32. Ashlyn
CHAPTER 32
Ashlyn
The moment the model steps onto the runway, my pen freezes midair.
Black leather pants with chain accents. A torn red shirt beneath a fitted leather jacket that catches the light just right, glittering like the stormy sky in my memories. It’s bold, unapologetic—rebellion stitched into fabric.
And it takes me back.
I can’t stop it. The memory slams into me, pulling me under like a rip current.
The awful party. The rain. The kiss. And everything that kiss started.
I suck in a breath. I thought at the time, This is it. This is where everything changes.
And it had.
Now, sitting here in this studio, years later, that moment feels as raw and vivid as if it just happened.
The model keeps walking, but I can’t move. My pen hangs limply in my hand, my heart caught somewhere between the past and the present.
I force my gaze back to the runway, trying to focus, but the memory clings to me. I don’t dare glance at the stage where the guys are playing. I can feel West’s eyes on me, though, like he knows exactly where my mind just went.
And maybe he does. Maybe he went there too.
I fight to pull myself together. It’s just an outfit , I tell myself. Just a stupid jacket and some pants. It’s not him.
But my heart doesn’t care.
It’s still sixteen. It’s still standing in the rain, holding onto the boy who was my first everything.
And no matter how much I try to bury it, that night will always be a part of me.
My fingers tighten around the tablet, my grip almost painful as I try to force the memory back into the box where it belongs. But the ache in my chest, the heat rising to my face—it doesn’t fade.
I keep my focus on the model, watching her stride confidently down the runway in the outfit that’s somehow managed to rip open old wounds I thought were long healed.
It’s just clothes. Just a stupid outfit.
Even after two more models, I can’t shake the feelings.
The air feels different now, heavier. I feel it like a current pulling at me, and before I can stop myself, my gaze flickers to the stage where the guys are still playing.
West is already looking at me.
His fingers are steady on the strings of his guitar, but his eyes—God, his eyes—are locked on mine, dark and intense, like he’s been waiting for me to look at him. The connection is instant, like it always is, and my breath catches in my throat.
I try to look away, but I can’t.
His gaze is unrelenting, holding me in place, and suddenly it’s like the years between us have disappeared. He’s not the rockstar standing on a stage in front of cameras and lights. He’s the boy who kissed me in the rain, the boy who made my heart race in a way no one else had before then..
For a moment, everything else fades—the runway, the music, the buzz of the crew. It’s just him, just us, like it was that night.
But it’s not that night. It’s now.
The moment presses down on me, and I feel exposed, like he can see straight through me to the emotions I’ve been trying to hide. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—something raw and unspoken—that sends a shiver down my spine.
I force myself to look away, dropping my gaze back to my tablet, pretending to type something even though my hand is trembling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the flicker of movement as he looks down at his guitar, his fingers moving seamlessly across the strings. He doesn’t miss a beat, but I know he felt it too.
Because with West, it’s always been like this. Electric. Overwhelming. Impossible to ignore.
And it terrifies me.
I exhale slowly, trying to steady my breathing, trying to shove the memory and the feelings back where they belong. Before they get any ideas.
The rest of the models finish their walks, each one showcasing designs that capture bits of the guys—their energy, their style, their personalities. But none of them hit me in the gut like the second one.
Even when the models all come back out for their scores, I can barely bring myself to look at her. Every time I try, all I see is that night in the rain—when everything felt possible, when the world seemed endless, and I thought I had all the time in the world with West.
We score each model, the process blurring past me in a haze. Before I know it, the filming for episode four wraps, and the usual post-shoot chaos descends. Assistants dart around, Shelley barks last-minute instructions, and the models chatter excitedly as they head backstage.
Shelley strides over to the judges’ table, her laptop tucked under her arm and her heels clicking loudly against the floor. “The reservation is set for your date tonight,” she says with her usual brisk efficiency.
I lean back in my chair, looking up at her, my thoughts spinning. After what happened with Jake last night, I’m not sure I can keep up the whole fake dating thing with the guys. Not when every interaction feels too real, too close to the edge of something I can’t control.
Instead of answering, I deflect. “I ran into Owen at the coffee shop earlier,” I say, my voice steady despite the mess in my head. “The paparazzi were there.”
Shelley’s expression doesn’t falter, but her brows lift slightly. “Owen?” she asks, her tone carefully neutral.
I nod, gripping my pen tighter than necessary. “Yep. And of course, the cameras caught it. So… that’ll be fun when it hits the tabloids.”
Her lips press into a thin line, her laptop shifting under her arm. “Well,” she says after a beat, “let’s hope it doesn’t overshadow the storyline we’re working on.”
I give her a tight smile, but my stomach churns. She’s thinking about the narrative, the show, while I’m sitting here trying to sort out my tangled feelings about the guys—and now Owen, of all people, has decided to pop back up to test it all.
Shelley glances at her watch and straightens. “Your car will be here in an hour. Make sure you’re ready.”
She strides off before I can say anything else, leaving me sitting there with my thoughts. I stare at the now-empty runway, the memory of West’s gaze still burning in my mind. And now I’ll have to spend an entire evening with him, pretending I didn’t take a trip to the past.
The sleek black car pulls up to the curb in front of the restaurant, the low thrum of the engine barely audible over the city’s hum. I glance out the window at the glowing facade of the building, its gilded entrance practically oozing opulence. Of course Shelley picked this place. The kind of restaurant where the chandeliers probably cost more than my car and the wine list is in a different language.
Beside me, West sits quietly, his gaze fixed on the window, his reflection blurred against the glass. I’m used to seeing him in his usual uniform—jeans, a T-shirt, maybe a leather jacket if he’s feeling formal. But tonight? Tonight he’s…
God.
He’s wearing a tailored black suit, the kind that fits just right, highlighting his broad shoulders and lean frame. The open collar of his white shirt shows just enough skin to remind me he’s still the West I know—rough around the edges, even when he’s polished.
And it’s doing things to me I wish it wouldn’t.
The car slows to a stop, and the driver steps out to open my door. But before he can reach it, West is already there. He moves with an easy confidence, his hand reaching for mine.
“Let me help you,” he says, his voice low and smooth.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, my pulse skipping as I slip my hand into his. His grip is warm, steady, and the way his fingers curl around mine sends a flicker of heat racing up my arm.
As I step out, the hem of my dress brushing against his shoes, my eyes meet his for the briefest moment. There’s something there—something I can’t name but feel all the same.
“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice quieter than I intended.
He releases my hand slowly, his gaze lingering for a beat longer before he steps back, gesturing toward the entrance. “Shall we?”
We walk toward the doors, the tension between us palpable. It’s not the first time I’ve felt it—not by a long shot—but tonight, it feels heavier, like it’s just waiting for a reason to snap.
As we step into the restaurant, I glance around, taking in the towering crystal chandeliers and the impeccably dressed waitstaff moving through the room like dancers in a well-rehearsed ballet.
“This place is… a lot,” I say, trying to break the silence.
West chuckles lightly, his lips pulling into a half-smile. “It’s definitely not a dive bar, that’s for sure.”
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you dressed like this.”
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice teasing. “What do you think?”
I glance at him, my cheeks warming before I can stop them. “You still clean up… well.”
His smile widens, and for a moment, the tension eases. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he says, holding the back of my chair as I sit down.
I look up at him, rolling my eyes. “I’ve always known you were attractive, but you don't have to dress up in a fancy suit to prove that.”
He takes the seat across from me, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his jaw. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he says.
I shift in my seat, my pulse quickening under his gaze. I focus on the menu, anything to ground myself. But he doesn’t let the silence linger.
“Do you remember the first time we dressed up for something?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of something—nostalgia, maybe.
I glance at him over the edge of the menu. “Are you talking about prom?”
He shakes his head, his eyes locking on mine. “No. Before that. That fundraiser thing your mom made us all go to. You wore that green dress.”
My heart stumbles, the memory crashing over me. I remember that night vividly—the awkwardness of getting all dressed up, the way we’d all fumbled through it together, and the way West and the other guys had looked at me like I was the only person in the room. It was when we were all new and trying to figure out what I was to all of them—before we knew we were scent matches.
“I remember,” I say quietly, my fingers brushing the edge of the tablecloth as the memory lingers.
“You were nervous,” he continues, his smile growing fond. “You kept fidgeting with your bracelet.”
I laugh lightly, shaking my head. “And you kept stepping on my feet during the slow dance.”
“I did not,” he protests, though the grin tugging at his lips betrays him.
“You were terrible,” I counter, but my voice softens.
The playful moment shifts as his smile fades, replaced by something more serious. His lips press together, his gaze dropping briefly before he looks back at me. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice heavier now.
The sudden shift in tone makes my stomach dip. “For what?”
He swallows hard, his fingers brushing over the edge of his menu. “For that night,” he says, lifting his eyes to mine, the weight of his words settling heavy in the air. “At Wisteria.”
My stomach twists.
“I handled it badly,” he continues, his voice rough with regret. “Seeing you again after all those years… I was jealous and drunk, and instead of just talking to you like a normal person, I—” he breaks off, his jaw tightening as he swallows hard, “I treated you like?—”
My heart races, the memory playing out in my mind like it’s happening all over again. His touch, his growl, the way my body betrayed me—and then his words, slicing through my heart.
“I don’t give my knot to cheaters,” he’d said. Leaving me panting on the fucking sink like an omega in heat.
“You didn’t give me a chance to explain,” I say now, my voice barely above a whisper.
He flinches slightly, but he doesn’t look away. “I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry for that too. I should’ve asked instead of assuming. I was drunk and… angry.”
“At what?” I ask, my throat tightening. “At me?”
“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “At myself. At how much I still wanted you after all that time. At the thought that maybe I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. And instead of dealing with it, I took it out on you.”
His honesty leaves me speechless, my heart caught between hurt and something else—something dangerously close to hope.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’m sure you feel used,” he says, his voice steady but quieter now. “But I needed you to know I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry since that night.”
I stare at him, absorbing his words. Part of me wants to hold onto the anger, the hurt, but another part—the part that remembers the way he kissed me in the rain, the way he held me like I was his whole world when we were kids—wants to let it go.
“Thank you,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
It’s not forgiveness, not yet. But it’s a start.