Chapter 5
FAYE
INTERVIEW PROTOCOL
Priority Level: CRITICAL
Status: BARELY HOLDING IT TOGETHER
PRESENTATION REQUIREMENTS:
Project happy newlyweds
Maintain professional boundaries
Stop rewriting this list (attempt #7)
Breathe normally when Sam's nearby
Remember rehearsed responses
KEY TALKING POINTS:
1. Natural progression of friendship
2. Perfect timing with tour
3. Private ceremony (DO NOT MENTION UNICORN)
4. Mutual respect and admiration
5. NO MENTION OF TEQUILA
CONTINGENCY PLANS:
A) Deflect personal questions
B) Redirect to tour discussion
C) Emergency exit strategy
D) Resist urge to sniff Sam
Note: WHAT IS THIS COLOGNE???
REMEMBER:
- This is just another interview
- Everything is under control
- Sam's thumb stroking my shoulder means nothing
- Stop adding notes about Sam
Current Status: T-minus 60 minutes to interview
Threat Level: Escalating
Personal Note: This would be easier if he'd stop looking at me like that
Secondary Note: Stop making notes about how he looks at me
Final Note: I am a PROFESSIONAL. This is FINE.
" Y ou're doing it again," Sam murmured, sliding a fresh cup of coffee across the small table in our shared tour bus kitchenette.
I didn't look up from my laptop where I was crafting our first official interview responses. "Doing what?"
"That thing where you forget to breathe when you're stressed."
I'd worked with Sam for five years. I'd seen how he anticipated the band's needs before they voiced them. How he noticed when Justice's voice strained or when Radley's wrists ached from too much drumming.
It shouldn’t have surprised me how much he observed. And yet….
I glanced up to find him watching me with soft brown eyes. He wore a plain black t-shirt that hung loose on his frame, his dark hair still damp from his shower. The early morning light caught the wedding ring on his left hand as he lifted his own cup to his lips.
My heart did a strange little flip that I blamed entirely on a caffeine overdose despite having yet to take a sip of my second cup.
"I'm not stressed," I lied. "I'm energised."
His lips twitched. "You've rewritten that email six times."
"You've been counting?"
He shrugged, taking another sip of his tea. "You pull your bottom lip between your teeth when you're overthinking, and your left eye twitches when you're lying."
I reached up to touch the corner of my eye, scowling when his grin widened.
"Made you look."
"Shouldn't you be warming up or something? The interview's in an hour."
The band were slated for a morning show interview and performance. Tomorrow night would be their first performance on this leg of the tour, and in the craziness of the last day, I’d completely blanked on this interview.
Thankfully, Liz had remembered and called a band meeting. We were due at the studio around eight for a nine o’clock performance, followed by a nine-thirty interview. Which meant I had precisely twenty-one minutes before all hell was about to break loose.
"I'm good." He settled back in his chair, still watching me with that infuriating mix of amusement and concern. "Want to tell me what's bothering you?"
I gestured at my laptop. "Other than crafting responses to deeply personal questions about our relationship while trying to maintain professional boundaries and not tank both our careers?"
"Other than that."
A laugh escaped before I could catch it. That was the thing about Sam—he had a way of making even the most stressful situations seem manageable.
I closed my laptop, wrapping my hands around my coffee cup. "I don't want to mess this up for you. For the band."
"Hey." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing my wrist. "You've never messed up anything. You're the reason we've made it this far."
"That's not?—"
"Remember that incident with Justice and the llama?"
I smiled. "That was different."
"Or the time Felix accidentally started that cult?"
"That wasn't actually a cult," I corrected automatically. "Just some very enthusiastic fans who misinterpreted his tweet about starting a cheese appreciation society."
"My point is," Sam's thumb brushed over my pulse point, "you've handled everything we've thrown at you. This is just another day at the office."
"Except I'm usually handling other people's crises. Not starring in my own."
"True." He withdrew his hand, and I tried not to notice how I missed his warmth. "But now you've got me to help handle it."
Before I could respond, Justice's voice boomed from the back of the bus. "If you two lovebirds are done canoodling, we've got a show to prepare for."
I straightened in my chair, professionalism snapping back into place like armour. "No one says canoodling anymore."
"I do," Justice appeared in the kitchenette doorway, already dressed in his signature all-black ensemble. "And I'm a rockstar, so I make it cool."
"Keep telling yourself that," Sam murmured into his mug.
I stood, gathering my things. "The car will be here in forty-five minutes. Everyone remember their talking points?"
"Yes, dear," Sam drawled, earning him a glare.
"Don't call me dear."
"Sorry, sweetums."
"I will end you."
"Promises, promises, snookums."
Justice looked between us, shaking his head. "You know, for two people pretending to be married, you already bicker like an old couple."
I ignored the comment, just like I ignored the feeling of Sam's eyes following me as I left the kitchenette.
Just another day at the office.
Right.
The sound stage lights burned hot against my skin as I watched from inside the studio as the Wild Ones performed Wild Heart out on the plaza stage. Like many morning shows, Good Morning Today had their own set up specifically for days like this.
And to land the band of the moment was quite the coup. Which meant they’d gone all out on the stage decorations for today.
"Two minutes!" the floor manager called out.
Liz appeared at my elbow, tablet in hand. "We've got this."
"Of course we do." I smoothed down my pencil skirt, checking my reflection in my phone. The bandage on my forehead covered by a brightly patterned head wrap. "It's just another interview."
"Except this time you're the story."
I shot her a look. "Not helpful."
"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry at all. "But hey, at least Sam looks good."
I followed her gaze back to the TV screens. She wasn't wrong. The stylist had dressed him in dark jeans and a forest green button-down that made his brown eyes appear almost golden under the lights. His hair had been artfully tousled, and his wedding ring caught the light every time he moved his hands.
They played one song then transitioned into another as Liz moved away, taking a call.
I nodded my head in time to the music, mentally running through the rest of our day.
"Faye?" Liz tapped me gently on my shoulder, pulling my attention from the screens. "There's someone here from the label."
I turned, my PR smile already in place—and felt it freeze on my face.
Alex Pontiff.
The sight of him hit me like ice water down my spine. He hadn’t changed in the slightest since the last time I saw him, five years ago, when he’d ripped my world apart. If anything, he looked even more polished, every inch of him exuding that smug confidence I’d once found so intoxicating. His suit was immaculate—tailored to perfection in a deep navy that brought out the sharp lines of his jaw and his almost unsettlingly perfect cheekbones. His dark hair was swept back, not a strand out of place, adding to the impression of meticulous control that radiated from him like a force field. The faint scent of his expensive cologne drifted toward me, a crisp blend of something spicy and woodsy, as calculated as everything else about him.
But it was his eyes that really got me—still that same cool, calculating gray, sharp and assessing, with just a flicker of amusement beneath the surface. They’d once looked at me with warmth and admiration, or so I’d believed, but now I saw the truth. There was no warmth, only condescension hiding behind that well-practiced smile. His lips curved into a familiar, almost predatory grin that could easily pass as charming if you didn’t know better.
"Hello, Faye." His voice was exactly as I remembered it—smooth, with a hint of mockery wrapped in a thin layer of civility. He had the kind of tone that was impossible to pin down, teetering somewhere between polite professionalism and something far darker, like he was amused by the game he was playing and fully aware of the power he held.
The label thought you might need some... assistance managing this situation," he said, letting the word "assistance" roll off his tongue with exaggerated patience, as though he was speaking to a child who’d once again gotten in over their head. The implication hung in the air, thick and suffocating: I’d messed up. Again. Just like last time.
My jaw clenched, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, even as every memory of that time came crashing back. The way he’d systematically sabotaged me, spread rumours about my so-called “unprofessionalism,” and then swooped in to take credit for my work, leaving me with nothing but a shattered career and a bruised heart. He’d painted me as an unreliable mess, convincing the higher-ups I couldn’t handle the pressure—all while wearing that exact same infuriatingly sympathetic smile.
"We have it handled," I said, proud of the steadiness in my voice despite the anger simmering beneath. "But thanks for your concern."
"Do you?" His eyebrow lifted as he glanced down at his phone, where no doubt the headlines were still blowing up with the band’s impromptu Vegas wedding. "Because from where I’m standing, one of our biggest acts just had a drunken Vegas-style wedding that’s trending across every social platform. Hardly seems… professional." The last word came out like a knife, aimed to wound, bringing with it all the old accusations he’d used to ruin me before.
I held his gaze, refusing to flinch, even as the memories clawed at the edges of my composure. This time, I told myself, he wouldn’t get to see me crack.
"First," I said, channelling every ounce of control I'd built since then, "it wasn't Vegas. Second, we've already implemented a comprehensive media strategy that's generating positive engagement and increased ticket sales for the tour."
"Ah yes, the 'secret romance' angle." His smile turned sharp. "Interesting choice. Almost makes one wonder if there were... previous entanglements. The kind that might constitute a conflict of interest."
The blood drained from my face as I caught his meaning. He was going to dig into my past with Sam, try to twist our connection into something inappropriate.
Just like he'd manipulated me into appearing "unreliable" five years ago.
"Is there a problem here?" Sam's arm settled around my back to rest on my hip, pulling me tight against his side.
I started, glancing up at him to find his jaw tight, his gaze trained on Alex.
I hadn't even noticed the band finishing their set
"No problem," Alex said smoothly. "Just touching base about the situation. I'm Alex Pontiff, the label's new Head of Crisis Management."
Sam's thumb grazed my hip absently, a subtle gesture of affection and comfort that made Alex's eyes narrow. "Funny, I don't remember the label mentioning they were sending anyone."
"It was a last-minute decision. Given the... delicate nature of the situation."
"The situation," Sam's voice held an edge I rarely heard, "being what exactly?"
"A marriage that seems to have taken everyone by surprise." Alex's gaze slid to me. "Including, perhaps, the participants?"
Sam frowned. “What exactly are you saying?”
Alex lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’m just suggesting that Faye isn’t exactly known for her… reliability. It wouldn’t be the first time that she made a mistake.”
I would have stepped back had Sam’s arm not tightened around me, holding me in place. My body reacted as if Alex words were a physical slap.
“You want to show some respect?” Sam snapped. “That’s my wife you’re speaking to.”
My gaze flew to Sam, surprise warring with a delightful thrill at his possessive, defensive tone.
My wife.
"Thirty seconds!" the floor manager called out.
"You should take your place," I said, determined to shut down this conversation. "Liz, can you?—?"
"Of course, I'll show Mr. Pontiff to the green room." Liz's gaze danced between us, quickly assessing the situation. I caught the concern in her eyes.
"Actually," Alex said, "I think I'll watch from here. Always good to observe how these situations... develop."
The implication was clear: he was watching me. Waiting for me to fail. Just like before.
Sam's hand dipped to press firmly against my back. "Faye?"
I looked up at him, finding warmth and worry in his dark eyes. He'd been there after Alex destroyed my career, had watched me rebuild myself piece by piece. He knew what this meant.
"I'm fine," I said, more for Alex's benefit than Sam's. "Go. You have a show to do."
Sam hesitated, then did something completely unexpected. He leaned down and kissed me—not the careful peck we'd planned for the cameras, but something softer, more intimate. He lingered.
"Love you," he murmured against my lips, loud enough for Alex to hear.
Then he was gone, joining the band on set as the lights came up.
I touched my lips, still feeling the phantom press of his kiss, trying to ignore the way Alex watched me with calculating eyes.
"Still mixing business with pleasure, I see," he said quietly.
I straightened my spine, channelling every ounce of control I'd built since he'd last torn me down. "The difference is, Alex, this time I know exactly who has my back."
"Do you?" His smile was sharp. "Because from where I'm standing, this looks an awful lot like history repeating itself."
"No," I said, watching as Sam settled onto the couch, his ring catching the studio lights. "This time I'm not the naive girl who trusted the wrong person. I'm the woman who rebuilt herself after you tried to destroy her."
"We'll see." He checked his watch. "The label wants a full report by end of day. Try not to... disappoint them."
The words hit their mark—he knew exactly how much that accusation would haunt me. I kept my face neutral as the cameras started rolling.
Sam glanced over, offering me a warm, encouraging smile.
But this time, I wasn't alone.
“I don’t answer to you or the label,” I informed Alex, drawing strength from Sam’s quiet support. “I’m employed by the band. I’m their representative, not yours.”
“Contracts are precarious things,” he said in a soft voice. “Morality clauses and all that. You might want to ensure the band knows they’re on the labels radar.”
I gritted my teeth against the implication. “Noted.”
The segment cut to a commercial break and one of the techs ran over. “Sam has requested you on set.”
I blinked. “What?”
The tech began to mic me up, working quickly but efficiently. “He wants to introduce you.”
“But—”
Alex stepped forward. “I think this is a bad idea. Perhaps we could?—”
The tech ignored him, shoving me toward the set. “On the couch. We’re back in forty-nine seconds.”
I stumbled across the production floor toward where the Wild Ones sat arranged in a loose semicircle on the morning show's plush cream couches—Justice and Radley on one end, Felix in the middle, and Sam on the far right.
A spot had been conspicuously left open beside him.
I stepped onto the slightly raised set just as Amy Chen, the interviewer's hand landed on Sam's shoulder.
Something hot and uncomfortable curled in my stomach.
Sam ignored her, standing up and crossing quickly to me.
"There you are." He held out his hand. "Was starting to think you'd changed your mind about being seen with us riffraff."
I took his hand, letting him guide me to the spot beside him. "Someone has to keep you lot in line."
His arm settled around my shoulders as I sat, the movement natural as breathing. "Always taking care of us."
"It's literally my job."
"Among other things now," Amy cut in with a bright smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Speaking of which, this surprise wedding has everyone talking! Tell us, how long have you two been secretly dating?"
"Ten seconds!" the floor manager called.
I opened my mouth to deliver our carefully rehearsed response, but Sam beat me to it.
"Actually," he said, his arm tightening slightly around my shoulders, "there's nothing secret about how much Faye means to the band. She's been our rock since day one."
"Five seconds!"
"But romantically—" Amy pressed.
"We're live in three, two..."
The red light blinked on, and Amy’s picture-perfect smile snapped into place. “Welcome back to Good Morning Today, music lovers! I’m here with chart-topping sensation The Wild Ones, who are kicking off their world tour with some exciting news.”
Sam’s thumb brushed soothingly across my shoulder, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.
Just another interview, I reminded myself. Except this time, I couldn’t hide in the wings.
"So," Amy turned to us, her smile as polished as ever, "the whole world is dying to know—how does the band's publicist end up married to its lead guitarist?" "Tequila," Justice deadpanned from the other end of the couch. "Lots and lots of tequila." I fought back a laugh as Amy’s smile faltered, clearly disappointed by our rehearsed answer about friendship naturally blossoming into love. "What Justice means," I jumped in, my PR instincts taking over, "is that New Year's Eve was a celebration of many things. The end of a successful year, the start of our world tour, and yes, maybe we had a bit too much fun with the festivities." I could feel Sam's silent laughter beside me. "But Sam and I have known each other for years. The timing just felt right."
Amy’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a glint in her eye as she leaned forward, shifting to full-on interrogation mode, her voice syrupy sweet. “Well, the timing is just so... interesting, don’t you think?” she said, with a slight tilt of her head. “I mean, it’s not every day that a band’s publicist and its lead guitarist suddenly decide to get married. And right before a world tour launch, too! You can’t blame people for wondering if there might have been a little... strategic planning involved?”
I kept my smile polite, feeling Sam tense beside me. “I understand how it might look that way,” I replied, my PR instincts in full force, “but this wasn’t about strategy. Like I said, we’ve known each other for years, and things just... fell into place.”
She gave a small, sceptical nod, as though she was humouring me. “Of course, of course. But surely, as a publicist, you know the importance of timing. After all, you’re not just any couple—you’re both part of one of the biggest acts in the world right now. To the outside world, it looks like a bit of a whirlwind, doesn’t it? A New Year’s Eve wedding, all those tabloids catching wind of it...”
Before I could respond, she pivoted to Sam. “And Sam, I think people would love to hear your side, too. Some of your fans were absolutely heartbroken when they found out,” she added with a laugh, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Did you propose on a whim? Was this one of those ‘love at first sight’ situations?”
Sam chuckled, the sound a bit forced. “Not exactly. I’ve known Faye for a long time,” he said, giving me a warm look that felt like an anchor in the rising tide of Amy’s probing questions. “It’s not something we planned to happen right now, but I’m glad it did.”
Amy pounced, her smile sharpening even more. “So, you’re saying it wasn’t premeditated at all? That’s interesting, especially considering the buzz around your recent hospital visit, Faye. Some people are speculating there might have been... tension between you two following the wedding.”
My stomach dropped. I could see where she was leading, twisting her phrasing in that carefully veiled way to plant seeds of doubt, as if she were hinting at some dark undercurrent between us.
“Well,” she continued, feigning concern, “we’re all curious, you know. It’s not every day that a high-profile couple with such intense careers suddenly ties the knot, especially with rumours about a disagreement that ended with you in the hospital. I mean, no one’s saying anything definitive, of course, but?—”
"I'm going to stop you right there." I interrupted, fighting to control my anger. I leaned forward, my gaze fixed on Amy with a deadly calm. “I tripped and hit my head. Anyone suggesting otherwise clearly doesn’t know Sam—or me—at all.”
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, the temperature seeming to drop as a thick silence settled over us.
Amy’s carefully rehearsed smile slipped, and I saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she tried to backpedal, her voice suddenly more hesitant. “Of course, of course, I only meant...”
“I know exactly what you meant,” I said, my voice like ice. “And to imply anything other than the truth of this matter is not only misinformation but potentially damaging to a man whom I love and admire.” I placed my hand deliberately on Sam’s knee.
Sam’s fingers entwined with mine, squeezing.
“We understand the public interest in our relationship, and we respect that people want to know more about us,” Sam slid in smoothly, sounding unreasonably calm and collected. But we’re here to talk about the tour. The band has worked hard on new material that we can’t wait to share with fans.”
Justice picked up the thread, talking enthusiastically about their new songs, but I could feel Sam's tension simmering beside me, see it in the tight line of his jaw and the way his hand stayed possessively on my shoulder.
Finally, the red light blinked off, signalling the end of the segment. Amy's apology was as shallow as her smile, and I responded with practiced politeness—despite my desire to tell her where to shove it. Sam kept an arm wrapped around my shoulder, his tension was like a live wire beside me, barely held in check.
As soon as we were clear of the studio and lost in the bustle of crew breaking down equipment, Sam grabbed my hand. "Come on."
"Sam—"
"Not here."
He pulled me toward the exit, weaving through the crowd until we reached the limo waiting outside, its dark, sleek lines reflecting the cool winter light. The driver opened the door, and I barely had time to climb inside before Sam followed, closing the door firmly behind him.
He hit the intercom button. “Drive.”
“What about the others?” I protested, twisting in my seat to see them emerge from the station, stopping to sign merch for the multitude of fans that waited for them.
“They can get a fucking taxi.”
I cocked one eyebrow. “What’s up your nose? That went well.”
“Well?” He stared at me from across the rear of the car. “Faye, you practically slapped her.”
"I had it handled," I said, my frustration flaring. "She was baiting you, Sam. I needed to?—"
"Handled?!" His harsh laugh cut ribbons through my heart. "If they want to accuse me of something, let them. I have nothing to hide”
"You’re angry because I shut her down? It's my job to control these situations."
"I don’t need you to defend me. And I’m not a fucking ‘situation’.”
"Yes, you are!” I shot back, leaning forward, anger vibrating through every nerve. "We are! We’re the very definition of situation-ship. What do you think I am if not a complication to be managed?”
“My wife!”
Shocked silence crackled between us, hot and heavy with frustration, resentment... and something else. Something that made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with anger. His eyes searched mine, fierce and conflicted, his breathing shallow.
"Fuck it," he muttered, voice thick with frustration.
Before I could process what was happening, he closed the space between us, his mouth crashing into mine. For a split second, I froze, shocked by the feel of his lips on mine, the sheer heat behind it. But then something inside me snapped, and I was kissing him back just as fiercely, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
He groaned against my mouth, one hand sliding into my hair as the other gripped my hip, pulling me flush against him. This kiss wasn’t the careful, staged peck we’d given for the cameras. This was raw, real, filled with every unspoken thing between us, every simmering argument, every unsaid word. His lips were hot, demanding, as he kissed me like he was claiming me, and I gave as good as I got, pouring my frustration and pent-up desire into every clash of our mouths.
After a breathless minute, he pulled back, chest heaving, his forehead resting against mine as he tried to catch his breath.
"Fuck, sorry.” He started to pull away, but I wasn’t having it.
I grabbed his shirt, yanking him back to me. "Don’t you dare stop.”
A spark of heat flared in his eyes, and he kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands slipping under my dress, tracing patterns up my thigh that made me shiver. My fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more, to get closer, as the world outside the limo faded away, leaving only the two of us tangled together in a feverish haze of need.
“Are you really angry?” I gasped as he kissed his way down my neck.
“Yes. I’m angry you defended me when all I wanted to do was kiss you and I had no fucking right.” His head lifted, his lips capturing mine in a hungry, desperate kiss.
I moaned into his mouth, groaning as our tongues tangled, deep hot and wet. He kissed like he was starving, desperate to devour me whole.
I liked it. A lot.
I barely registered as the car slowed to a stop. A faint knock on the privacy window shattered our spell. We both froze, breathing heavily, our bodies pressed together, chests rising and falling in sync. The driver cleared his throat from the other side of the partition.
"We’ve arrived," he called, voice muffled but unmistakably amused.
I looked at Sam, lips swollen, his hair mussed from where my fingers had run through it. His eyes met mine, dark with desire and a trace of something else, something softer, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Reluctantly, he let his hands drop, adjusting his shirt with a rueful smile. "Guess we’ll have to pick this up later."
"Guess so." I gave him a small, breathless smile.
“Faye, don’t defend me unless you want to be kissed like that again.” He ran his thumb over my lower lip. “I don’t have it in me to resist you.”
For a woman who built her life on words—I found myself suddenly speechless.
I stared at Sam, chest heaving, lips swollen from our frantic kiss. My skin tingled everywhere he’d touched me, and his words, “I don’t have it in me to resist you,” played on loop in my head.
What the fuck? What the actual fuck?
I scrambled, trying to slot this into some logical framework. We’d been arguing, practically spitting fire at each other, and then he’d kissed me. No— we had kissed, and not some safe, chaste kiss like we’d planned for the cameras. This was raw, consuming, everything I’d been holding back, everything I’d told myself wasn’t allowed to feel. I had never felt so stripped bare, so exposed.
I didn’t know how to process the mess of emotions swirling inside me. I raised my fingertips to my lips, a shiver of disbelief at the way he’d kissed me rocketing down my spine.
He’d kissed me like he was claiming me, branding me. And the most terrifying part? I’d wanted him to. I’d been all in, letting myself sink into that moment, giving as good as I got.
I glanced at him, adjusting his shirt beside me with that maddening half-smile, and felt the urge to reach out, to pull him back to me, to taste him again, consequences be damned. But this time, it wasn’t just lust or attraction—it was the weight of everything we’d been through, every unspoken word, every quiet night working late, every time he’d known what I needed before I’d even asked. And it felt too big, too real, to keep at arm’s length any longer.
This is insane, I told myself, forcing a deep breath. He’s your best friend. Don’t complicate this.
But I couldn’t help but remember the way he’d looked at me, that fierce, unguarded intensity in his gaze, the way he’d called me his wife like it meant something—like he wanted it to mean something.
“Ready?” He asked, one hand on the door.
“I…” I hesitated, searching for some way to brush this off, to keep things simple. To kill the emotions we’d awakened. But the words died on my tongue.
I sucked in a breath, nodding silently.
Subdued, we climbed out of the limo and re-entered the real world, but I knew we’d crossed a line. One that wouldn’t be easily uncrossed.
Damn.