Chapter 32 - Raina
The first thing I hear is my phone screaming on the nightstand. It starts as a low buzz, then ramps up into a possessed jackhammer, vibrating so hard it nearly throws itself onto the floor. I pry one eye open, slapping at the screen, then freeze when I see the notifications.
The lockscreen is filled—over a hundred unread messages, twice as many social pings, a handful of missed calls with area codes I don’t recognize.
At the top: an alert from the Media Nexus.
The banner reads, “brEAKING: Pop Star Raina Lexington’s Secret Life EXPOSED in Shocking Photo Leak.
” Beneath it, a thumbnail of me in a sweatshirt, my arm around Nash, both of us laughing, his lips grazing my hair.
My heart plummets into the pit of my stomach. I haven’t even sat up and I know, with a body-level certainty, that the worst-case scenario has detonated overnight, a story that feels all too familiar.
A photo of me and Nash is nothing; I’ve posted dozens on my own feeds. But the next notification loads before I can blink: “Rumors of Polyamorous Scandal Rock Survival Records Band. Is Raina Sleeping Her Way to a Comeback?”
I unlock the screen with trepidation. Every app is flooded: group DMs, Discord, TikTok, a hundred tags on Twitter, texts from both known and unknown contacts.
I see my own face in every post, not the makeup-and-stage-lights version but the stripped-down, grinning, wild-eyed girl that only the band and the house have seen.
Half of the photos are of me, Nash, and Blake, tangled together on the living room couch.
Some are even worse—grainy shots through window glass, silhouettes of the guys in my bed at various times.
My hands go numb. My breath is so shallow I wonder if I’m even getting enough oxygen.
The headlines are relentless, each one worse than the last:
“Shocking Bedroom Revelations: Is Raina’s New Image Just for the Boys?”
“Inside the Survival House: Sordid Details Emerge”
“Raina Lexington—Pop Queen or Poly Cult Leader?”
“Fallen Angel: Former Sweetheart Now Rocks With Bad Boys”
My eyes land on a meme, already viral, of my head, the caption reading, “WHY CHOOSE JUST ONE?”
A dull, ugly pressure begins behind my eyes. The world stutters with each scroll. My jaw aches, probably from clenching it so hard.
Before I can even process what this means for me, or for the guys, I hear shouting from the kitchen.
Nash’s voice is unmistakable, even when he’s not swearing. “MotherFUCKER! I’ll kill whoever did this. I’ll actually, literally—“ A glass shatters, sharp and high, the sound like an alarm.
I toss on the nearest sweatshirt and bolt down the hall.
The kitchen is a warzone: Nash is in motion, stalking around the island, his hair wild and fists balled, every inch of him radiating threat.
Blake sits at the table, eyes fixed on his phone, hands locked so tightly around a mug I’m surprised it hasn’t exploded too.
Darius is already online, hunched over his laptop, swiping through newsfeeds like he’s looking for a secret message.
Keaton’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed so hard the fabric of his tee is stretched to its limit, face utterly blank.
Only Tris is motionless, standing dead center in the chaos, scrolling through every image, every caption, with the flat, analytical stare of a sniper.
They all look up when I enter, but only Darius speaks. “Raina… have you seen it yet?”
“Yeah.” My voice is rougher than it’s been in a while. “It’s everywhere.”
Blake’s phone dings, and he jerks like it’s a cattle prod. “Fuck, they already found my family,” he mutters. He shoves the phone away, knuckles white. “My mom’s in tears. She thinks I’ve joined a sex cult.”
Nash stops pacing just long enough to look at me, his rage dissolving into something raw. “Are you okay?” he asks, and it’s almost a whisper.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Tris doesn’t look away from his phone. “It’s not only the tabloids.
Some of the posts are from local accounts.
People who know where we live.” He holds up the phone, thumb flicking between screenshots: our back terrace, the fire pit, the studio entrance.
“This is pro work. Either a drone or someone with a lens across the valley.”
Keaton speaks up, the first words I’ve heard from him this morning. “So we’re compromised,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s something cold and flat behind it. “They know which rooms you use, Raina.”
“They know a lot more than that.” Darius types furiously.
“It’s not just window photos. There’s stuff in here you’d have to be inside the house to get.
Well, the tour bus at least. Look.” He swivels his laptop to face me.
The screen shows a blurred photo of me and Nash at the kitchen counter, arms wrapped, faces inches apart.
The angle is unmistakable: someone was in the room.
My stomach pitches. I clamp a hand over my mouth.
“What the fuck,” I choke.
“Delivery guys, management, even fans,” Blake says bitterly. “Remember the weird pizza that showed up last week?”
Nash growls. “It’s always a goddamn pizza. Next time I see one, I’m throwing it out the window.”
Darius’ face is set, determined, but his eyes are scared. “It has to be someone close. Maybe one of the new roadies, or—“
“Stop,” I say, a little louder than I mean to. The room goes silent, the air thick with fear and accusation. “It doesn’t matter who did it. What matters is what we do now.”
No one moves for a long, suffocating moment.
Then Tris speaks. “Izzy is on her way up. She wants a meeting in thirty.”
“She’s not coming here, is she?” Nash says, darting to the window. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds a bold photographer who jumped our fence out there. I’d bet money they are camped by the gate.
“She’s going to call in.” Tris’ voice is a blade. “She told us not to post anything, lock the doors, and for fuck’s sake—‘don’t talk to the press.’ Her words.”
Keaton pushes off the wall. “I’ll check the perimeter.”
“No one’s coming for us,” Nash snaps, but Keaton’s already gone.
I sink into a chair. My bones feel full of static. “They’re going to rip us to shreds, aren’t they?”
Darius sits beside me. “Only if we let them.”
Blake shudders. “Fuck what anyone else thinks. We’ll get through this together.”
“They always do,” I say, voice hoarse. “First it’s the slut jokes, then it’s the rehab rumors. Next week it’ll be I’m a danger to myself and others.”
Nash slams a palm down. “No. We’re not letting them win.”
“Easy to say when you’re not the one with your tits on every headline,” I snap, instantly hating myself for it. The table goes quiet. I look around at my guys: Blake blinking fast, Dare biting his lip, Tris back to scrolling, Nash glaring at the wall, Keaton nowhere to be seen.
A jarring, tinny chime interrupts, and the laptop Dare was using lights up. Izzy’s face appears, sharp and all business even through the webcam.
“Good, you’re all there,” she says, not waiting for hellos. She doesn’t even notice Keaton is missing. “We have a problem. The story is running at full tilt on every major outlet. Collectively, comments are over a hundred thousand and climbing.”
“Is there a way to kill it?” Tris asks, all business.
Izzy shakes her head. “No. The damage is done. The only question is how we respond.”
“We can’t exactly deny it,” Darius mutters, “not with these pictures.”
“No,” Izzy says, eyes flicking to me. “So we manage the narrative. You want to survive this, you don’t let them define you.
” She glances at her other monitor, reading something off screen.
“Raina, listen. There will be a hundred think pieces today alone. Most will be trash. Some will dig for your exes, some will hound your parents, some will go after your men one by one. They’ll say you’re a manipulator. They’ll say you’re unstable.”
She lets out an unhappy sigh. “They will try to tear you down simply because they can. Which is why you have to decide right now how much of yourself you’re willing to show the world,” she continues, her jaw set. “You want to own it, or you want to hide?”
I look at the boys. Nash’s knuckles are bone white, Blake’s lips are pressed so tight he might swallow his own words, Darius’ hands are shaking, and Tris, for the first time since I met him, looks scared.
But it’s Keaton who speaks, stepping back into the room so quietly I almost miss it. “It’s not a scandal unless we let it be.” He stares me down, steady and unblinking. “This is family.”
Something in my chest unclenches. I nod once. “We own it.”
Izzy exhales, a sound halfway to a laugh. “Good. I’m sending security to the property to keep the paps out, and then I’ll draft the statement. Something simple and honest with no excuses. You’re adults; you make your own choices. You’re not hurting anyone.”
She clears her throat and seems to pin me with her stare through the device. “Did you see the timestamp for when the first news article hit?”
“Honestly, I didn’t think to check something like that. Why?” I ask, but I instantly have a feeling where she’s going with this.
“It was only a few hours after Lexington Productions had an emergency board meeting. Now I don’t know what happened in that meeting, but it seems strange that this story is spreading like wildfire shortly after.” She leans back in her seat, giving me a moment to let that digest.
Of course, it’s Dickless up to his old antics. I should’ve assumed it would be him in the first place. Especially with how the lawsuit went. He was fucking livid with the ruling.
Darius looks at his screen, then at me. “Raina, it’s not your fault.”
But I can’t shake the feeling it is. I’m the one who wanted all of this—the music, the comeback, the love. I’m the one who needed them so badly I let down every wall. I’m the one whose happiness is now a weapon for strangers to twist.
I glance at the phone on the table, still buzzing with notifications. My face is already a meme. My name already a punchline. But when I look up, I find five pairs of eyes staring back—worried, angry, scared, yes, but loyal. Mine.
This isn’t the end, it’s simply the next fight.
By dusk, the house is wrapped in a hush. We haven’t talked much since the kitchen, but you can feel something working in the air—like we’re all recharging, every hour smoothing out a little more of the panic from the morning.
At ten sharp, my phone lights up with a video call from Izzy. She seems tired, but the relief is clear when she sees us all together.
“It’s late, and I know it’s been a long day, so I’ll cut to the chase. The draft I sent you is three sentences long. I was hoping you’d approve.”
Blake checks his messages and reads it aloud: “We love each other. We make music together. We’re grateful for anyone who chooses kindness over cruelty.”
“That’s it?” Nash says, a little incredulous.
“That’s it,” Izzy replies.
“I like it,” I say. “Simple and to the point. No reason to give them more than what’s needed.”
Her eyes get a little glassy, but she covers it with a sharp “Good. Then let’s post it and never talk about this again unless you want to.” She holds our gaze for a moment. “I’m proud of you. All of you.”
It’s not long after I curl up on my side, comforter tugged to my chin, phone balanced on the pillow beside me while I wait for Tristan to finish brushing his teeth. I know I shouldn’t look, that the comments and DMs and mentions will only cut deeper, but the urge is unstoppable.
I swipe open one of the apps we’ve been using to upload all of our videos and click through to find trending hashtags. #RainaExposed, #ScandalStorm, #SleepingHerWayBack.
They make me wince, but aren’t worse than what I was expecting. Then I see something else, sandwiched between the sludge… #WhyShouldRainaChoose?
It doesn’t even register at first. I click, bracing for cruelty, but the top post is a video edit set to my old single—clips of me on stage, the guys goofing off in the studio, laughing, singing, dancing together.
Text overlays read: “She’s survived so much.
Let her have her happiness.” Underneath, hundreds of reposts, thousands of likes, and a comment section filled with hearts, clapping hands, and Storm Chaser emojis.
The next post is a fan account, and her sass comes across immediately. “Can we just agree that all five of them are soulmates and move on???” She flashes up pictures giving a commentary of how cute I am with each of the guys, making my heart beat harder.
My hands now shake for a different reason. There’re still haters—there always will be—but for every sneer there are a dozen defenders.
#WhyShouldRainaChoose is suddenly everywhere.
Everywhere I look, fans are arguing, not about my virtue, but about which of my guys is the hottest, or sweetest, or most deserving.
“Keaton is the real MVP,” one says, then another: “Nash would burn the world for her, prove me wrong.” And so on, building and building, until it’s almost funny.
Tristan quietly climbs into bed, trying his best not to disturb me, but I know he’s watching over my shoulder as he wraps an arm around my waist and tugs me flush against him.
There are drawings—me in superhero capes, the guys in matching uniforms, an adorable sketch of us all tangled up like cats on a couch. There are video edits, each one more unhinged and loving than the last.
I’m not the villain in their version.
I’m not even the punchline.
I’m the girl who survived. The one who took the hit and kept singing, kept loving, even when it was messy and too much and real.
I put the phone down and let the waves of relief wash over me, salt in the wounds but also a kind of healing. I remember what Keaton said. It’s not a scandal unless we let it be.
Maybe it’s not a scandal, I think, drifting in that warm space between awake and asleep. Maybe it’s simply a love story with too many leading men.