Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sloane
This is hard.
Not the “I can’t find my keys” hard. Not the “my coffee spilled on my shirt” hard. This is the bone deep, stomach tied in knots kind of hard where the world narrows to a phone screen and the people you love look at you like they’re trying not to see you break.
My phone is a tiny, glowing indictment in my hand. Ivy and Olivia text like they’re trying to mop up a flood with paper towels.
Ivy: Keep your head down. Don’t go outside. The press is sniffing around town.
Olivia: This is getting out of hand. Please be careful. Local news vans everywhere. Call me if you need anything.
Thanks, guys. Reassuring. Very calm. Very helpful.
The reality is ugly. I’m sure the town is looking out for us, but that doesn’t stop the craziness from exploding.
The photos are everywhere, and people are desperate to find out everything there is to know about me. Unfortunately, because I’ve worked in the media, it isn’t hard to figure me out.
I should be able to handle this. I used to handle bigger things. I told the kinds of stories that made headlines. I guess I did this to other people, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
My reputation is gone now. Forever.
The house is full, but there’s this weird kind of quiet, the kind that sits heavy after everyone’s tried to act as if everything’s normal.
Ezra is in the kitchen, a concentration line between his brows that I’ve learned to read better than most; Roman’s pacing, trying to burn off oxygen; Creed is quiet in the corner, the quiet that means he’s already making plans in his head.
I sit on the couch and stare at the ceiling until my neck hurts. It’s ridiculous, I should be doing something, but what? Go outside and show the world I’m human? Step into that ring and let strangers judge my life like it’s a movie?
No. Staying put feels like the only safe thing.
I need help, and there is only one person I can think of to reach out to.
Sloane: Amy, have you seen it?
It only takes her a moment to respond.
Amy: Yeah, I’ve seen it. You holding up, okay?
My stomach sinks. I should’ve expected this, of course, she’d see it, but seeing the words in black-and-white makes it all feel heavier. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a few seconds before I finally type back.
Sloane: Yeah. “Holding up” might be generous.
I stare at the blinking cursor, then add:
Sloane: You saw everything?
Amy: Enough. The photos. The band. The kissing.
I press my phone to my chest for a moment, exhaling slowly.
Sloane: Do you have any idea who’s behind it?
Amy: Not yet. But I can find out.
I blink, reading the words twice.
Sloane: Amy, you don’t have to do that for me. I can figure it out.
Amy: Yes, I do. You’d do the same for me.
I close my eyes. She’s right. I would.
The next message comes through before I can even type a thank you.
Amy: Whoever’s doing this, they’ve got connections. To the band, to the town, to you… I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out.
My heart pounds a little harder as I stare at Amy’s last message.
To the band. To the town. To you.
It’s too specific to be random. Someone knows exactly where to hit.
Before I can spiral further, my phone starts buzzing again. This time, a video call. The name lighting up the screen makes my throat tighten.
Riley.
I hesitate for a moment before answering, brushing my fingers through my hair in some futile attempt to look less wrecked.
The second I swipe to connect, Riley’s face fills the screen, all big eyes, messy bun, and a mug of something festive in hand.
“Holy crap, Sloane,” she says before I can even speak. “Are you okay? I’ve been refreshing my feed every ten seconds like a lunatic. You’re everywhere right now. Even in Greece, I can’t get away from the news.”
“Hi to you too,” I say weakly, managing half a smile. “You look cozy. Is that a Santa mug?”
“Don’t deflect.” She leans closer to the camera. “I’m serious, babe. What the hell is happening? I wake up, open my phone, and suddenly the internet knows my cousin’s dating an entire rock band.”
I let out a groan and sink deeper into the couch. “Yeah. It’s a lot.”
“A lot?” she scoffs. “I can’t even open TikTok without seeing some slow-motion clip of you looking tragically beautiful while people dissect your love life like it’s national security.”
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. Short, shaky, but real. “Tragically beautiful, huh? That’s new.”
Riley smirks. “It’s the cheekbones. Even your breakdowns have cinematic lighting.”
“Thanks, I’ll put that on my résumé.”
Her expression softens. “You’re joking, but seriously… how bad is it?”
I glance toward the kitchen, where Ezra’s quietly pretending not to listen, his shoulders tense.
“It’s… bad,” I admit. “Amy thinks someone’s feeding info to the press. Someone who knows too much.”
Riley’s brow furrows. “Like a leak? From inside?”
“Yeah.” I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “And the worst part? I can’t even be mad at the media. I was them. I know how this works. I just never thought I’d be on the other side of it.”
There’s a pause, the kind that stretches with understanding. Riley’s always been the one person who doesn’t try to fix things for me. She listens, which is its own kind of rescue.
“You don’t deserve this,” she says softly. “You were finally happy, weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “For a minute, I was.”
She smiles sadly, tucking her knees up to her chest. “Then let’s not let them take that from you. You hear me? You can cry, you can eat your weight in gingerbread, you can even hide under a blanket for a day… but you don’t let them steal your joy.”
“Wow,” I say, managing a slight grin. “When did you become so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise,” she says, deadpan. “You just didn’t notice because I used to dye my hair purple and quote Taylor Swift too much.”
“You still quote Taylor Swift too much.”
“Touché.”
The tension in my chest eases a little, the way it always does with her. But then her expression sharpens again. “Listen. If Amy’s looking into it, good. But I’m not sitting this one out. If anyone messes with you, they mess with me. And I have zero shame about publicly roasting trolls.”
I snort. “You threatening to go feral on Twitter isn’t going to help.”
“Oh, it’ll help me.”
I can’t help but laugh again, but the sound catches on something tender in my throat. “Thanks, Riles. Really.”
“Always,” she says softly. “And hey, promise me something?”
“What?”
“When this dies down, and it will, you’ll let yourself be happy again. With whoever makes you feel like yourself. Screw what anyone else thinks.”
The words land somewhere deep. I nod, blinking fast. “Promise.”
“Good. Now drink something warm and pretend the internet doesn’t exist. I’m sending you good vibes.”
She winks, and then the screen goes dark as the call ends.
I sit there for a moment, staring at my reflection in the black glass. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes tired, but finally, I don’t look completely broken.
“What the hell?”
I click on an online message from someone I haven’t seen in years. Ever since I first met Wild Reverie, actually.
Delaney Rivers.
She used to be in my position, cooking for the band. My pulse thunders as I click the message open, unsure of what to expect.
Delaney: Hey, I know this is weird, and you might not even remember me, but I remember you.
You were a journalist when I met you, though, so I’m very interested to find out how you ended up with my old job.
We should meet one day… also, I saw all the stories.
I don’t know if there is anything I can actually do to help, but please reach out if so. X
I stare at the words for a long moment, feeling them sink into me.
I don’t know what it is, but something about Delaney’s kindness makes me feel like I’ve been punched in the chest in the gentlest way possible. I don’t even know her really, but here she is, offering a slice of genuine compassion at a time when everything else is just noise.
I swallow, the tightness in my throat threatening to spill over into tears. I quickly type out a response, trying to steady myself.
Sloane: Thank you, Delaney. Your message means more than you know. I’m hanging in there, but it’s been rough. I really appreciate you reaching out. Maybe we can catch up sometime soon when all of this is over x
My fingers linger over the keyboard, and I stare at the words, letting them sink in. It feels almost too vulnerable to send, but I do it anyway. I need to hold on to these moments of kindness.
Almost immediately, she responds.
Delaney: Anytime, Sloane. I mean it. And if you need to escape for a bit, let me know x
I sit there, phone still in my hand, staring at Delaney’s message until the letters blur.
The lump in my throat is sharp now, impossible to swallow. It shouldn’t hit this hard, a kind word from someone I barely know, but it does. Maybe because it’s rare, or maybe because it feels like I don’t deserve it.
I don’t even realize I’ve gone quiet until I feel the couch dip beside me.
Roman drops down first, all restless energy and that half-cocked grin he uses as armor. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just nudges my knee with his and tilts his head until I look at him.
“You okay, Sloane?”
I almost laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”
“Not really. I can already see it on your face,” he says, smirking, and it’s so typically him. Disarming me with humor when I need it most. His hand slides gently over mine, grounding. “Just… don’t shut down, yeah? Let us help.”
Before I can reply, Ezra appears on my other side, holding out a mug of something warm.
“Chamomile with honey,” he says softly. “Creed’s idea.”
“That’s rich,” Roman mutters, and Creed shoots him a look from across the room.
Ezra sits close enough that our shoulders touch. His thumb brushes the edge of the mug, silently reminding me it’s there if I need it.
“You don’t have to talk,” he says. “Just… stay here with us.”
The words land deeper than I expect.
Creed finally crosses the room, wordless, and settles on the rug in front of me. His hair’s damp from a shower, curling a little at the edges, and he looks up at me with that intense gaze.
“You haven’t eaten,” he says. “You want me to make you something?”
I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
He studies me for a second, then sighs. “Fine. Then I’ll sit here and make sure you don’t forget how to breathe.”
It should sound gruff, but it’s the softest thing anyone’s said to me all day.
Roman reaches behind me, tugging the elastic from my hair before I can stop him. “What are you—”
“Relax.” He grins, already running his fingers through the tangled mess. “You look like you’ve been in a wind tunnel. Creed, hand me that brush.”
Ezra laughs under his breath as Creed tosses it to him, and somehow, I end up with three rockstars fussing over me as if I’m made of glass.
Roman hums something under his breath, one of their unreleased songs, I realize, while he gently works through a knot.
Ezra leans back, half smiling. “You should see your face. You’re not used to people taking care of you, are you?”
I blink at him. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you look like you’re trying to memorize how it feels,” he says.
My throat tightens. I look down at my hands, at Roman’s tattooed fingers threading through my hair, at Creed sitting on the floor as a silent guard, and Ezra, steady, thoughtful, watching me like I’m not a scandal, not a headline—just me.
They’re all dealing with this mess, too. Their privacy invaded, their reputations on the line. But right now, they’re acting like I’m the only one who matters. I’m the only victim here.
No one has ever done that for me before.
A tear slips down before I can stop it. Roman stills immediately, his hand hovering. Creed notices first, of course, he does, and rises, resting a solid hand on my knee.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”
And maybe it is. For just a moment, surrounded by them, the laughter, the warmth, the gentle hum of care, maybe it really is.