“Will do,” Clive rumbled.

“Thanks,” I said.

I opened my laptop and dug through the emails until I found the one to Jon Singer, the record label exec who’d signed me a year and a half ago. After explaining my wife was pregnant and ill—the last bit patently false, but I didn’t have scruples left at this point—I signed off my email and started looking at flights to London.

I slammed my head forward on my desk. My email pinged and I grabbed my phone, heart fluttering with the hope it was Ella. But no . . . this was from Jon, telling me to take care of my family. That if I needed any support, my contact was Angelica Gatlin.

I called the number he gave.

“Angelica.” Her voice was sunny, bright, but the words clipped.

“This is Simon Dorsey.”

“Yes. Seems you have a PR issue, Mr. Dorsey.”

I considered it more of a life one. “I fired Monique. I need a new publicist. And to get out of my upcoming schedule. And to find out who hacked my email and sent a message to my lawyer. And . . .”

“We have emails from you, responding to all our questions over the past few months. I’ll forward them to you. Based on your original note, it seems you aren’t aware of the number of correspondences.”

‘I’m not.”

“The emails are on their way. Do you need me to help you make any travel plans? I’m assuming, based on the email from Jon, you’re going to see your wife in England.”

“Yeah.” I blew out a breath. “I’ll make those. Just . . . can you help with the media?”

“Jon wants me on this crisis until it’s completed. I’ll fly out to England as soon as I work through the immediate issues.”

“Er, well, thanks, Ms. Gatlin.”

“Call me Angelica. And for the record, I’m not a fan of Monique.”

A few more emails popped into my inbox. I squinted at the tiny headers. All about my contract and touring.

I opened them, my stomach aching more with each message.

I’d given Gerard access to my email—seemed smart at the time so that he could respond to important messages more quickly than I’d have been able to.

I created a new password for my email, then for all my social media accounts, and even my phone. Paranoid? Maybe. But I wasn’t taking any chances. Not after yesterday’s debacle.

I’d read the rest of the messages later—on the plane.

I rubbed the palms of my hands over my gritty eyes. I picked up my phone and dialed Ella’s phone number. Straight to voice mail. Of course. No way I’d get in touch with her unless I stood in the same room with her.

“Ella,” I started. I blew out a breath. “We need to talk. I don’t know what happened. Please call me.”