Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Roman
“That really does suck, Roman.” Jeena’s sympathy comes through the phone, but it doesn’t hit where it should.
I want to scream, but I don’t. She’s family, and she’s trying. But right now, I can’t stand the softness in her voice. Doesn’t anyone get it?
This isn’t just bad. This is a fucking disaster. “Who do you think is behind it all?”
I laugh, but it’s not funny. Not even close.
“I can’t be sure, Jeena,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
I should be focused, should be figuring this out. But my brain’s fried. Every minute, the walls are closing in on me. “I think it’s Elliot. We didn’t exactly end things on good terms with him. Who else would be so vindictive?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “You’re probably right.”
“I mean, I don’t know how he knows all this private stuff about us now, but I wouldn’t put it past him to do this sort of shit, to prevent us from ever having a chance at a comeback.”
The rage is bubbling up inside of me. Being stuck indoors for days does not suit me well. Especially when it’s someone else who’s put me here.
But how the hell can I get the press to leave us alone?
Jeena’s voice comes back on the line before I can finish spiraling. “Roman, stop pacing and sit the hell down. I can hear you.”
“Easy for you to say,” I snap, because pacing is practical and sitting is admitting defeat. “You’re not the one whose life’s been turned into a trending meme.”
“I am the one who knows you,” she says, sharper now, the way only family can be. “And I also know how you react when someone punches you in the gut. You go loud, you go angry, and then you burn bridges that were better left standing. Don’t do that this time.”
Her words snag something in my throat. I clamp my jaw shut and grip the phone tighter. “So, what then? Play nice while the vultures pick at us? Sit pretty and let comments and headlines ruin everything we’ve worked for?”
“No.” She doesn’t hesitate. “You don’t play nice.
You act. But you act smart. You stop guessing and you confront the only guy who might have the reach to make this taste of revenge.
Elliot. You call him, you make it very clear that if he has anything to do with this, he will regret it.
And if he doesn’t, then you drag him into helping you find out who the hell did. ”
There it is, the push I didn’t know I wanted. Jeena’s not asking me to posture. She’s asking me to aim.
Thank goodness I have her in my life.
“You think he’ll pick up?” I say, halfway sardonic, halfway hopeful. Elliot’s slippery. He’s a ghost with a Rolodex. “You think he’ll hear me out?”
“I mean, you know him better than I do, right? But I do think you need to give it a try.” Her words tighten.
“You don’t call him as ‘Roman West, lead singer.’ You call him as ‘Roman, the asshole who won’t be talked down to again’.
Tell him you want answers. Tell him you want his help.
Or tell him you want him to crawl out from whatever hole he’s hiding in so you can choke him yourself. Either way… get him on the line.”
Jeena’s almost growling now, encouraging, fierce. I can hear the conviction in her breathing. Sudden clarity snaps through the fog. It’s stupidly simple and precisely the kind of plan that makes me dangerous.
“You really think that’ll end it?” I ask, but the questions already rhetorical.
“No,” she admits. “But it’ll get you a direction. It’ll force a reaction. And whatever he says, you’ll know something. You’ll know if he’s lying or if he’s trying to buy time. Either way, you won’t be sitting here helpless.”
I imagine Elliot smirking into a lambskin sofa, sipping something overpriced while someone else lights the match. I imagine dragging him into the center of the room and making him uncomfortable, for once.
“You make it sound like I enjoy this,” I say with a crooked smile. “Fine. I’ll call him. But if he so much as breathes in the wrong tone, I’m coming for him.”
“Good,” Jeena says, relieved. “And Roman… don’t do anything stupid. Use your head. Use our lawyers if you have to. But be ruthless.”
“Ruthless,” I echo.
The word tastes sweet.
After we hang up, the phone is still warm in my hand. I sit down for a moment, resolve pooling, gasoline under my skin. Not the panicked kind, the focused kind.
I finger Elliot’s name from my contacts, the number blurs for half a second as the cabin tilts.
My thumb presses call.
The line clicks faster than I expect, and Elliot answers with his usual cocky twang.
“Roman,” he says.
No warmth. No surprise.
“Save it,” I snap. “Did you put our lives on display or not?”
A short, thin laugh. “Damn. Always straight to the fire with you.”
“This isn’t a joke, Elliot.” I hear the way my voice shakes and force it into something harder. “Someone’s leaking everything. Private stuff. Whoever did it had access. Who did you sell us to this time?”
There’s a rustle on his end, a chair, a coffee cup maybe, and then he says, almost lazily, “I don’t know, Roman. And honestly, I don’t particularly care.”
“You don’t care?”
“No.” He’s blunt now. “I don’t. I’ve got bands that actually need me. New people I’m shaping. I don’t take calls about Wild Reverie.” He sounds unapologetic, amused by my outrage. “You guys burnt your bridges. You did that. And now you want my help fixing what you broke? That’s not on my docket.”
“You sold us out before,” I say through my teeth. “You know how the tabloid machine works. You—”
“Just because you didn’t like the musical decisions I made doesn’t mean I sold you out,” he interrupts.
“You made decisions that left me to clean up ashes. Guess what? I moved on. I work with people who don’t torch relationships for fun.
I don’t have time to spoon-feed you answers because you’re trending. ”
I feel hot, stupid with the sudden, raw need to throttle him. “So, you didn’t do this?”
“I didn’t even know you were hiding out in some weird small town until someone sent me the damn article,” Elliot says. “And I certainly don’t know anything about your bizarre love life. I’m just glad not to be a part of it all anymore.”
My fingers tighten on the phone. I wish I could squeeze him through the line. “But who else?”
“I don’t care,” he repeats coolly. “Like I said, you’re nothing to do with me anymore.
I don’t have time to babysit retreads. I’ve got three acts on tour, a label breathing down my neck, and band members who actually do their jobs.
So, stop calling and stop blaming me for things you haven’t got the spine to face yourself. ”
“That’s rich,” I spit. “You’re sitting on a couch somewhere, selling access because it’s easy, and you tell me to grow a spine.”
“I don’t sell access anymore,” he says. “I sell futures. Different model.” Then, softer, almost bored, “Look, Roman. I’m not your manager.
I’m not your scapegoat. I’m not your confessional.
You can scream at me, accuse me, threaten me, whatever gets you through the night. But I have other fires to tend to.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. The line clicks dead, and the quiet after feels absurdly loud.
I stare at the screen, pulse pounding, half expecting the phone to ring back with some smug addendum. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the cabin and the strain of how completely alone all of this suddenly feels.
Shit.
I can feel it all creeping in, unraveling in slow motion, and I don’t know if I can stop it.
The cabin’s quiet now, save for the faint clatter of pans and murmurs of voices drifting in from the kitchen. I want to throw the phone, I want to scream, but all I do is stand there, staring at the screen as if it’ll give me the answer I’m looking for.
“Roman?”
Ezra snaps me from my stupor. The tension that’s been pulling at my spine loosens a little just by the sound of my bandmate.
I turn to face him, exhaling slowly.
“Everything alright?” he asks, eyes scanning my face, noting the tightness in my jaw and the way I’m gripping the phone so tight I could break it.
It’s hard to lie to him, especially now when everything is about to explode.
“No,” I say, rougher than I expect. “It’s not.
Elliot’s a fucking waste of space. I still hate that fucker…
but I really don’t know if he was the one behind the story leaks.
I really don’t think he cares about us anymore.
I just spoke to him and… well, I can tell when that asshole is lying. And he wasn’t.”
Ezra lets the words hang for a moment before responding. “If not him, then who?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? Who else could be behind this? Who else had access to our private lives?
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I mean, we could have pissed off plenty of people. But who else would go this far?”
“You’re right about that,” Ezra says, turning to lead me toward the kitchen. “But it’s not helping us now. So, let’s focus on what we can control.”
I follow him into the kitchen, where Sloane and Creed are cooking side by side, which is exactly what I need right now. The calming rhythm of the kitchen, the sounds of chopping, stirring, the occasional sizzle of something—it all feels grounding.
At least I have them.
I might not have answers, but at least I’m not truly by myself in this. That makes everything that little bit easier to handle.
I know the storm’s still coming. The pressure’s building. And when it hits, I have no idea what it’ll do to us.
But for now, I’ll hang on to this. To them. To us.
The rest can wait.