Chapter 10 Malik
MALIK
“Don’t.” The word lands like a slap to my face. I step back, almost bumping into my assistant, my body moving on pure instinct before my mind can catch up.
He doesn’t shout, but he doesn’t need to.
Julian’s voice cuts through the hallway with surgical precision, sharp enough that everything around us stutters to a halt.
Conversations falter mid-sentence, the movement of the rushing backstage crew slows to an uncertain shuffle.
Even the hum of onstage noise seems to pull back, as if the building itself is waiting for shit to go down.
The air thickens with tension, that particular stillness that comes before something breaks beyond repair.
I freeze where I stand, my words still sitting uselessly behind my teeth, the apology I was about to offer dying in my throat.
Julian turns fully toward me, and for the first time since Los Angeles, he isn’t guarded or distant or professionally restrained.
He is furious. A simmering, contained anger I’ve felt rolling off him for weeks, something raw and dangerous that’s been building pressure like steam in a sealed pot.
The kind of rage that comes from being cornered too many times with nowhere left to retreat, from swallowing words until they turn to poison.
His chest rises and falls with barely controlled breathing, and I can see the slight tremor in his hands that means he’s fighting to keep himself together.
Whatever I’ve done, whatever line I’ve finally crossed, he’s officially reached his breaking point.
I clock everything at once, because I always do when something is about to go wrong. It’s a survival instinct honed from years in the spotlight, reading rooms and taking temperatures and the subtle shift that means trouble is coming.
Portia’s hand is wrapped around Julian’s arm, his fingers tight enough to leave marks, his body angled protectively, as if he can shield Julian simply by standing close enough.
There’s something desperate in the way he holds on, like he’s anchoring Julian to the ground.
Cy is just behind their parents, eyes wide, jaw clenched, already anticipating fallout.
He looks like someone watching a car accident in slow motion, powerless to stop it but unable to look away.
Julian’s father looks stern and rigid, his posture broadcasting disapproval in the way only he can manage, that particular brand of Reed family authority that demands compliance.
His mother, immaculate and perfectly composed even now, is already scanning the scene with calculating eyes, registering details the way generals do before choosing where to strike.
She’s cataloging damage, measuring exposure, probably already drafting the statement that will minimize this moment.
Then there are the phones, because of course there are.
Our phones have become a third hand, a newly acquired limb mankind can’t live without.
We’ve adapted and evolved to need them like oxygen, for news, finances, connections, and most importantly drama and gossip.
They’re everywhere now, a constant presence that turns every private moment into potential content.
There are too many of them pointed in our direction.
Lifted casually at first, then with purpose as people realize something significant is happening.
Screens glowing brightly in the dim backstage lighting, red dots blinking like predatory eyes, and someone is definitely live streaming from the end of the corridor.
I can feel it in the shift of attention, the way the hallway subtly rearranges itself around the promise of spectacle.
People are pretending to be busy while angling for better shots, security is too far away to intervene quickly, and the whole thing has that electric feeling of a moment about to explode across social media.
Julian’s mother speaks first, her voice smooth and sharp all at once, cutting through the tension with practiced authority. “Julian Miles Reed, what is the meaning of this?”
He doesn’t look at her, which surprises me.
Usually, when Mave Reed speaks, the whole world stops to listen.
She commands attention the way other people breathe, automatically, inevitably.
Julian doesn’t even glance in her direction.
No, Julian Reed only has eyes for me, and the intensity of his focus makes my skin burn.
“You don’t get to talk for me,” he says, each word deliberate, controlled only by force of will.
There’s something brittle in his voice, like glass under pressure.
“You don’t get to step in and save me. You don’t get to explain away inconveniences and smooth things over like I’m some child who can’t speak for himself. ”
I open my mouth, my throat working soundlessly for a moment.
I don’t even know what I’m trying to say, what words could possibly defuse this bomb that’s been ticking between us for years.
I wasn’t trying to manage him. I was trying to help the way I always used to.
I saw the panic in his eyes when his mother cornered him, saw the familiar trapped look that used to make me step between him and whatever was hurting him.
It was automatic, as if no time at all had passed between us, as if I still had the right to protect him.
Unfortunately, it’s my instinct that’s the problem. I see that now, in the way his whole body rejects my proximity, in the disgust that flickers across his features.
Julian laughs once, short and humorless, the sound scraping against my ears. “You always think you’re helping.”
The words hit like a physical blow. There’s history in them, years of resentment compressed into five syllables.
His mother’s gaze flicks between us now, sharp and curious, her political instincts recognizing something significant in the undercurrents of this moment. “Julian? Malik? What the hell is going on here?”
Before I can stop myself, before I can think better of it, I step forward half a pace. It’s reflex. Old habits refusing to die quietly, even when they should have been buried years ago. “I’m—”
“Stay out of it,” he says, cutting his free arm through the air to brush off my advance with a gesture so sharp it might as well be a physical shove.
The command is louder this time, carrying down the hallway like a gunshot.
Again, he doesn’t shout, but the force behind it makes me pause and keep my distance.
Heads turn throughout the corridor, soft murmurs follow in its wake, someone inhales sharply behind me.
I track Portia’s grip as his delicate fingers tighten further on Julian’s arm, his thumb pressing into muscle in a silent plea for restraint.
Julian is beyond restraint now, beyond the careful control that usually governs every word, every gesture, every breath he takes in public.
Julian’s attention never leaves me. Oh no, he’s out for blood and he is ready to cut me to shreds, to finally say all the things he’s been swallowing for seventeen years.
“You don’t get to show up after all this time and decide you’re entitled to anything,” he says, his voice gaining strength with each word. “Not my family. Not my life. Not my silence. You lost the right to any of that a long time ago.”
My pulse beats out a rhythm in my throat now, my chest tight with the knowledge that this moment has been building, whether I wanted it to or not.
Every conversation we’ve had since Los Angeles has been leading here, to this public reckoning I’ve been dreading since the shared elevator ride.
I knew it was coming for weeks, and all I can do is stand here and take it, because what defense do I have?
What possible justification could matter now?
His father clears his throat, the sound carrying all his paternal authority. “Julian, this is neither the time nor the place—”
“Oh, it’s the place,” Julian snaps, finally turning his head to include his parents in his fury.
His voice climbs higher, losing the last threads of control.
“This is exactly the place. No need to hide anymore, right? The truth will set you free. Isn’t that what you taught me, Momma?
The good book, am I right? Always tell the truth, as long as it doesn’t embarrass the family? ”
The people in the hallway shift again, sensing blood in the water.
Phones tilt higher as some people move closer, pretending to be doing other things while positioning themselves for better footage.
The crew members who should be focusing on their jobs are instead frozen in place, watching like spectators at a gladiator match.
Julian’s mother’s expression tightens, displeasure etched into every elegant line of her face. When she speaks, her voice carries the weight of decades of social conditioning. “Lower your voice, Julian. People are watching.”
“No.”
The word is flat. Absolute. Final.
Julian turns back to me, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to grief, as if he’s mourning something that died a long time ago but is only now being buried.
“You think this is reconciliation?” he says, his voice dropping to something more dangerous than shouting.
“You think this is penance? Attempting to give me a leg up with a pity tour? Standing there every night like a ghost I can’t escape, playing your music like it’s some kind of apology I’m supposed to accept? ”
My mouth opens again, but he doesn’t give me the chance to speak, to explain, to try to bridge the chasm that’s opened between us.
“You stole from me,” he says, his hand flying to slap against his chest, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.
The sentence detonates and explodes in my heart, cutting deep and precise. I let myself bleed as the memory floods me, eighteen years old, desperate and terrified, making the worst decision of my life with the best of intentions.