peered around. I think he was about to wave out to the staff that was flittering around and collecting plates but then a waitress stopped beside the table and set down a breakfast in front of Lucas with the works. Bacon, eggs, sausages, the lot. She handed me a bowl of fruit, a couple of boiled eggs and a second ice tea.

Lucas stared at his breakfast with delight. "You fucking legends. Bless."

Max and I knew what Lucas would order so we went ahead and got it for him. The way that he immediately picked up his knife and fork and started devouring the meal was a clear indication that we'd made the right call. His cellphone chimed and he looked disinterested as he pulled it out of his pocket, read the screen and dropped it on the tabletop.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing. Just a bro from home has been having issues with his girl. No idea why he keeps talking to me about it. I can't help him."

Max was wearing shades but I knew that his eyes were rolling. "He might just need a friend to talk to."

"No he wants me to tell him that he didn't fuck up. But he did. We were out one night months ago after a game and he cheated on his woman."

"Ew," I frowned with the ice tea to my lips. I took a quick sip and lowered it again. "That's way past having issues. What's wrong with him?"

Lucas shook his head. "Some dudes just don't know how to balance having a girl and going out to drink. That's high school stuff. Time to grow up and either be single to fuck around or committed and well behaved. Aside from the fact that I love Mills, can you imagine what she'd to me if I ever cheated on her."

I laughed as I stuck a fork into a piece of watermelon. "I don't even want to think about it."

I didn't need to think about it. Milly once told me what she'd do when she found a bra in his dorm room and she rang me in a rage. The bra was mine. I'd accidentally left it behind when I spent a weekend there.

"Has anyone else noticed that waiter over there, staring," Max said in a quiet voice. His fork was subtly being pointed in the direction of the cafe door and I peered to the left to see a young guy in the standard black t-shirt and jeans, his white apron secured at the waist. He stacked cups and plates into a tray and Max was right, his lashes kept moving as his gaze darted toward me. It looked like recognition.

He was tall but not abnormally so. His figure was lean but defined and he had golden brown skin that seemed almost too smooth to be real. He took one last look as he lifted the dishes off the outdoor wooden table and slipped inside the restaurant. I barely had time to blink before a new group of people were sitting in that spot.

"Maybe he thinks I'm hot," I shrugged with boredom, lifting the second ice tea now that I was done with the first.

Lucas scoffed. "Maybe he thinks I'm hot."

"You wish."

"Should we ask him?"

"Don't," Max said. "You'll make him uncomfortable. Maybe he just knows who we are and he's fangirling."

Lucas leaned forward and stared at Max. "Did you just say fangirling?"

"Shut up. He's coming over here."

The waiter stopped beside our table and I peered up, getting a closer look at his face. His black hair was disheveled, a mess but it worked. He had a light stubble, freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks and pale brown eyes. Almost so pale that they could have been gold and when he gave us a small, but shy smile, a dimple appeared on either cheek.

Lucas leaned back in his chair, bit down on his lip and looked the waiter up and down. "How's it going?"

I saw Max pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Uh, good thanks," the waiter replied, tentatively collecting our empty glasses. "Can I get you guys anything else?"

Lucas carried on smiling with so much charm that I was worried for the girl on the next table over who was practically falling off her chair while she watched him.

"Yeah," he said with a low voice. "How about yo—"

I pinched his thigh so hard under the table that he flinched and squealed in pain, lifting his knee into the bottom of the table top. The dishes loudly clanged and a fork fell off the table.

"Let me get that," the waiter ducked down beside me to pick up the fork. Before he stood up, he slipped a piece of paper out of his pocket and put it on my lap. It startled me, rendering me shell shocked to the point that I hadn't even noticed he'd left until Lucas gave me a light back hand in the shoulder.

"Dude? You've left a fucking welt on my thigh."

"You were going to embarrass him!"

Max nodded in agreement.

Lucas scoffed. "You just didn't want me to prove that he might have wanted beef instead of chicken for dinner."

I could have proven that I was the one he gave his number to. The paper was right there, in between my fingertips, weighing a significant amount more than any other piece of paper I'd ever held. But I didn't show them.

Flynn and I still weren't speaking an awful lot. In the weeks that I had been in New York, we'd exchanged perhaps three texts total. I don't think either of us saw that as an intentional way to get some space, we just... didn't talk. I found that I was going longer periods of time before I thought about him and when I realised that I hadn't heard from him either, it didn't upset me like it would have before. I still love him, he's still my best friend but we're focusing on ourselves, as we said that we would and we're managing that space just fine.

Part of me believed that the ache I felt over him before we reconnected after rehab, was because of how things had ended before I went in there. But when I came home and we spent time together, it was the closure that I needed to know that we weren't leaving things in a bad place this time. It felt so much more peaceful than leaving after a heated screaming match while I was attempting to throw up in the guest bathroom. The way that I'd treated him before I got help was awful. It was a blessing that he forgave me at all.

I unfolded the piece of paper, curious and saw that it was a semi long paragraph, which surprised me. There wasn't enough time to read it between Max asking me what time I was heading off to meet Bernie and Lucas declaring that he'd be bunking with me tonight so that we could have a sleepover. He was in town for the night for no other reason than the fact that Mills was going spend some time with her mom and didn't want Lucas to join her.

Lucky me, I'd been on a call with her when the entire conversation went down. "... oh not a lot. Going to spend a night with mum next week so that we can—"

"We're going to see your mom?"

"No, Lucas. Not we. Me. I want to hang out with mum. Just the two of us. We're having a girls night."

"Well that's not fair. I haven't seen old girl in ages. I want to come."

The fact that he even dared to call Milly's mom old girl astounded me. He should have known better but Lucas will never learn. That, or he takes an immense amount of pleasure in getting a reaction out of his girlfriend. Both no doubt.

So here he is, bored without his woman and we're the entertainment. Of course, for the rest of the morning, he's Max's problem. I have a business meeting to attend.

Harriets office is breathtaking. It smells like rich fabric and roasted coffee beans. The carpet is so thick that my toes almost disappear when I'm standing still. Vibrant shades of magenta, powder blue and neon orange are splashed throughout the room. The sofa, the art, the photos of models in her own designs. Her desk, which is frosted glass with sharp edges and a soft hue of purple lights, sits centre and overlooks upper Manhattan.

It's modern and decorative with a unique vibe that feels as if we're on the set of an eighties dance inspired movie set. The movies that have a lot of scenes set in bars with neon lights, glowing edges and women that were so ahead of their time.

Bernie is in heaven. She can't sit still, she can't stop looking at designs on the wall, which are framed. Harriet explained that they were the first sketches that she drew and then created. Her first design that sold. Which then prompted Bernie to tell us that she'd have to frame her first design and one day, it'd hang in her office with a multi million dollar view. She'd do it too.

"These designs are exquisite," Harriet touched her hand to every sketch in Bernie's book.

We were sitting in front of her desk, our hands clasped in our laps. Even I was nervous and I'd met Harriet numerous time's. This time though, the future of Bernie's career was being discussed.

Harriet wasn't a lot older than mom and dad. Fifties perhaps. Her hair was a dark grey, long and in a braid across one shoulder. Her cheek bones were prominent and her chin pointed, she looked as though she had a slim figure but she had big hips and thighs. A beautiful woman who was made even more stunning with her kind soul.

She constantly peered up, looking over the glasses perched on the tip of her nose and regarded Bernie with a proud smile.

"Just exquisite," she murmured and then picked up a blouse that Bernie had made and brought with us as one of the many examples that she wanted to show Harriet. "Your stitch work is impeccable. This fabric is not easy to work with. But wow. Not a slip."

Bernie was humming beside me, her back straight, her cheeks swollen with constant smiles. She deserved this.

"You need a show," Harriet declared and sat back in her chair. She started lifted her fingers and used them to count off instructions. "You need to put a show together. You need a theme. You need outfits, models, you need names. Now, I don't know what your budget is like but inviting big names is the expense. We could collaborate but that wouldn't be launching your own name and as a beginner, an impact is essential."

"I want to do it alone," Bernie announced with a quick nod. She looked to me for assurance and I gave her an encouraging smile. So did Harriet.

"Good answer," she clapped and her rings, which were plentiful on each finger, clanged on impact. "What I can help with, is exposure. I can mention it to a few friends, encourage their attendance, social media is a good one. I can offer you a list of the models that I use as I assume that you'll want to include—" she lifted her fingers into quotation marks— "plus size models."

She nodded and I offered a suggestion. "We should scout. You know, go to the mall and look for regular, everyday girls. We should give them the chance to be part of something like this."

"I love that idea," Bernie nodded. "I want to ask Nattie too. There are a few girls from school that I'd like to ask."

Harriet smiled and drummed her sharp, neon pink nails on her glass desktop. "Don't forget how essential it is to arrange the legalities of it. You need a lawyer, an accountant, you need a publicist. It's important to claim the brand name, whatever that might be. But think long and hard before finalising it. Will it be your name? Bernie? Full name. Something else entirely? It's important to have things in place before going public. You don't want to announce your brand name and have someone steal it because it's not protected."

Harriet had a lot of useful information that she was willing to share with Bernie. Years of knowledge and experience that she served on a silver platter. Phone numbers, email addresses, the best locations for a pop up fashion show. It was in our best interest to note it all down, so I did that and I'm glad that I did because when Bernie and I stepped out on to the footpath an hour later, it was clear that she hadn't retained a single thing that was said. Her warm skin had become pale and she stared at the pavement with panic enlarging her round eyes.

"What was I thinking?" Her voice was tight and panicked. Almost breathless as if she'd taken the stairs instead of the lavish elevator with carpet lined walls and mirrors bordered with dressing room bulbs. "I can't do this. I can't start a business! Instagram and custom orders are one thing but what the hell? Lawyers, publicists?! I don't know about this stuff. I can't afford this stuff!"

She paced back and forth, her parachute pants were billowing and her braid crown had become frazzled. Poor thing. It was a fair concern for a child of her age. I had to remember that part, she's just a child. She hasn't finished school much less studied business in college. Raw talent doesn't equate to an understanding about the ins and outs of owning a brand. That's what professionals are for.

"Look," I gave her a reassuring smile. "I can help. We have several different lawyers for our family. One for business. One for dad and Lucas when they get themselves in public trouble—" Bernie grinned — "we have a publicist, an accountant. I can help with all of this and I can afford it. Besides, when this clothing line takes off, the return will be made. Affording a legal team won't even be a concern."

"If it takes off," she mumbled, wiping beads of sweat off her forehead. That was when I noticed that she was wearing foundation. Not a lot, but enough. I felt conflicted that she was trying so hard to be a grown up. There was time for that. She'd be an adult for a lot longer than she'd be a child and suddenly it saddened me that this was causing her so much stress. Designing in her bedroom is one thing. Owning a clothing line is another.

"When it takes off, Bernie Delgado. When."

She twisted from side to side, grinning.

"But that's just it. It will take off. You're too talented for it not to. But there's no rush. You can go home and keep working on your custom orders, going to school, saving some spending cash. You don't have to do this all right now. We can if that's what you want. But there's no rush."

She inhaled a deep breath and palmed her cheeks, using the tips of her fingers to wipe at her smudged mascara.

"I guess I might need to think about it."

The fact that she wanted to think about it made me proud. When I was her age, all I wanted to do was grow up, model, live a lavish life that I already had but didn't even realise it. If I'd had the sort of offer that she has, I wouldn't have thought twice about the stress it would put me under. I would see it as a chance to be a grown up and I'd take it with both hands and not let go until the jaws of life took hold and severed the grip that I had on a fantasy.

"But," she looked at me. "Whether I do it now, or later, please be my partner. I'm not asking for financial handouts. We should do it together. Bernie and Abby. Or Delgado and Lahey. Or—"

"I don't know," I told her, thrilled and flattered that she'd want to be equal in this. "You're the one designing, creating. I can't design like that."

"You don't have to. You're like, a genius at marketing and organising and—"

"That sounds more like an assistant or a publicist. Perhaps both."

"It wouldn't feel right if you weren't my partner though. I want to do this together. You've helped me so much."

There was some of that proof that she was young. She wanted to make me feel included because I'd been a huge support. Offering more credit than I deserved.

"How about a silent partner that takes a smaller cut and is with you every step of the way. I don't need an official title. I'm just here. Always."

She gave me a stubborn look. "We'll see."

When Bernie was in the Uber and I had finished waving her off, I stood on the footpath and watched the traffic, sweeping past and never ending. Revolving doors spun, depositing shoppers in and out of buildings. Heels click clacked but there was no rhythm, the wearers footsteps were all out of sync, sort of like the pounding in my heart when I thought about the note that I had, burning a hole in my pocket. I'd been thinking about it all morning, desperate to know what was written in the folds of the paper.

I retrieved it from my romper pocket and carefully unfolded it to find neat handwriting.

Hey. Sorry, I know this is random. But I recognised you from the court case that was televised a couple of weeks ago. I looked for you on social media so that I could send this message, but I couldn't find you. I kind of took you being at the cafe today as a sign and I worried I might not get another chance to mention this. Anyway, I just really wanted to thank you for that speech. I'm a survivor myself and honestly, it was phenomenal. The impact that it had on me. It'd be a long story if I went into details but I just wanted you to know that I'm eternally grateful for your strength.

Harley.

My heart was hammering. Overwhelmed. The fact that he needed to share this with me so much that he gave it to me while I was with Lucas and Max, it stunned me. For all he knew, I could have shown it to them. Shared it. My words must have moved him so much in order for him to get this note to me.

Before I gave it much thought, I found myself heading for the cafe.

_

This chapter is dedicated to @blossom_1999 who has been re reading this book and spamming my comments. I love it. It motivated me to get this chapter done. Also, I love all of you.