3. Todd
CHAPTER 3
Todd
I’m still adjusting to the fact that Ashlyn Robinson, the girl who shattered my heart and is the bane of my existence, just strolled into our studio like it’s the red carpet for one of her movie premieres. And damn it, all I can do is stare, like a man dying of thirst who just spotted an oasis. I can barely hear everything Shelley’s saying.
She glances around, her expression distant, unaffected, while Shelley—the producer of Epic Records and the model show Ashlyn judges on—rambles on beside her. Not that I’ve watched it. That would be pathetic. The guys would crucify me.
Shelley’s voice hums in the background, her excitement like nails on a chalkboard against the thick tension in the room. I keep my eyes on Ashlyn, searching her face, waiting for the mask to slip. Waiting for that perfect facade she’s always hidden behind to crack under the pressure of this moment.
It doesn’t.
Her smile remains fixed, polite, practiced, as if she’s still posing for the cover of some glossy magazine. No fidgeting, no hesitation—just the same untouchable confidence she’s always carried. But there’s something else now, something sharper, more polished.
More woman.
And it’s infuriating.
I hate how my eyes trace her without my permission, taking in the soft curves she’s grown into, the way her tall frame fills out the structured lines of her dress. Her dirty blonde curls frame her face, spilling over her shoulders in effortless waves. Her nose still tilts up at the end, pert and delicate, a detail I used to tease her about. Back then, it made her look almost innocent. Now, it makes her look like she’s untouchable.
And yet, all I can think about is touching her.
I grit my teeth, dragging my focus away before I betray myself. But the pull is still there, gnawing at me, raw and unrelenting.
Across the room, Jake’s smirk deepens, his cigarette dangling from his fingers as he exhales another slow stream of smoke. He knows. Of course, he does. Jake always knew how to read me, sometimes better than I can read myself. The way his eyes flick between Ashlyn and me is enough to make my jaw clench.
West doesn’t say anything, but the way he shifts against the wall, his posture rigid, tells me exactly what he’s thinking. He can’t handle this anymore than I can. Only he’s better at hiding it.
And then there’s Xayden, still lounging in the back, arms crossed, his gaze dark and unreadable. The corner of his mouth twitches, just enough to give away the edge beneath his relaxed posture. He’s never forgiven her. None of us have.
“Anyway,” Shelley chirps, completely missing—or pretending not to notice—the thick tension suffocating the room. She glances at her watch and gasps. “Oh, would you look at the time? I have a meeting in ten. I’ll leave you all to work out the details. Ashlyn can take it from here and fill me in later.”
She beams at me, at Ashlyn, at everyone, and then she’s gone, heels clicking against the floor as she disappears out the door.
The silence she leaves behind is deafening.
I cross my arms over my chest, forcing my features into a neutral mask as I stare Ashlyn down. “Looks like you’re running the show now,” I say, my voice colder than it needs to be.
She meets my gaze, her chin lifting just slightly. “I’m here to collaborate, Todd. Not to fight.”
Jake snorts, flicking the ash from his cigarette into a tray with a lazy twitch of his wrist. “I can think of other things we could do.” He sprawls back in his seat, arms draped wide over the backrest, his shirt hanging open even further.
We all know the game he’s playing. Jake might be a beta, but he’s always known how to wield his charm like a weapon. The way fans lose their minds watching him onstage, the way his fingers glide over his bass, his casual confidence—it’s his currency, and he spends it freely.
“Jake,” West cuts in, his voice a low warning. He doesn’t bother looking his way, though. His gaze is locked on Ashlyn, stark and unreadable, his words as clipped as his posture.
“Hey, that’s not what I was talking about, thank you very much,” Jake replies with a lazy grin. He’s hiding behind his persona. The flirt. The one that has no issue pulling the girls.
West sighs, still not looking at Jake. “Why don’t you tell us what you need, Ashlyn, so we can get this over with?”
Xayden doesn’t speak, but his presence says plenty. His dark eyes narrow, and the muscle in his jaw ticks, betraying the calm facade he’s trying to maintain.
Ashlyn shifts, and for just a fraction of a second, I catch it—the tiniest crack in that perfect mask of hers. It’s subtle, a flicker of something raw, quickly buried beneath the layers of control she’s mastered.
“Fine,” she says, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “We need the band’s input on styling and themes for the next few episodes. Your music is supposed to inspire the looks, the mood, the feelings. Think you can manage that?”
The words are steady, measured, but I see through them. I know her tells—the way her fingers curl just slightly at her sides when she’s nervous, the faint tightness in her shoulders that most people would miss.
And despite everything—the years, the bitterness, the wall I’ve built between us—I can still feel her. Still see her. Still know her. Even without a trace of her perfume in the air.
And it wrecks me.
“Our style,” Xayden’s deep voice cuts through the charged silence, rolling over the room like distant thunder. “Right.”
Out of the four of us, he’s the only one who’s mastered that part of fame. He leans into the spotlight, craves the attention in a way the rest of us never could. But I know what he’s thinking. I don’t need to hear the words to read it in his tone.
Our style? It’s not the kind you showcase on models. Ripped jeans, scuffed boots, leather jackets, and vintage band tees—a whole vibe that screams fuck the system, fuck the rich.
Sure, Xayden’s made it work. Jake too, when the mood strikes him. But the rest of us? We don’t fit the mold. We don’t do fancy. We don’t do designer.
Not like Ashlyn. She’s draped in it. Every inch of her polished, expensive, untouchable. Everything about her screams perfect.
And everything about us screams the opposite.
“And that requires working with you?” West asks, his voice low.
We already know the answer. She’s here. Shelley left her behind. It’s her show. But still, we all wait, watching her, waiting to see what she’ll say.
“Will that be a problem?” she asks, her tone clipped as her posture straightens, her shoulders going rigid.
The stick up her ass must’ve only grown since she chose something other than her pack. The Ashlyn I knew would’ve snapped right back at West, throwing his question back in his face with all the fire and attitude she used to wield like a weapon.
Now? She’s all stiff formality, hiding behind that polished mask.
And part of me wants to rip it off, expose who she is beneath it. Push all her damn buttons until she breaks.
But I don’t. Instead, I sink slowly into my chair, folding my arms across my chest, letting the silence stretch and suffocate. Let her squirm.
She doesn’t. Her chin lifts, her gaze sweeping over each of us, daring us to say something. Anything.
“No,” Xayden says finally, breaking the tension with a lazy smirk. “No problem here. Long as you can keep up, princess.”
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. Damn shame. “Good,” she says coolly. “Because like it or not, we’re stuck with each other for this.”
West makes a low sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a scoff, but he doesn’t press it.
Jake flicks the ash off his cigarette, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees again. “Fine,” he says, his tone laced with mock indifference. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s the grand plan, Ash? You’ve got us here. Might as well make it worth our time.”
Her lips press into a thin line, the faintest crack in her polished exterior, but she doesn’t waver. “Like I said already, the next theme for the show is built around your music—around you. We need your take on the styling, the mood, the creative vision. The models are meant to capture your energy, your essence, your vibe and bring it to life on the runway.”
Jake snorts, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. “Our vibe, huh? You mean the part where we look like we rolled out of bed after a three-day bender?”
“Speak for yourself,” Xayden chimes in, his grin widening as he rakes a hand through his dark curls. “I like to think I bring a certain je ne sais quoi to the table.”
West doesn’t bother to hide his eye roll, and Jake shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.
Ashlyn doesn’t flinch. “Whatever you want to call it, that’s what we need. Your authenticity. The raw, unpolished truth of who you are.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and loaded, and I can’t help but wonder if she hears the irony in them. Because authenticity? Truth? That’s the last thing she ever gave us.
“Fine,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. “We’ll play along. But don’t expect us to sugarcoat it.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, something sparks there—something raw and unguarded. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that damn mask again.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she says, her voice steady, her expression unreadable.
And damn it, part of me hates how much I still want to tear it all down.