Chapter 18 #2
He makes a sound that’s half irritation, half understanding. “He has a reputation. Still,” Eric continues, “you can’t give anyone a clean narrative that you’re volatile. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “I know.”
“Good,” he says. “Here’s what happens next. Damage control. The team’s PR will want you in front of them. They’re going to script you. They’re going to make sure you say the right thing and nothing extra. They want to contain this.”
My pulse stays too high. “Okay.”
“You’re meeting in an hour,” Eric replies. “One of the meeting rooms downstairs. They’ll tell you which one. I’m going to join on voice. You keep your head down until then. No socials. No comments. No calls to anyone who isn’t me or PR. Understood?”
My throat tightens at that, because all I want to do is call Rafe again. All I want to do is hear his voice and feel like I haven’t burned everything down.
“Yeah,” I say. “Understood.”
Eric’s tone softens a fraction. “You’re going to be okay. You made a mistake. We fix it. You take responsibility. You move forward.”
I nod even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”
“And Ollie,” he adds, voice a little lower, “if there’s anything else involved in why this happened—anything that could become a storyline—tell me now. I’m on your side, but I can’t protect what I don’t know.”
My shoulders tense, and I lie. “No,” I say. “Nothing else.”
Another pause, but Eric doesn’t push. “All right,” he says. “Meeting in an hour. Drink water. Put ice on that eye if you can.”
The call ends, and the quiet that follows is thick.
Marco stares at me for a beat, then jerks his chin toward the untouched room service tray. “You need to eat,” he says.
“I’m not hungry,” I reply automatically.
“That’s bullshit too,” he says, echoing his earlier tone from last night. He walks over, flips open the cloche, revealing eggs and toast that have gone lukewarm. “You can’t go into PR like this. They’ll see right through you.”
I don’t move. My stomach churns.
Because I’m not thinking about PR. I’m thinking about the fact that I was supposed to be meeting Rafe’s parents this morning and I don’t even have the address and he won’t answer his phone and I have no idea if he told them.
I could call Miles, I think wildly. Or Drew. Or Eli. Someone. I could show up anyway. I could fix this.
Marco’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Have you been on socials at all this morning?” he asks.
I blink. “No.”
He hesitates. That’s the first warning, as Marco doesn’t hesitate. He’s not a hesitant person. He’s blunt, direct, the kind of guy who will tell you your jumper is off and your attitude is worse.
The hesitation makes something cold crawl up my spine. “What,” I say slowly, “are you not saying?”
Marco’s eyes flick away. He looks suddenly uncertain, like he’s debating whether he’s about to throw a grenade into my already-burning life. “Maybe I shouldn’t,” he says.
My pulse spikes. “Marco.”
He exhales hard, frustrated. “Ollie, you’re not going to like it.”
“The fight?” I ask quickly. “Is it worse? Did they—did they get photos? Video? Did they—”
“No,” he says immediately. “Not like that.”
Relief hits so hard my shoulders sag.
Then Marco adds, quieter, “It’s not about the fight.”
My blood goes cold. “It’s about… what, then?” I manage.
He watches my face, like he’s gauging whether I’m going to fall apart. “It’s about Rafe.”
The room tilts. My heart stutters once, then slams hard. “What?” I whisper.
Marco doesn’t answer. He just nods toward my phone, the gesture small but unmistakable.
My hands go numb as I pick it up. I don’t even think, just open the browser and type Rafe Ortiz into the search bar.
Results flood the screen. It’s immediate, like the internet was waiting for me to look.
Headlines. Thumbnails. Comment counts.
My vision narrows.
The first story is a photo of Rafe in a crowded club, lights smeared into neon behind him. He’s laughing, head tipped back, one arm slung around someone’s shoulders. He looks flushed. Reckless. Alive in a way that makes my stomach twist.
I scroll.
Another photo. Rafe closer to the camera, eyes glassy, grin too wide. Women around him. Hands on his arms. A face near his neck.
Jealousy flares so fast it’s almost disorienting, hot and ugly. Then the rational part of me kicks in, brutally.
He wouldn’t. Not him. Not even after last night.
He wouldn’t cheat. He’s never given me a reason to doubt him. He’s the one who stays. The one who holds. The one who fights for us even when I make it hard.
I scroll again, finger shaking. And there it is.
A photo of Rafe being half carried, half guided out of a venue. Vinny is at his side, one arm firm around Rafe’s waist, face set in that calm, professional way that means something is wrong.
Rafe’s head is bowed, hair strands falling forward, his body heavy like he’s barely holding himself upright. The caption is worse than the photo.
Altercation reported. Witnesses claim “drug use” in public view.
My throat closes. “No,” I say out loud, the word ripping free.
Marco’s voice is cautious. “They’re saying a lot of things.”
I barely hear him. I stare at the words until they blur, until my eyes sting, until my chest feels like it’s caving inward.
Drug use. In public.
Rafe isn’t that stupid.
He smokes weed. The guys do too. I’m not na?ve.
I know the industry he’s in. I know how easy it is to slip, to experiment, to get pulled into things people treat like normal.
But Rafe isn’t reckless like that. Not anymore.
Not since the band started blowing up. Not since he’s had cameras on him constantly.
He tried coke once in college, hated it, told me it made him feel like his skin didn’t fit right. He laughed about it later and swore he’d never touch it again.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
My fingers move on autopilot as I hit Call. Rafe’s number rings. Once. Twice. Then voicemail kicks in. I try again immediately. Voicemail a-fucking-gain.
My stomach drops through the floor. I don’t care that Marco is next to me. I don’t care that this is humiliating. I don’t care that my hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold the phone.
I call again, but still there’s no answer. Panic surges up, sharp and choking. I need to know he’s okay, that he isn’t spiraling because of me.
I need—
I hit the Call button on Miles’s contact. It rings once and he picks up immediately.
“What the fuck did you do to our boy?” Miles’s voice is sharp, furious. No greeting, no warmth.
I press my lips together. It’s on the tip of my tongue to lie. To deflect. To pretend I don’t know what he means. Instead, I force the truth out, ugly and raw. “I fucked up,” I say. “Is he okay?”
A harsh exhale down the line. “He’s fine,” Miles snaps. “Which you would know if you were with him where you said you’d be.”
My stomach twists. They knew about the plan. Of course they did. They live together. They’re his family. They knew he was going home, knew this mattered.
“I—” I swallow. “He’s not answering my calls.”
“Well, clearly he doesn’t want to speak to you,” Miles says, voice dripping with disgust.
The words hit hard because they’re probably true.
“Please,” I say, hating how desperate I sound. “Tell me where he is.”
A pause. Miles’s voice goes colder. “Why? Are you going to see him?”
The question is a trap. Because the truth is, I have PR in an hour. I have the team. I have damage control. I have a flight this afternoon. I have obligations stacked like bricks on my chest.
And Rafe’s parents are an hour away, and I was supposed to be there. But I’m not.
My voice cracks. “I can’t.”
Miles gives a humorless snort. “Figured.”
Shame burns through me so hot I feel nauseous. “Is he really okay?” I ask again, softer this time. “Miles, please.”
He sighs, a long, tired sound. “Yes.”
Relief hits me so hard my eyes sting.
“He got wasted,” Miles continues, “but on booze. Nothing else.”
I close my eyes. “Thank God.”
“He got rushed,” Miles adds, voice tight. “Fans got too close. Some asshole tried to grab him. Vinny got him out.”
My stomach flips. “Is he hurt?”
“No,” Miles says. “Just… pissed. Embarrassed. And he’s not in the mood to babysit you through another meltdown.”
I flinch. “I don’t need babysitting.”
Miles laughs without humor. “Sure.”
I swallow hard. “Tell him I’m sorry.”
Silence. Then Miles says, quieter, “You keep doing this to him.”
Sorrow sinks low in my chest. “I know.”
“And you keep doing it to yourself too,” he adds, voice louder and edged with something almost like pity. “Whatever you’re so scared of, it’s eating you alive.”
I freeze, as does Marco next to me. I glance at him, and his gaze sharpens like a blade. He heard that. I can see it in the way his posture shifts, in the way his eyes lock onto my face with sudden, devastating clarity.
Miles keeps talking, not realizing that he’s just cracked my life open in front of someone who isn’t supposed to know.
“He loves you,” Miles says, voice rough. “He does. That’s the problem. He keeps letting you pull him into your fear.”
My throat closes. Marco’s still staring, and I can’t breathe.
Miles exhales again. “Look. He’s safe. He’s at his parents’ place. He told Vinny he’s not going anywhere today. He’s… cooling off.”
“What’s the address?” I ask quickly.
“Don’t,” Miles snaps. “You’re not showing up there with your drama. Let him breathe.”
“I just—” My voice breaks. “Today is—”
“I know what today is,” Miles cuts in. “We all know what today is.”
My stomach drops. I stare at the carpet, throat burning, because there it is again: proof that I’m the only one still trying to keep this marriage in a sealed box.
Miles’s voice hardens. “Handle your PR shit, ’cause yes, I heard about the fight. Handle your consequences. Then figure out if you actually want to be his husband.”
The line goes dead, and I lower my phone slowly. The room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioner.
Marco’s face is unreadable, but his eyes are intense, searching. “Ollie,” he says quietly.