Chapter Sixteen
VICTORIA
There’s something magical about mornings like this.
Sunlight streaming in through the curtains, crisp sheets, and the warmth of Mason’s bare chest beneath my cheek. I press a soft kiss to his skin, just because I can, and his arm tightens around me instinctively.
“Morning, sweet girl,” he murmurs, voice still gravel-thick from sleep.
My heart stutters.
I could live a thousand lifetimes and never get tired of the way he says that.
His fingers trail lazily up and down my spine beneath the sheet. “Sleep okay?”
“Mmhm,” I hum, nuzzling closer. “Best sleep of my life.”
And it’s true. For the first time in days—maybe weeks—I feel safe. Since the fire, there’s been a nagging feeling in the back of my mind. Mason’s presence always quiets that worry. I know I’m safe with him. Always.
I’m about to kiss him again when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Mason groans and shifts, grabbing it. “Ignore,” he mutters.
But mine buzzes next. Then again. And a third time.
I reach over, confused.
Text after text floods in. My stomach flips. Dread creeps up my spine.
Mason’s already searching for the source. He pulls up one of the gossip accounts on Instagram, and his jaw tightens instantly.
“Vic—don’t.”
But I’m already reaching for my phone, already searching my name.
There it is.
A picture, grainy but unmistakably me.
I’m crouched by the arena’s exit doors with my hoodie up. My face looks pale, and my eyes are wide and have a dazed look about them. One arm is braced on the wall, and the other is up by my ear, hidden by my hair and the hoodie.
VICTORIA WESTWYLD RELAPSES AGAIN. Country Star Seen in Distress After Nighthawks Game. Drunken Diva or Something Darker?
The captions make my stomach churn.
“That wasn’t—” I choke on the words. “What the hell is happening? That’s not what happened at all.
That’s the outfit I wore to the team charity event.
I bought that sweater when you were teaching drills and took a call from my brother.
Nothing happened. I was fine that day—I didn’t have an anxiety attack. I swear I—”
“I know,” Mason says quickly, sitting up and pulling me into his lap. “I know that. But these vultures? They’re gonna twist anything for clicks.”
My breath trembles as I clutch his arms. “Why do they keep catching me like this? How are they always there? Always watching?”
He presses a kiss to my temple, his voice low and firm. “You’re a threat, honey. You’re rising too fast, you’re too talented, and you’re with me. That makes you prime meat for tabloid drama. But we’ll get through this. Okay?”
I nod, but shame bubbles in my throat anyway. I hate this. Hate how exposed I feel. How even in moments of quiet, the outside world finds a way to blast through.
I tip my head up to his, needing his touch. Seconds later, his lips are on mine.
Soft at first, then firmer, coaxing. My hands slide into his hair, needing the distraction, needing him. He pulls me down into the mattress with him, and for a while, the world fades away.
His kisses chase away the headlines. The lies. And the doubt.
When we finally pull apart, breathless, he rests his forehead against mine. “Stay in bed with me all day.”
I wish we could.
But a soft ping draws our attention back to reality.
I don’t want to look, but I also don’t want to miss a text or call from Cece. She’s probably reeling just as much as I am. Reaching for my phone, I see a text from an unknown number sits at the top of my screen.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey Victoria, it’s Neil from the studio. I found one of your song writing notebooks in a practice room. Thought you might want it back. Swing by today if you can—leaving early at 3.
“Oh my God.” I sit up straight. “My notebook.”
Mason frowns. “What notebook? There are like four on the kitchen island.”
“No, my new songwriting notebook. I started a new one last week since the words are flowing now, but I couldn’t find it yesterday. I thought I left it with the others since that’s where I woke in the mornings, but it must’ve fallen out at the studio when I was working on those last vocals.”
“Do you need it right now?” Mason asks, hands dancing over the bare skin of my arm.
“No,” I draw out, my eyes going to the time. “But we slept in, and it’s almost noon. I have no idea who Neil is, but I’d feel better with my notebook back in my possession.”
I’m already moving toward the closet, grabbing jeans.
“I’ll drive with you,” Mason says, starting to swing out of bed.
“No,” I say quickly. “You rest. Plus, don’t you have a trainer coming over this afternoon or something?”
Mason runs a hand down his face, making his hair flip in all directions. “Shit. I forgot about that. Yeah, the physio guy is coming to work on my shoulder.”
“Seriously, stay. I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll just grab the notebook and come right back.”
Mason looks unconvinced. “The security team is going with you,” he states. “And you should take my car.”
“I’ll take an Uber. It’s no—”
“No.” His voice is sharp, eyes narrowing. “I’m serious, Vic. You’ve had two close calls now. Your apartment. That photo. Something’s not right. You drive my car. And security goes with you. Non-negotiable.”
I sigh, but nod. “Okay. Fine. You’re right.”
He kisses me again before I go. “Be careful.”
“I will,” I assure him, going back to getting dressed.
When I’m ready to head out, I call out to Mason one more time. He’s in the shower and must hear me over the water because he calls back, “Be careful. See you soon.”
As I leave the condo, my smile is huge. Falcon, who is stationed outside the door, takes one look at my goofy grin and grumbles.
“You’re going to be obnoxiously cheerful today, aren’t you?”
“You betcha,” I tease.
In the parking garage, Falcon gestures for me to hand over the keys. I shake my head, wanting to be the one behind the wheel. I need the distraction of driving, or I’ll just doom spiral thinking about who the hell is trying to destroy my career.
The day is overcast, with low-hanging clouds that match the restless feeling swirling in my chest. I try to shake it off, chalking it up to nerves.
It will be a relief to have my notebook back. I didn’t elaborate with Mason, but this notebook holds the beginning pieces of a song I’m writing about him—or at least about our falling in love.
Falcon rides in the passenger seat beside me, unusually quiet. He’s scrolling through his phone, scanning updates, probably checking for new security threats or tracking the paparazzi. It’s what he does—always alert, always ten steps ahead.
“You good?” I ask him, trying to make conversation, my hands steady on the wheel as I ease into a left turn.
“Yeah,” he says with a nod, then glances over at me. “You sure you’re up for this today?”
I nod, eyes back on the road. “I need that notebook, Falcon. It’s not just lyrics—it’s me in those pages. If someone I don’t know or trust gets that…” I can’t even finish that sentence.
He doesn’t argue, just sits back and looks out the window, scanning the streets.
The city blurs by, buildings towering over the street like silent giants, pedestrians in stylish layers to stay warm in the fall weather.
I hum quietly to the rhythm of a new melody that’s been in my head for the last week—something soft and hopeful.
A red light flashes up ahead.
I ease my foot toward the brake pedal, already anticipating the smooth glide to a stop. But the second my foot connects, something’s wrong.
There’s no resistance.
The pedal slams to the floor under my foot, useless, like it’s not even connected to anything. My heart leaps into my throat.
“What the—?” I slam it again, harder this time. Nothing. We’re not slowing!
“Falcon!” My voice cracks like a whip. “The brakes—something’s wrong.”
He looks over, instantly alert. “Try the emergency brake!”
But we’re already in the intersection.
Cars are everywhere—crossing in front of us, crawling into their lanes from the side. A navy SUV is directly ahead, inching through with a green light. I jerk the wheel hard to the right, trying to angle away from the worst of it.
It’s like moving through molasses. The tires squeal; the steering jerks under my hands. Horns explode all around us, a frantic chorus of warnings I can’t do anything about.
My chest slams into the seat belt, pain lancing through my shoulder as the car refuses to obey.
The impact hits like thunder.
A massive crack, metal shrieking against metal, glass bursting in a spray of light and sound. My head snaps forward and then sideways, everything spinning as the airbags deploy. Falcon yells something, but it’s muffled and feels distant, like we’re underwater.
The jolt tears through my entire body, the seat belt biting into my ribs as the world blurs to white.
A cold stillness wraps around me. My ears ring. I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed. My chest heaves, searching for air that feels too heavy to take in. For a long moment, I don’t know if I’m upright, sideways, or somewhere in between.
“Victoria—Victoria! Talk to me.”
Falcon’s voice breaks through the haze, low and strained.
I blink, vision swimming. My neck throbs. My hand twitches, fingers brushing against the deployed airbag. I’m still in the car. We’re tilted at a strange angle, the front end crumpled into a lamppost.
“I’m here,” I croak out, barely able to hear myself.
Falcon exhales hard. He’s got a gash above his brow and a smear of blood on his temple, but he’s already twisting in his seat, checking his phone, trying to call for help. “Ambulance is on the way. Don’t move, okay?”
But I can’t stop shaking.
Because even through the shock, the pain, the fear—I know what this was.
This wasn’t an accident.
Someone cut my brakes.
And then everything goes black.