8. Ashlyn
CHAPTER 8
Ashlyn
The studio feels like a battlefield, even in the quiet. The tension lingers, heavy and suffocating, as if the air itself remembers every word exchanged, every wound reopened. I should feel relief now that I’m alone again, but the silence presses harder than their stares ever did.
My tablet shakes in my hands as I sit down, placing it on the desk in front of me. I try to focus, skim through my notes, but the words blur. Jake’s voice, his accusations, his regret—it all keeps replaying in my head.
Or maybe just… acknowledge it. What we did. What we all lost.
His words sting because they’re true, and because I’ve spent years trying to outrun them. I didn’t just lose them—I lost myself, too.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and force a steady breath, pushing the emotions down where they belong. There’s no room for them here, not when I have a job to do.
The door creaks open behind me, and I stiffen. For a fleeting second, I expect one of them—Todd, Jake, maybe even West— to walk back in and keep unraveling everything I’ve spent years stitching back together.
But it’s Shelley. Her heels click against the floor as she strides in, her energy as bright and oblivious as ever.
“How’s it going?” she asks, her tone cheery, as if this is just another day at the office.
I plaster on a smile, the one I’ve perfected for moments like this. “Great. Just ironing out the details.”
She glances at the scattered notes on the desk and raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You look a little…” She pauses, searching for the right word.
“Tired,” I say, cutting her off with a laugh that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “It’s been a long day.”
Shelley’s expression softens, “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. I’m here if you need help.”
The kindness in her voice hits like a sucker punch, but I nod and wave it off with a practiced smile. “Thanks, Shelley. Really. I’ve got it under control.”
She studies me for a moment longer, her eyes narrowing slightly, before she speaks again. “If you’re sure... I came by to check on all of you. Why weren’t you eating lunch with the guys?”
I hesitate, then shrug, keeping my tone light. “Just not hungry. And I’m excited to get this planned.”
Her brow furrows, but she nods slowly, as if she’s weighing whether or not to push. Eventually, she decides against it. “If you’re good, I’ll head back to the office. Can you swing by tomorrow morning so we can go over the plans you’ve created?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, my voice steady enough to sound convincing. “I’ll be there by nine.”
“Perfect.” She lingers for a beat, her gaze searching mine like she knows there’s more beneath the surface. But then she smiles and turns to leave, her heels clicking loudly against the floor.
As the door closes behind her, silence descends again, wrapping around me like a weight.
I drop into the chair and stare at the desk in front of me. My reflection stares back, faint and distorted in the polished surface. The woman I see is poised, professional—everything the world expects me to be.
But beneath the veneer, I can feel the cracks spreading.
The truth is, I don’t have it under control. Not the work. Not my emotions. Not the way their presence tears at the seams of the carefully constructed life I’ve built.
And no matter how tightly I clutch the walls around my heart, I can feel them slipping. Piece by piece, they’re crumbling, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hold them together.
The silence stretches, pressing down on my chest as I stare blankly at my notes. For a moment, I let the exhaustion creep in. My fingers curl tightly around the edges of the desk, grounding myself against the chaos in my head. I have to do this for the show. If I lose the show, what else do I have? Nothing. Because I gave it all up for a career.
The sound of the door creaking open breaks through my thoughts. I don’t bother looking up, certain it’s Shelley doubling back.
“Shelley,” I sigh, letting the frustration I’ve been holding back bubble to the surface. “I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to check on me every five seconds.” The words rush out, more bitter than I intended. I hesitate, my voice softening as the admission slips out. “I’m just… trying not to fall apart here. Primal Pulse—they are more than old acquaintances.”
The door clicks shut, and I glance up, expecting to see Shelley’s concerned face. Instead, Xayden leans casually against the wall, one eyebrow cocked, his grin sarcastic.
“Well,” he says, his voice smooth, laced with teasing, “don’t let me stop you. Falling apart could be great entertainment. Though I should probably grab popcorn first.”
My breath catches, heat flooding my face. I sit up straighter, scrambling to shove the vulnerability back into its box. “Xayden,” I say, my tone clipped, my mask firmly in place. “What do you want?”
He pushes off the wall, sauntering toward me with the kind of confidence that only someone like Xayden could pull off. His tattoos shift and ripple with every movement, intricate patterns running up his arms and disappearing beneath the cuffs of his flashy, gold-accented jacket. His hair is perfectly tousled, as if he hasn’t spent a second thinking about it, but I know better.
“What do I want?” he echoes, tapping a finger against his chin in mock contemplation. “Well, I came to grab my phone, but now I think I’d rather stay and see what falling apart looks like for the Ashlyn Robinson.”
His grin widens, but it’s cutting in ways his jokes weren’t when we were younger.
“Funny,” I say dryly. “If you’re done with your stand-up routine, maybe you should go back to rehearsal.”
“Maybe,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. But instead of leaving, he takes another step closer, his grin softening into something harder to read. “Or maybe I thought I’d stick around. Seems like you’ve got a lot going on in here.” He gestures vaguely to the room, though his gaze pins me like he can see through every wall I’ve built.
“There’s nothing going on,” I say, the lie sliding off my tongue too easily.
Xayden tilts his head, his grin slipping just enough to reveal the hard edge beneath. “Right. That’s why you’re skipping lunch and snapping at poor Shelley. Totally nothing.”
I flinch, a subtle reaction, but his perceptive eyes catch it anyway.
“Thought so,” he mutters, his tone softer but no less cutting. He moves closer, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, his presence impossible to ignore. He’s too close—close enough that my pulse spikes, my heart slamming against my ribcage in that maddening, familiar way it did with West last night and Jake earlier today. It’s like it’s fighting to escape, desperate to return to where it thinks it belongs—with them.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” I say, trying to sound firm, but the words come out thinner than I’d like.
His eyes narrow slightly, but his tone stays light, teasing. “Just checking in,” he says, spinning one of his drumsticks in his fingers with an easy grace that feels rehearsed. “You know, being the considerate one. That’s me—Mr. Empathy.”
I roll my eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at my lips despite the tension knotting my chest. “You? Empathy?”
His grin sharpens, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Gotta stay true to the brand, right?” He taps the drumstick lightly on the desk, the rhythm soft but steady, the sound filling the silence between us.
The quiet stretches out, heavier now, and for a moment, his playful facade slips. He leans forward just slightly, enough for me to catch the flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, a shadow of the hurt he hides behind all his jokes and mischief.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, his voice quieter, more serious, “you don’t have to fall apart in private. I can hold you while you crumble.”
His words hit harder than they should, piercing through the walls I’ve spent years building around myself.
“Xayden—” I start, unsure of what I even mean to say. But before I can figure it out, he straightens, that familiar mischievous grin snapping back into place like armor.
“No? If you’d prefer Jake, I know he does the whole comfort thing better than me,” he says, spinning the drumstick one last time before tucking it into his pocket. “Really, I don’t know why I offered. The salt in your tears would probably ruin my jacket.”
I roll my eyes and huff out a half hearted laugh. “I’m sure you have the money to buy a new one.”
“True.” He shrugs. “So, need to fall apart still?” He holds open his arms like I’m going to fall into them, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to myself at least that the idea is tempting, if only to feel them wrapped around me again.
I’m not sure I remember what sleep feels like anymore. By the time Shelley and I sit down for our nine a.m. meeting, it feels as though the clock has both dragged endlessly and sprinted forward too quickly. I sink into the chair across from her desk, the familiar space offering no comfort.
So much has changed since the last time I was here. I feel like a different person, like someone who’s been unraveled and stitched back together wrong. I guess running into the scent matches you rejected—having sex with one of them and being forced to work with them—does that. It frays you around the edges until you can’t tell what’s holding you together anymore.
Shelley leans back in her chair, her fingers lightly clasped in front of her. Her gaze narrows as she studies me, and I know she’s about to zero in on exactly what I don’t want to talk about.
“Okay, spill,” she says, her tone light but laced with authority. “What’s going on with you and the guys?”
I flinch, my defenses instinctively snapping into place. “The planning’s going fine,” I say smoothly, reaching for the file I brought with me. “I’ve outlined?—”
“Not the show, Ashlyn,” she cuts me off, raising an eyebrow. “The guys. You . What’s going on with all of that?”
My hands tighten around the folder and, for a moment, I consider deflecting again. But Shelley doesn’t let me get away with much.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I try, though the words come out weak.
“Ash.” Her tone softens, and she leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “You’re not yourself. You’ve been running on fumes since this collaboration started. Whatever it is, it’s eating you alive. Talk to me.”
Her sincerity undoes me. The dam I’ve been trying so hard to hold back starts to crack. “It’s complicated,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Try me,” she says gently.
I take a shaky breath, staring down at the folder in my lap like it holds the answers. “I loved them,” I say finally, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “All four of them. I loved them so much, and when I left—when I chose my career over them—I thought I was doing the right thing. For me. For them.”
Shelley stays quiet, letting me continue.
“But now… being around them again, it’s like all of it is still there. The hurt, the anger, the love. I don’t even know who I am anymore, let alone who they are. And I don’t know how to deal with any of it.”
Shelley exhales, her expression softening. “Ashlyn,” she says, her voice firm but kind. “I know this feels impossible, but maybe this is exactly what you need. Maybe working with them—facing all of this head-on—is how you work through it.”
I shake my head, panic rising in my chest. “I don’t think I can. It’s too much. They’re too much.”
“Of course it’s too much,” Shelley says, leaning forward, her gaze steady and unyielding. “That’s what love and heartbreak and growth are. But tell me this—ignoring it hasn’t worked, has it?”
I stay silent, her words settling over me like a heavy blanket of truth I can’t shake off.
Her hand reaches across the desk, resting lightly on mine. The warmth of the gesture is unexpected, grounding. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Ash. And you deserve to figure this out. For you. Not the show, not them—for you .”
I look down at her hand on mine, the steady pressure both comforting and unnerving.
“I know how much you’ve struggled in your romantic life,” she continues, her voice soft but insistent. “The whole time we’ve known each other, it’s been one thing after another. Maybe they’re the reason why. Maybe it’s always been about them.”
Her words hit harder than I want to admit, a direct hit to the ache I’ve tried so hard to bury. For a moment, I can’t breathe.
But then something shifts inside my chest—a faint flicker of hope sparking in the shadows. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this mess I’ve walked back into is exactly where I need to be. Maybe Jake was right, too—maybe it’s time to stop running and acknowledge what we all did to each other.
I take a shaky breath. “We were young,” I say aloud, more to myself than to Shelley. “Young and stupid. All of us. It wasn’t just me who made mistakes. We all did.”
Shelley nods, her expression a mix of understanding and encouragement. “That’s growth, Ash. It’s seeing the whole picture, not just the pain. And maybe now’s the time to figure out what’s next.”
The idea terrifies me—letting the past surface, picking apart the mess we made. But it also feels… necessary. Like maybe this is how I start putting myself back together. This is how I heal.