Chapter 8 – BELLS #2
The wine arrives. The server pours with unnecessary ceremony, and I watch Rex pick up his glass.
He tilts his head slightly to the left as he drinks, keeping the right side of his face angled away.
The movement's so subtle most people wouldn't notice, but I do.
Because I saw what's under that mask, even if it was just for a second.
The way he drinks tells me more than that glimpse did.
Whatever's under there affects basic shit like drinking. Eating too, probably.
The thought makes something twist in my chest. Sympathy? Fuck no. Whatever it is, I shove it down. He's blackmailing me. He doesn't get my sympathy.
Or my mercy.
Even if holding that kind of secret over someone's head is the last thing I ever thought would be on my bingo card. I'm not that kind of person.
But this is his fucking fault, and every piece of leverage counts in whatever fucked-up game we're playing.
"You're not eating," I observe, even though there's no food on the table and neither of us has looked at a menu.
"Neither are you."
"I'm not hungry." My stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough that I'm pretty sure the couple three tables over heard it.
Rex's lips curve into a sardonic smirk. "Liar."
"This isn't exactly a dinner date."
"No," he agrees. "It's a negotiation."
"Is that what we're calling blackmail now?"
He sets down his wine glass. "Let's skip the bullshit. In two weeks, your contract with The Reverie expires. You won't renew it."
I stare at him for a second, processing the audacity. "Excuse me?"
How the fuck does he even know that?
"Vespyr needs a new frontman. One who doesn't break easily," he says simply. "You will sing for me."
Oh, audacity fucking processed. I can't help but laugh. He just stares at me. "Wait, you're serious? You think I have a choice even if I wanted to go to the other side? The renewal's just paperwork. Stephen owns me whether I sign or not."
"Then you'll find a way to break free."
"Oh, sure. I'll just call up Stephen Hughes, my manager who literally owns my ass, and tell him I've decided to jump ship to his biggest enemy. That'll go over great."
"You're smart. You'll figure it out."
"Why do you hate me so much?" The question explodes out of me before I can stop it. "What did I ever do to you besides exist? Because that's what this is about. Your petty revenge quest. You don't want me to sing for you. You made an enemy of yourself from the day we fucking met."
His jaw tightens behind the mask. "My feelings about you are irrelevant."
"Bullshit."
"You're an atomic weapon," he says simply. "Nothing more. A means to destroy Stephen Hughes."
"Why?" I demand again, leaning forward, needing to at least partially understand what the fuck I've been dragged into. "What did Stephen do that's worth destroying my career, my band, my life?"
"That's not your concern."
"It fucking is if you're using me as ammunition!"
His hand tightens on his wine glass, and for a second I think he might shatter it. "That isn't for you to know. I don't trust you. I never will."
"But you trust me to join your band? Aren't you guys a full-blown pack?"
"I trust you to do what's necessary to protect yourself." He takes another careful sip of wine, that subtle tilt to the left. "Like I said, you're smart. You'll put the puzzle together eventually."
"Put what together?"
"Why Stephen Hughes deserves everything that's coming to him." He meets my gaze with lethal intensity. “When you join Vespyr,” he continues, and I notice it's when, not if, "you'll perform every song you think belongs to The Reverie. Every single one."
"Why?"
"So I can determine which ones were stolen and which ones weren't."
"Stolen from who?" I press, but deep down, I know the answer. His brother. A man I've never even met, but somehow, the thing that's brought us both together.
"Not the point."
I want to throw my wine in his face. Want to flip this expensive table and storm out. But we both know I can't.
"What about my bandmates?" The words come out before I can stop them. "Jake, Mike, Ethan—they don't deserve to get caught in your revenge plot. They're just—"
"Innocent?" Rex's laugh is sharp enough to cut glass. He pulls out his phone, scrolling for a moment before sliding it across the table. "Take a look at what your lead guitarist posted last night."
I pick up the phone, and there it is—Jake's verified Twitter account, complete with blue checkmark and hundreds of thousands of followers.
@JakeTheReverie: Bet Rex Steele is ugly as fuck under that mask. Only explanation for why he's such an asshole 24/7. Compensating much?
The replies are worse. Fans piling on, saying they only tolerate Rex because he's hot, asking if Jake knows something, demanding he spill the tea.
My stomach turns to lead.
"Still think they're innocent?" Rex's voice is dangerously quiet. "Your guitarist runs his mouth about everyone. About everything. Makes him feel big."
I slide the phone back, unable to meet his eye. Jake's always been a dick on social media, but this... this is different. This is cruel in a way that hits too close to what I know is true.
"Did you tell him?" Rex asks, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. "About what you saw in the tunnel?"
"No." The word comes out fast, defensive. "Of course not. That would be—" I search for the right word. "Cruel."
He watches me carefully, searching for signs of deception.
"I wouldn't tell anyone about your face unless you forced my hand," I say carefully. "Just like I assume you wouldn't out me as a girl unless I forced yours."
"Good." He leans back slightly, seeming satisfied I'm telling the truth. "Then we can both avoid... cruelty."
The word sounds like a weapon in his mouth. A reminder that we're both holding loaded guns to each other's heads, fingers on the trigger, waiting to see who blinks first.
"You clearly did your research," I say, testing the waters. "Dug up that old concert footage. What else did you find about Isabel Frost?"
His visible eye narrows slightly. "Everything that matters. Teen pop princess, America's sweetheart. The performances, the albums, the tours. Pure as driven snow, innocent as a lamb." His tone drips sarcasm. "Then she vanished. No scandal, no breakdown, no tell-all interview. Just... gone."
My shoulders relax fractionally. He doesn't know about the stalker.
The attack never made it to the press. My parents and label made sure of that, terrified it would destroy my innocent image.
Can't sell purity rings if your starlet's been half-marked by some obsessed alpha.
The official story was "exhaustion" and "needing time to find herself.
" Typical celebrity bullshit that everyone bought.
"People disappear from the industry all the time," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
"Not when they're at the peak of their career." He studies me, searching. "What made you run? What made you so desperate to become someone else?"
I force myself not to touch my collar, not to draw attention to the scar hidden beneath the leather. "Maybe I just wanted to make real music instead of bubble gum bullshit."
He sets his jaw like he doesn't believe a word I just said. But he doesn't challenge it. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a folder, sliding it across the table. "My lawyer drew this up. Standard contract, with a few modifications."
I open it, scanning the dense legal text. Most of it's typical band contract bullshit, but certain phrases jump out.
Relinquishing full creative control.
Identity maintained as "Bells."
"One year," he says. "That's all I need. One year, and you're free. All evidence destroyed. You can go back to The Reverie or disappear completely. Your choice."
"And if I say no?"
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. We both know what happens if I say no.
Isabel Frost rises from the dead, splashed across every tabloid and social media platform.
My parents crawling out of whatever hole they're hiding in to cash in on the scandal.
My stalker, wherever he is, will know exactly where to find me.
"This isn't a choice," I say flatly.
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
I close the folder, my hands surprisingly steady considering I want to throw it in his face. "Do Phoenix and Rafael know about this? Your whole... plan?"
"They know I want you in the band. They don't know the rest."
"Why not?"
"Because they're good people." He says it like it's a weakness. "They'd try to stop me. Or worse, they'd try to help, and that could get them arrested. Or killed."
The way he says "killed" makes my blood run cold. What the fuck has Stephen Hughes done that Rex thinks could get someone killed?
He reaches into his suit jacket again and pulls out a business card, setting it on top of the folder with deliberate precision.
"Foxhole Studios. 76 Graydock Way. October 13th, 6 AM.
" His visible eye meets mine, cold as arctic ice.
"We're recording exactly two weeks from today.
When your contract with The Reverie expires. "
"Go fuck yourself," I spit, but my hand still reaches for the card.
"If you don't show up, I'll know you've made your choice," he continues, standing and throwing more than enough cash on the table to cover the wine and a generous tip. "The video goes live at 6:01."
"You're giving me two weeks to figure out how to break free from Stephen without getting wrecked? That's impossible—"
His hand slips into his jacket again, a smooth, deliberate motion, and for one heart-stopping second I think he's pulling a gun. My whole body tenses, ready to dive under the table or flip it at him.
My knife drives into the pristine white tablecloth with a solid thunk, the blade buried in the mahogany beneath.
My grandfather's knife stands upright between us, that scripted 'B' on the bone handle catching the candlelight.
The couple three tables over definitely heard that. They're staring now, but Rex doesn't seem to give a fuck.
My throat tightens. I thought I'd never see it again. Thought it was gone forever, like everything else from my old life. But I refuse to show a hint of emotion as I tug it free from the table and slip it back into my pocket where it belongs.
"What's the catch?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"No catch." He adjusts his cuffs. "It's yours."
"Right. You're blackmailing me into joining your band, but you're returning my knife out of the goodness of your heart?"
"I'm not a thief," he says simply, and something in the way he says it makes it clear he's not just talking about the knife. There's weight behind those words, an accusation aimed at someone who isn't here.
Someone we both know.
He's halfway to the door when I call after him. "Rex." He pauses but doesn't turn around. "You said Stephen Hughes deserves what's coming to him. What did he do?"
For a moment, I think he won't answer.
Then, so quiet I almost miss it: "He took everything from me." He half-turns, and I can see his profile, the mask covering the damaged side. "I have nothing left to lose, Bells. Nothing. That makes me the most dangerous kind of enemy you could have—or the most dangerous kind of ally. Your choice."
"I already told you to go fuck yourself."
"And yet you're still holding that card." His lips curve into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes. "October 13th. 6 AM. Don't be late."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with an untouched glass of thousand dollar wine, a contract that might as well be written in blood, and a business card that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my hand.
Fuck.