Chapter 40 Ezra
CHAPTER FORTY
Ezra
Ping.
I groan and turn on my side.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
It’s way too early for this shit. Can’t my phone just leave me the hell alone?
Ping. Ping.
I drag a hand across my face, hoping that if I ignore it long enough, it’ll stop. No such luck. The damn thing’s relentless. My phone’s somewhere on the nightstand, vibrating against the wood as if it’s possessed.
“Shit,” I mutter, still half-buried in the pillow.
The sound echoes slightly in the quiet room; the faint hum of the heater and the muffled whisper of snow outside are the only other noises.
I reach out blindly until my fingers brush the phone, nearly knock it off the edge, then finally grab it. The screen lights up, and the glow stings my eyes. My notifications are stacked like dominoes. Texts, mentions, alerts, coming in at once.
Not good.
I blink a few times, trying to focus, but the words blur until one headline catches my eye. Then another. And another.
Wild Reverie’s Winter Romance Continues.
Exclusive: Behind-the-Scenes of the Band’s Secret Love Story.
Polyamory PDA.
My stomach drops.
The photos come next, assaulting me with Sloane’s laugh frozen mid-motion, her smile brighter than it should be, Roman’s arm casually thrown around her shoulders. And then mine, my hand at her back, the shot catching that soft, unguarded look she always gives me when she’s not paying attention.
The lantern light catches her just right, framing her in gold. It’s beautiful. Too beautiful.
But it’s ours, and now it’s splashed all over the internet, and we’re some fucking spectacle.
I should be used to this by now. The attention. The cameras. The endless commentary. But there’s a difference between a headline and a headline that cuts so close to the bone.
It’s happening again. The gossip, the speculation, the dissecting of every little detail. Every glance. Every touch.
Shit.
I sit up, throwing the blankets off me. My fingers run through my hair, trying to shake the fog from my brain. I don’t have the energy for this right now.
The more I read, the worse it gets.
Is this a publicity stunt?
Wild Reverie gets caught up in another love quarter? Who will Sloane choose?
The band’s not-so-secret love affair: can their relationships survive the spotlight?
I swallow hard, my eyes scanning everything.
“Roman has always been the one to hold back… until recently. Sloane has brought out a new side to him. He says she is ‘his muse’.”
I freeze. The words are too specific. Too knowing. Roman doesn’t “hold back” in the way people think. He’s careful. He guards the parts of himself he doesn’t want the world to see. No one would know that unless they’d seen it up close.
Another quote makes my stomach twist.
“The quiet chemistry between Sloane and Ezra has been building for months. They share a love of poetry.”
Shit. Whoever wrote this wasn’t just guessing. They’ve been watching us. Close enough to see the way we orbit each other when we think no one’s looking. Close enough to notice the way my eyes find her in a room.
“Creed, the ever-intense drummer, has been surprisingly relaxed in recent months, a shift that’s caught fans and bandmates alike off guard. His time in the city with Sloane has shown a side of him no one expected… more playful, more engaged.”
My throat tightens. Whoever wrote this wasn’t relying on paparazzi shots or gossip columns. They know things only someone close to us could know. Someone who’s been listening when we talk, watching when we let our guards down.
I stare at the screen, the words swimming. The heater hums softly in the background, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.
Someone sold us out.
And not just anyone. Someone close enough to see the cracks, the looks, the things that weren’t meant for the public eye.
Who the hell could it be?
I shove out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor harder than I mean to. My head’s buzzing with a mix of disbelief and anger, the kind that sits right under your ribs and burns slow.
The house is too quiet. Too calm for the feelings crawling under my skin.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, the smell of coffee’s already hanging around us.
Roman’s leaning against the counter, mug in hand, scrolling on his phone.
Creed’s at the table, arms folded, jaw tight.
Sloane’s by the sink, her hair pulled up messily, still half-asleep but with that wide-eyed look.
The moment I walk in, three sets of eyes flick up at me. No one says anything at first. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until Roman exhales and drops his phone onto the counter with a dull thud.
“So,” he snaps. “You’ve seen it.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “Hard to miss when the whole damn world’s pinging my phone about it, like it’s some kind of wildfire.”
Creed’s the one who breaks next, his tone controlled but simmering. “This isn’t just some clickbait crap this time. Whoever wrote it… they know things they shouldn’t.”
Sloane looks up, her face pale. “You noticed that too?”
Roman snorts, running a hand through his hair. “Of course, we noticed. They didn’t just make up the story, they quoted us, or at least someone who’s been around enough to pretend they know what’s going on.”
I lean against the table, setting my phone down. “It’s too specific. They know about everything. The city. The dinners. The rehearsals… all those quiet, in-between moments that weren’t meant for anyone else. Stuff no one outside these walls should even have the language to describe.”
Sloane swallows hard. “So… someone’s been talking.”
Creed’s gaze flicks between us, sharp and cold. “Or leaking.”
Roman’s jaw clenches. “You think it’s someone here?”
“No,” I say automatically, but even as the word leaves my mouth, it feels uncertain. “At least, I hope not. But this isn’t random. It’s written like someone who knows how we work. The tone, the details. It’s personal.”
Sloane looks stricken. “What if it’s someone from the city? Someone who was around us when we were recording?”
“Maybe,” I say, though I’m not convinced. My mind keeps circling back to the way the article described Roman. Guarded, careful, until her. That’s not the kind of thing a bystander would catch. That’s the kind of thing you learn from a conversation. From trust.
Roman pushes off the counter and paces. “This is déjà vu all over again. Every time we get close to something good, someone finds a way to twist it into a headline.”
Creed is quiet now. “We can’t ignore it this time, man. Not if someone close is feeding this shit to the press.”
No one answers him.
Finally, Sloane crosses her arms, her expression firming. “So what do we do? Now that it’s public and everyone really knows about us, we can’t keep hiding, can we?”
I take a breath, forcing myself to be calm even though my pulse is still racing. “We find out who’s behind it. And we don’t let it tear us apart before we do.”
Ring, ring…
The sharp trill of the phone cuts through the tension in the room. Creed’s eyes flick to the screen, and I can see the shift in his expression. The one that says, this isn’t just any call. He picks it up on the second ring.
Ring, ring…
“Creed Hunter.”
We all fall into a tight, uneasy silence as he listens, his brow furrowing with every word. I can’t help but focus on the way his jaw tightens, the slight flicker of emotion in his eyes as whatever’s being said on the other end registers.
Roman glances at me, his expression unreadable. Sloane shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clearly waiting for Creed’s response. I can feel the room holding its breath.
Creed breaks the silence again, sharper this time. “Yeah. Yeah, I know who you are. I’m listening.”
We all lean in, trying to catch a hint of what’s going on. But Creed’s keeping it close, his tone flat and measured. He nods a few times, his eyes flicking to the rest of us as if gauging our reaction. Then, finally, his lips press together in a thin line.
“Alright,” he says after a moment, “you’ve got my attention. Let’s talk.”
He hangs up, silence descending again. I’m on edge, waiting for the storm to break. Sloane looks at him, eyes searching his face, while Roman taps his fingers on the countertop, clearly impatient.
“So?” Roman barely conceals his curiosity. “What’s the deal?”
Creed turns to us, his expression unreadable at first. Then, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly, but there’s no joy in it, just a quiet intensity.
“That was a manager. New one. Wants to work with us. They saw the headlines, the drama, the music. They think we’ve got what it takes to go big again.
They want to take us on tour. Says the timing’s perfect. ”
The words hang there.
We all process them at once, each of us trying to wrap our heads around it. It’s a massive opportunity. An invitation to dive back into the very thing that caused us so much pain. The same attention, the same suffocating spotlight.
“Whoa.” I don’t know what else I can say.
Creed nods, but there’s a hesitation in his eyes. “It’s tempting, I’m not gonna lie. The music’s ready. We’ve got the momentum, the story. It’s all there. But this isn’t just about hitting the stage again. It’s about diving back into everything we’ve been avoiding.”
Roman crosses his arms, looking between us all. “It could be a hell of a deal. A tour, new management… and the kind of publicity we’re getting right now? We could be bigger than we were before. If we’re smart about it.”
“But are we?” I ask, finally finding my voice. “Are we really ready for all that again? The pressure? The constant noise? More press?”
I can feel it, though. The pull. The temptation to go. To step into the glory of it all once again, even if it means dealing with the mess that comes with it. The world’s always looking for the next big thing, and we’ve got all the right ingredients.
Music. Tension. Public fascination.
“I’m not saying we jump in without thinking,” Creed says. “But we can’t pretend this isn’t a big opportunity. It might be the chance we’ve been waiting for.”
The chance we’ve been waiting for, but is it the right thing for us?
Especially now?