Chapter 49
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Sloane
“What is that noise?”
I groan, muffled against the pillow, wishing the world would stop spinning for five damn minutes.
My skull’s pounding like someone’s inside it with a jackhammer, and my mouth tastes of regret and cheap champagne.
“Is that my damn phone?”
The vibrations keep going, buzz, pause, buzz. A cruel reminder that I’m alive and paying for last night’s choices. I grope blindly across the bedside table until my hand smacks the phone, nearly sending it flying to the floor.
The name flashing on the screen sobers me fast.
Amy.
That’s not a social call.
I sit up too fast, and the room tilts violently. My stomach flips, my head throbs harder.
“Ugh,” I mutter, clutching my forehead as I swipe to answer. “Hey, it’s, ugh, way too early for whatever this is.”
Amy doesn’t even bother with pleasantries.
“I’ve got news,” she says. “And you need to sit down.”
I huff out a laugh that sounds more like a groan. “Already sitting. Kind of. What’s going on?”
“I know who’s behind all of this.”
My heart stutters.
She doesn’t stop there. “And it’s worse than you think.”
I press my fingers to my temples, forcing my brain to focus through the hangover haze. “Amy, please don’t make me play twenty questions right now.”
“It’s Dean,” she says, spitting the name out as poison. “Your old boss.”
For a second, I think I’ve misheard her. “What?”
“He’s been selling you out, Sloane,” Amy continues. “He’s been getting inside information from someone close to the band. Someone named Jeena West.”
My stomach drops. “Jeena West?”
I know that name.
It’s Roman’s cousin.
“Jeena?”
The name hangs in the air like smoke.
I stare at the wall, my pulse picking up. I don’t know Jeena well, just that she and Roman are close. They text. They talk a lot. She’s family. And apparently, she’s been selling us out.
“You’re sure?” I manage to whisper, even though my throat feels dry and tight.
“Positive,” Amy says. “Dean’s been paying her for information…
personal stuff. Details no one else could know.
And he’s been feeding that to gossip sites, tabloids, whoever will pay.
He’s even sent journalists to town to shadow you.
That’s how they’ve been getting those pictures.
He’s orchestrating the whole damn thing. ”
I grip the phone tighter, my hand shaking. The anger rises slowly, a burn beneath the skin, spreading until it settles hot in my chest.
Of course, it’s him. Dean fucking Graham. The man who taught me everything about digging for truth, only to turn around and use it to destroy people.
And Jeena…
That betrayal stings worse than I want to admit.
Amy exhales shakily. “I’m sorry, Sloane. I didn’t want to believe it, but once I started pulling the threads, it all lined up. The payments, the leak patterns, the dates. It’s all him, and her.”
For a long moment, I sit there in silence. My pulse thrums in my ears, my thoughts a mess of disbelief and fury.
I shove my hand through my hair, the fog in my head giving way to something sharper. “He doesn’t even care that I used to work for him.”
“No,” Amy says bitterly. “He only cares about the story.”
Of course he does. Dean never gave a damn about loyalty, only about headlines.
But Jeena? That’s different. That’s personal.
I don’t know how Roman will react.
“I’ll handle it,” I say finally, steadier now.
Amy hesitates. “Sloane, I don’t think—”
“I said I’ll handle it,” I repeat, steel creeping into my tone. “Thank you for telling me, Amy. Really. But this isn’t just a headline anymore. It’s personal, and I’m done playing defense.”
She sighs softly. “I know you will. Just… be careful, okay? People like Dean don’t quit until they’ve bled everything dry.”
“I’m not scared of him,” I say quietly. “Not anymore.”
We hang up, and for a moment, I sit there, staring at the phone, my heartbeat echoing in the silence.
Then I exhale, long and slow, the fury settling deep in my chest as ice.
I scroll down and hit the name I swore I’d never have to deal with again.
Dean Graham.
The call rings through. The tension builds with every second.
Come on, pick up.
“Graham,” he finally answers, smooth as always.
“Dean,” I say, cool and slow. “We need to talk. Now.”
There’s a beat of static, then mock concern. “Sloane. To what do I owe the pleasure? New Year’s hangover? Bad decisions?”
My mouth curves, but it’s not a smile. “Cut the small talk. I know what you’ve been doing. I know about Jeena. I know you were sending people to photograph me in Coyote Glen.”
The sound on the other end shifts, the amusement slipping. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do.” I feel the heat in my chest. “You sold private information about me and then fed it to tabloids for clicks. You used me.”
There’s a soft exhale. “Sloane, business is business. This is more about the band than you. You knew how this world worked when you—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, my tone sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t you dare pretend I signed up for this. You taught me how to dig, how to question, how to find the story beneath the noise. But you also taught me that integrity mattered. Or at least I thought you did. Guess I was wrong.”
He recovers quickly, turning slick and practiced. “There are two sides to every story. You could make this very messy for yourself if you—”
“You’d sell that too,” I finish for him. “You’d twist it into a smear and call it journalism. But here’s the thing, Dean, this isn’t your story anymore. It’s mine.”
Silence. Then, coldly: “What do you want, Sloane?”
I take a breath and let the calm settle over me, armor-like and unflinching.
“I want you to stop. I want every outlet you feed to pull the photos. I want your stringers off my trail. I want every freelancer you sent here gone by the end of the day. And I want you to tell every editor who still takes your calls that you went too far.”
He scoffs. “You really think I’m going to—”
“No,” I interrupt. “But you asked what I want. Now you know.” I let the words hang there before I add, “And Dean? If you come near me or anyone I care about again, if you so much as breathe another lie into the press, I’ll make sure the world knows exactly what kind of journalist you really are.”
There’s a long pause. Then, the faintest hint of a laugh. Thin, nervous, not nearly as confident as he wants to be.
“You always were a good student, Sloane,” he says. “Maybe too good.”
“Guess the student finally surpassed the teacher,” I whisper, then end the call.
The silence afterward is deafening.
I sit there for a moment, phone still in my hand, pulse pounding. The anger’s still there, but underneath it is something else. Determination. Resolve.
Because now I know the truth.
I know threatening Dean won’t work, but I finally feel like I have a glimmer of control back.