32. Violet
Chapter 32
Violet
I am going to be sick.
Like, full-on, knees-shaking, stomach-clenching, might-pass-out-on-stage sick.
The Black Dog is packed. People crowd around tables and line up around the bar, waiting for the music to start. The warm glow of string lights casts a golden hue over everything, making the whole place feel too intimate, too real.
So much for it just being close family and friends. Word travels fast, and the whole town must be here.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress and grip the neck of my guitar like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. Well, because it is. I'm holding onto it like it's my lifeline at this point.
I’ve done this before. I’ve performed in bars, small concerts, and venues where I didn’t know a single face in the crowd. And back then? That was easier. Because those people? They were just strangers. They’d listen, maybe clap, maybe forget me the second they walked out the door. But these people?
I scan the crowd and feel my stomach tighten.
These people, I love. And what they think? It's all that matters to me now. It matters so much to me. And partly because when I left Nashville, something about performing in front of people broke inside me. My so-called friend who stole my songs ruined one of my last performances by showing up and singing my songs. And then she made damn sure I never had another performance after that. And that still haunts me. This feels like dipping my toes back into it, and it brings all those painful memories back.
This time it's different. I have so many people around me who care about me. And I'm doing this for Cami. Knowing that my singing here and at the fundraiser matters to her and helps her is what keeps me going. I know I can't live a life without music in it.
I think about all the people here tonight to cheer me on and that’s what keeps me going.
Maggie. My aunt, who is like my second mom, sits up front with that knowing little smile that says she believes in me more than I believe in myself. She always has. She sits with Mack, and they’re both smiling and happy.
Poppy. My newest best friend who somehow bulldozed her way into my life with oil-stained hands and her funny sharp wit. The girl who keeps the entire town laughing even when she’s running on fumes. She catches my eye and gives me a huge thumbs-up, her grin wide and unapologetic. As if I haven’t spent the past twenty minutes telling her I’m going to throw up. Her confidence in me is ridiculous. But it’s also kind of comforting.
And then there’s Cami. My other best friend. Listen, friend trauma is real, y'all. I had a best friend who encouraged me and was there for me. Until she got what she needed from me, then she destroyed me. It was so hard letting people in and trusting them again. But these two never took no for an answer in the best possible way. They showed up for me and reminded me that they were there for me when I didn't want to trust or believe it. They've healed that in me, and for that, I'm grateful .
Cami pushes through the crowd, makes a beeline for me, and grabs my hands.
“Vi.” Her blue eyes are wide and glassy like she’s one breath away from crying. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. You standing up there tonight? Singing your songs? Doing all of this for the ranch?”
I squeeze her hands, trying to keep my own from shaking. “Cami, you don’t have to thank me. This is your family’s legacy. Of course, I want to help.”
She shakes her head fiercely. “No, Violet, you don’t get it. Without you stepping up like this or organizing all of this, I don’t know what I would’ve done. This fundraiser, this event, it’s all I have left. You’re giving me a fighting chance.”
I swallow hard.Damn it. My nerves were bad before, but now there’s a lump in my throat because Cami deserves this. She deserves to keep her home and her family’s ranch afloat and fight for what’s hers. And now? It’s up to me to help make that happen.
Cami pulls me into a hug, squeezing the life out of me before whispering, “You’ve got this. You’re gonna blow them all away.”
Jack and Ollie are in the front, waiting and holding their beers, and they smile and wave when they see me. I love it so much that they’re here too.
Then she’s gone, slipping into the crowd, leaving me standing there, heart pounding.
And then…there he is. Walker leans against the bar, arms crossed, watching me with those deep, whiskey-colored eyes—eyes that see right through me. There’s no judgment there, no pressure. Just unwavering belief.
That’s the part that undoes me.
Because he also believes in me . More than I believe in myself at this moment .
And that makes standing up here, about to perform the song we wrote together , all the more terrifying.
It’s one thing to sing in front of strangers, but him ? The man who knows every note, every lyric, every place where I hesitated while writing it? That’s different.
That’s intimate . It’s like sharing us with the world. We’re not in the cabin, holed up writing together anymore. We’re in the bar together in front of our town. It feels very official, and nerves get me with that, too.
My palms are clammy against my guitar, my pulse hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. But when my eyes finally meet his, he does the one thing that steadies me, he smiles.
Not just any smile. A slow, warm curve of his lips, filled with nothing but pride.
Like he already knows I’m going to be incredible. Like I can’t fail. Like I’m his favorite thing to watch.
Like he’s proud of me.
And somehow, that’s enough to make me take a breath, grip the guitar a little tighter, and believe, just for a moment that maybe he’s right. We’ve got this.
God, he’s calm. Always so damn steady, like nothing ever rattles him. And here I am, gripping my guitar like it might strangle me, when all I really want to do is go stand next to him, lean into him, let him tell me everything will be okay in that low, gruff voice of his.
But I can’t do that.
I have to do this.
Cami steps up, taps the mic, and announces me.
"Hey, y'all. Tonight, we have something special planned for everyone. Violet is a fantastic singer and songwriter. She has a few songs she'd love to share with you tonight. This is brand-new music that no one has ever heard. Not a cover, but her very own songs that she wrote. I'm so excited! Let's give it up for our very own, Violet Wilson!"
The bar erupts in applause and whistles. My legs shake as I walk up and settle onto the stool at the mic stand. I fumble with my guitar, adjusting the strap, my fingers numb from clutching the guitar so tightly. The crowd quiets.
Too quiet.
I clear my throat, bringing the mic closer. “Uh, hey, everyone.” My voice is shaky. “I, um, I wrote this song with someone special recently, and?—”
There’s movement in the corner of my eye. A shadow stepping onto the stage. I turn my head—and there he is.
Walker.
A guitar slung over his back, his smirk slow and easy, like he planned this.
“What are you doing?” I whisper as he slides onto the stool beside me.
He grins. “Singing with you.”
Oh. Oh .
The crowd erupts—cheering, clapping, hooting like they just won the damn lottery.
Because Asher Wyatt—the man who swore his singing days were behind him—just stepped onto the stage, guitar in hand, in front of a crowd that only knows him as Walker.
They’ve never seen this side of him before. The legend, the raw talent, the man who once owned every stage he set foot on. But he’s still in there.
And for the first time in years, they’re about to witness the man he tried to leave behind.
He tunes the strings, then turns to me, his knee brushing mine, his voice whispers low. “You’re not doing this alone, Red.”
My breath catches.I don't know how he seems to know, seems toalways see me, really see me, even when I don’t say a damn word? Walker can read me like a book.
He gives me a look, are you ready? I nod, my hands settling on the strings. And then we play. The first chords hum through the speakers, filling the room, and suddenly, everything else fades.
I don’t hear the chatter at the bar. I don’t see the crowd.
I see him.
His eyes flick to mine, warm and knowing, and I swear we’re somewhere else—somewhere without walls, expectations, or past lives. Just us. Just this. And I get lost in the moment. So lost, like the kind of lost where when you finally come up for air, you forget where you are and what you were doing.
We sing.
Oh God. This is different. This is more than just singing. The way his voice blends with mine, the way our bodies move in perfect time, it’s like we were always meant to do this together. Like we’re pulling the song straight out of the air like it’s been waiting for us to find it.
His voice is low and rich, wrapping around mine, guiding me, anchoring me.
I lean closer, tilting my face toward him as we sing the chorus. His eyes darken, his voice roughening just slightly, and I swear, for a moment, we forget.
Forget that there are people watching. Forget that this is supposed to be a one-time thing.
Forget that he’s a bar owner now and not the country music legend he used to be.
But the way he looks at me as we hit the last note? That’s not a man who’s done with music. That’s a man remembering who he is. The powerhouse, the artist, the musician who healed hearts and gave so much joy with his music.
The last chord fades, and the entire bar explodes into applause. But neither of us moves. We still sit knee to knee, breathing hard, staring at each other like we just stumbled into something dangerous and completely inevitable.
His eyes drop to my lips. I don’t think. I just move. I lean in, and he meets me halfway.
The second our lips touch, the crowd loses their damn minds. I hear Maggie’s delighted screech, Cami shouting "FINALLY!"
A few whistles make it all the way from the back, but it all blurs because his hand slides into my hair, his fingers curling against my scalp, and his mouth, God, his mouth.
The kiss is slow. Deep. He feels so good. Like he’s making sure I know exactly how much I mean to him. My heart swells so much with his touch. I never want this moment to end.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathless. His thumb brushes my cheek, his eyes flicking between mine.
And then, from the front row, Maggie lets out the sharpestwhistle I’ve ever heard and shouts, “Well, hell! That wasn’t just a performance, that was the show of the damn century! Somebody put it in the books! We just witnessed history!”
Walker groans, laughing, dropping his forehead against mine.
Cami yells, “Forget the fundraiser! Y’all could charge admission for that !”
I shake my head, grinning. “We are never gonna live this down.”
Walker smirks. “No, we are not.”
The world feels different after that performance. Like something inside me cracked open, something raw, real, and impossible to ignore.
I can still feel Walker’s voice tangled with mine, the heat of his knee pressed against mine, the weight of his gaze pulling me in like gravity. How he looked at me—like I was his —was enough to make me believe it, even if just for a few minutes.
And then the kiss.
God, the kiss.
I’m still catching my breath, still floating in the electric charge of whatever we just created, when I feel it— the shift.
Not in me. In him.
Walker stiffens beside me, his body going rigid, his easy, breath-stealing smile vanishing like a candle snuffed out in the wind. His jaw locks, his shoulders tense, and something dark flickers in his whiskey-colored eyes.
I barely have time to register it before I feel it, too. The weight of a stare. The kind that burns, sharp and cutting, even across a crowded bar.
I turn my head, and there she is.
Stella.
I recognize her instantly. Because how could I not? She's the woman who has haunted my nightmares and the voice in the back of my head that tells me I don't belong in the music industry anymore. The person who stole everything from me.
She stands near the back, watching us, her arms crossed tight, her manicured nails digging into the sleeves of her coat.She’s tall and blonde, every inch of her sculpted to perfection like she stepped straight out of a high-end music video and into my worst nightmare.
But it’s her expression that hits me hardest.
She’s not surprised to see him. She’s pissed to see me.
Her ice-blue eyes flick between us, her gaze narrowing, her lips pressing into a thin, unforgiving line.
She saw it. All of it.
The song. The way Walker looked at me. The way he touched me. The way we kissed like the rest of the world had fallen away. Her being here ruined what should have been the best moment in my life.
And now?
She looks like she wants to rip my throat out. Like she wants to destroy something else of mine.
But why is she here?
My stomach churns as she starts moving toward us, the sharp click of her heels cutting through the noise of the bar. Everyone around us watches as this unfolds and confusion rests on everyone’s faces.
This isn’t just a coincidence.
She’s here for him.
And I have a sick feeling she’s about to make damn sure I know it.
“Hey, baby .”
Baby.
The word is like a bomb dropping into the middle of the bar. The way she says it, slow, intentional, like she’s staking her claim makes my stomach lurch.
Walker doesn’t move. His jaw is tight, his fingers twitching at his sides, and I can feel the tension rolling off him like he knows her.
My stomach drops . Because I know that face. I know that smirk .
No. No, no, no.
She flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder, her familiar expensive perfume reaching me before her voice does.
“Well, well.” Her eyes drag over me, slow and calculated, before she lets out a little laugh. “This is rich .”
I can’t move. I can’t breathe . Because standing in front of me, smirking like the devil herself, is Stella .
Stella . My former best friend .
The girl I trusted with everything—my songs, secrets, and dreams.
The same girl who stole everything from me.
The same girl who took the songs I wrote and put her name on them.
She called me a thief and made me lose my record deal while I had to leave town and rebuild my career and life. The woman who broke me. No fucking way.
The air is too thick, the voices around me suddenly too loud. I feel Walker shift beside me, his hand brushing my arm, but I can’t look at him.
I can’t not look at her. She's the epitome of evil. Someone I trusted and now could never trust again.
Her lips curve. “Oh, Violet.”
She laughs again, shaking her head like this is the funniest thing in the world. “I cannot believe this. You and Asher?” Her eyes flash with something cold, something vicious . “I mean, I knew you liked my leftovers, but damn , girl. You really went all in this time. Congratulations on this. Really, you truly played this game hard.”
My stomach twists so hard I think I might be sick. What is she talking about?
I swallow, forcing my voice to be steady. “What are you doing here, Stella?”
She tilts her head. “Oh, you know. Just passing through. Thought I’d check in on my husband. ”
She reaches out, dragging a manicured finger down his arm, and I feel my pulse slam into overdrive. “I missed you, baby.”
What the actual hell? This is Walker’s ex-wife? Oh, hell no. How could the universe be so freaking cruel?
Walker yanks his arm back, his expression sharp, but I don’t even register his reaction.
Because all I see is red. How dare she ?
She already stole my songs. She already stole my career. And now she thinks she can waltz in here, flick her hair, flash that look-at-me smile, and stake a claim on him, too?
She smirks, like she can read my mind.
“Oh, don’t look so threatened, Vi.” She tuts, crossing her arms. “You do remember how this goes, right? I take what I want.” She shrugs, her eyes gleaming. “And I always get what I want. But it’s cute you thought you could win.”
The room tilts. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. And suddenly, I don’t know if I can handle what happens next.
I’m still catching my breath, still floating in the electric charge of whatever we just created, when I feel it— the shift.
Not in me. In him.
Walker stiffens beside me, his body rigid, his easy, breath-stealing smile long-vanished like a candle snuffed out in the wind. His jaw tightens, his hands flex at his sides like he’s bracing for something.
My stomach twists.
No.
The air leaves my lungs in a single, brutal punch.
Mack. This is Mack’s mother.
Funny in all the years I knew her, she never mentioned being someone’s wife or mother. Never thought that was an important part of her.
Suddenly I can't think of anything but Mack and what she must be thinking right now. I know how badly her mother not being around has affected her, and now, for her to drop in like this and especially to be so horrible? She's got to be so upset right now. I quickly scan the crowd and see Maggie with her arm protectively around Mack as they watch all this unfold in horror.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I look at Walker, at the tension coiled so tightly in his frame, at the way his throat bobs like he’s swallowing back something ugly, something painful . Something familiar .
And I know that pain. Because she did it to me, too. And now I'm fucking pissed that she was the one that did it to them. The one who broke him. It’s her. Oh God.
I take a half-step back, my legs suddenly weak beneath me, the weight of this realization crushing the breath from my lungs. It hits me like a punch to the face.
Walker was married to Stella.
Stella, the woman who stole my music, my dreams, my future . The person who used me, took everything I ever confided in her, and ran straight for the spotlight with my songs in her damn hands.
And all this time? I had no idea. Did he know?
I whip my head toward him, my chest tight, my voice barely above a whisper. “Walker.”
His jaw ticks. His fists clench. He’s shaking . And that’s my answer, isn’t it?
He didn’t know. Just like I didn’t.
Oh, hell.
I can feel the weight of the bar pressing around us. People are still talking, still drinking, still celebrating the moment we just had. The moment that now feels like a cruel joke, like something sharp waiting to slice me open.
I stare at him, trying to find words, trying to breathe .
He turns to me then, finally, and the look in his eyes is like a blade to my ribs. Like he’s just as wrecked as I am. Like he’s wondering the same damn thing.
If I knew.
The realization slams into me like a freight train. Does he think I knew ? That I knew he was Stella’s ex-husband? That I let this happen, let him fall into something real with me while I was carrying this secret ?
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head, the words catching in my throat. “Walker, I didn’t—I swear I didn’t?—”
“Violet.” His voice is low and raw, his shoulders rigid. He exhales sharply, like he’s trying to contain whatever he’s feeling. And right now, anger radiates off of him. Like he’s barely hanging on.
I don’t get the chance to say anything else.
Because Walker is already on his feet, as he takes Stella by the arm and pulls her toward the door. He doesn’t speak.But I know this is far from over with Stella. She doesn’t leave anywhere without wrecking everything.