Chapter 10
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— Indira —
“You seem more focused lately,” my boss said through my laptop screen, her face backlit by the fluorescent lights of the Chicago office I’d never see again. “More confident.”
I glanced at the dual monitors I’d set up in my corner of the corporate rental, at the campaign data that had caught what would have been a twenty-thousand-dollar mistake—the diabetes awareness messaging accidentally targeting the wrong zip codes. “Thanks, Lisa.”
“That catch alone saved us from losing the account. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” She leaned closer to her camera. “Which is why I’m making the remote arrangement permanent. And promoting you to senior account manager. With a substantial raise.”
I managed to keep my voice professional until the call ended. Then I sat back in my chair and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Two and a half months in Nashville. A promotion. A life I was building with my own two hands.
If only Lisa knew that what I was doing was rebuilding my entire life from scratch.
My phone buzzed as I walked out of the apartment building. A text from Sarah, one of the friends I’d made at a networking event a few weeks after I’d arrived.
Wine bar 7 PM? Emma’s bringing her cute coworker again...
I smiled as I typed back: Can’t tonight, moving day tomorrow. Rain check?
Tomorrow I’d finally move into the Music Row apartment I’d fallen in love with back in September.
The previous tenant’s lease hadn’t ended until December, so I’d spent the last two and a half months in a furnished corporate rental the real estate agent had found me—nicer than a hotel, but not mine.
Tomorrow, I’d have a place that was actually mine.
The idea of my new friends trying to set me up would have sent me into a panic just a few weeks ago. Now it just felt... normal. I wasn’t ready to date seriously—might not be for a while—but the fact that I could even consider it felt like progress.
The truth was, I was happy. Actually, genuinely happy for the first time in longer than I cared to admit. The past few months had been about more than just recovering from Dutch; they’d been about remembering who I was before I’d started defining myself in relation to someone else.
I’d joined a book club. Started taking yoga classes. Volunteered at a literacy center on weekends. Small things that had nothing to do with Dutch or the MC world, everything to do with building a life that was entirely my own.
My phone rang as I was walking back to my car, and I glanced at the caller ID.
My sister Priya. I’d been meaning to call her all week, but kept putting it off.
Since leaving Millfield, I’d kept our communication to brief weekly texts—just enough to let her know I was alive and okay, not enough to invite questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
She’d understood, or at least she’d said she did.
When I’d first reached out from Knoxville, I’d explained that I needed space to figure things out.
Not just from Dutch, but from everyone. I needed to recenter myself, relearn who I was without the weight of other people’s expectations—even loving ones.
Priya had wanted me to come to San Diego, wanted to take care of me, but I’d asked her to give me time instead.
She’d agreed, with one condition: weekly texts so she knew I was safe.
And she’d warned me that Dutch had been calling her, trying to find me.
By not telling her where I was exactly, I’d protected us both—she couldn’t be pressured to tell him anything, couldn’t accidentally let something slip in anger.
But that didn’t stop her from calling every now and then, just like now.
Up until today, I’d let it go to voicemail and sent a text back.
But now, two and a half months later, I was finally ready to talk. Really talk.
I answered the call. “Hey, Pri.”
“Oh my God.” Her voice cracked. “You actually picked up. I’m hearing your actual voice.”
I laughed, surprised by how good it felt. “Yeah, I am. I’m sorry I’ve been so distant. I just—”
“Don’t apologize. You needed space, I get it.” She paused. “But please tell me you’re ready to actually talk now, because I have been dying here with your cryptic ‘I’m fine’ texts.”
“I’m ready.” I unlocked my car and slid into the driver’s seat. “I have so much to tell you.”
“Start from the beginning. Where the hell are you? Still in Knoxville?”
“Nashville, actually. I found an apartment in Music Row a while back—high ceilings, exposed brick, windows that flood the whole place with light. It’s exactly what I dreamed about when I was younger—urban, sophisticated, mine. I’m finally moving in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” The excitement in her voice was palpable. “Indira, that’s amazing! But why the wait?”
“Previous tenant’s lease didn’t end until December. But that’s not all—I got promoted. Senior account manager with a substantial raise. The remote work arrangement became permanent.”
“Holy shit.” Priya’s voice was thick with emotion. “I’ve been getting ‘still alive, don’t worry’ texts for months, and meanwhile you’ve been out there killing it?”
“I know. It feels surreal sometimes.”
“I’m so proud of you, Indira. You know that, right?”
The unexpected emotion in her voice made my throat tight. “Thanks, Pri.”
“I mean it. When you left, I was so scared you were going to fall apart. But you didn’t. You rebuilt yourself.”
Was I? Sometimes it felt that way. The woman who’d caught Dutch cheating seemed like a stranger now—naive, willing to accept scraps and call them love. The woman I was now wouldn’t put up with that bullshit for five minutes.
“I feel different,” I admitted. “Stronger, I guess.”
“You should. You survived something that would have destroyed a lot of people, and you came out better for it.”
After we hung up, I sat in my car for a few minutes, thinking about what Priya had said. Had I really changed that much? Or had I just remembered who I was before I’d lost myself in someone else’s world?
My phone buzzed with another notification.
This time it was LinkedIn—someone had viewed my profile.
I’d been more active on professional social media lately, networking and building connections in the Nashville marketing scene.
It felt good to be known for my work again, rather than just as “Dutch’s woman. ”
I was scrolling through the notifications when one caught my eye.
A connection request from someone named Sebastian Cross.
The profile picture was professional but generic, and there were no mutual connections, so I almost accepted it without thinking.
But something about the name nagged at me.
Sebastian Cross. Why did that sound familiar?
I clicked on the profile and saw a list of IT-related jobs in Millfield, North Carolina. Network security specialist, systems administrator, cybersecurity consultant.
Then it hit me, and my blood ran cold. One of Dutch’s brothers was a Sebastian, though they all used road names at the club. I tried to remember... Glitch. The tech guy. It had to be him.
Was Glitch trying to track me through social media?
And if so, why? The thought made my stomach clench with anxiety I hadn’t felt in weeks.
I’d been so careful about my digital footprint, had changed my privacy settings on everything.
But LinkedIn was for professional networking—I’d never thought to worry about it.
I quickly blocked the profile and made a mental note to review all my social media settings again. Just because I was building a new life didn’t mean I could let my guard down completely.
As I drove back to my apartment, Dutch lingered in my thoughts. Glitch’s connection request had dredged him up, and now I couldn’t shake him. Was he still sleeping with Crystal? Had he replaced me already with some new woman, or was he just rotating through club bitches like always?
The wondering annoyed me. I’d spent weeks training myself not to care about his life anymore. I’d thought I was done with all the useless speculation about what he was doing or feeling. But apparently I wasn’t completely immune to curiosity about the man who’d once meant everything to me.
?
I was packing the last of my belongings when Emma called.
“I know you said you couldn’t make it to wine night, but Sarah and I are at this little dive bar downtown, and there’s live music, and you should totally come meet us.”
I looked around the apartment, boxes stacked everywhere, and realized I could use a break. “What’s the address?”
“The Blue Moon on Broadway. Wear something cute.”
“Emma—”
“I’m not trying to set you up! Just come have fun for once. You’ve been working yourself to death.”
She had a point. I found myself changing into a dress that actually required effort and putting on makeup for the first time in ages. It felt good to make an effort for myself—not for anyone else, but because I wanted to feel beautiful again.
The Blue Moon was exactly the kind of place I’d come to love about Nashville—authentic, unpretentious, full of music and laughter. I spotted Emma and Sarah at a high-top table near the stage, drinks already in hand, and headed over.
“You look amazing!” Sarah pulled me into a hug. “Doesn’t she look amazing, Vaughn?”
I turned to find a man standing beside their table, holding a guitar case. Dark hair, warm brown eyes, the kind of easy smile that suggested he laughed often. He was dressed like he’d just come from a gig—black jeans, vintage band t-shirt, leather jacket slung over one shoulder.
“She does,” he said, extending his hand. “Vaughn Reid. I’m filling in with the house band tonight.”
“Indira.” His hand was calloused from guitar strings, his grip warm and confident. “You’re a musician?”
“Trying to be. Right now I’m a music teacher who plays gigs.” His smile was self-deprecating but genuine. “Can I buy you a drink before I have to get on stage?”
I found myself saying yes.