Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dexter
Aly is staring at me like I’ve just confessed I’m an extraterrestrial entity sent to infiltrate the music industry.
She’s all wide-eyed. Still. So silent, I’m worried she’s not breathing.
Her disbelief is almost comical if it weren’t tinged with something that feels more like betrayal than surprise.
“You okay?” I ask, even though I know that’s not the right question. Not anymore.
Her lips part, slowly. “Vaughn,” she breathes. “Like . . . the keyboardist from Dead Moth Parade?”
I could tell her I was a lot more than that. I could explain how I used to drift between instruments like smoke—bass, drums, keys—whatever a song needed, I made it breathe. I floated through the stage like I belonged nowhere and everywhere at once. But none of that matters right now, not to her.
“Yeah,” I say, before she spirals too far.
Her brows knit as she rifles through memories she didn’t know she had. “As in Vaughn from VCR Vaughn? The fucking music label?”
I nod. “Also grandchild of the founder—Victor Vaughn, Senior. One of the best musicians and the guy who signed half the damn music world in the early seventies. That one.” My voice tries for nonchalance. I fail.
She lets out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. Her expression twists, half dazed, half horrified. “Fuck.”
I reach up, pull off my glasses, and shake my hair loose. It’s longer now than it was during my DMP days—more rebellion than fashion—but I can see the moment recognition flicks across her face like static. It’s not instant. It’s worse than that. It’s slow.
People only see what they want. And she wanted Rafe that day.
“I’m guessing you saw some loser with a beat-up case and decided I was your guy.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her jaw trembles before she locks it down with effort. “I was desperate.”
Her voice holds no heat. Just bare honesty. It sits between us, unsettling and true.
“Desperate enough to ignore that I’m clearly too old to be a college kid,” I say, biting back the ache in my chest. “You were flustered. Adorably so. And I was amused. Usually when someone recognizes me, they want an autograph or to scream in my face that they love me. But you just . . . told me I was fucking late and probably sucked because I had no idea who Hall & Oates were.”
Her brows shoot up. “I don’t think that’s exactly how it went.”
“Maybe not,” I say with a tired shrug, the kind that costs something. “But it makes for a better story. Something to tell our grandchildren.”
She recoils like I struck her. “Excuse me?”
Fuck. Too far.
“Sorry. I skipped a few steps.” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I sound. “I’m new at this.”
“What, kidnapping women? Or impersonating musicians?”
“There’s no kidnapping. And I am a musician,” I say, firmer than I intended. “Lolita can back me up if you need proof.”
She raises a single finger. “That’s not the point. You lied to me.” Her voice cracks on the last word. “I—”
“A few nights ago, when I dropped you off, I was going to tell you,” I say, barely louder than the guilt clawing at my throat.
“I even practiced the words in my head. But then I chose the coward’s way out.
I didn’t want to ruin it. You made me feel like a person again, not a famous musician or a Vaughn.
And I hadn’t felt that in . . . I don’t even know how long. ”
“Why?”
The question cuts through me.
“Because no one ever hears anything good about me,” I say quietly. “Not in the tabloids, not in the boardroom, not even in my own fucking house. Victor Vaughn, Junior was a bastard. Everyone knows it. I’m the punchline to his joke. The headlines always circle back to me being just like my father.”
She leans closer, but doesn’t reach for me. “You’re not him.”
I scoff, bitterness rising like bile. “Tell that to the world. Or better yet, the board of my own label—who trust Eddie with decisions instead of me. I let someone else take the reins because no one wants to risk another Vaughn at the top.”
Aly studies me like she’s still trying to decide if I’m real.
And that silence—fuck, that silence—it feels like her pulling away from me. One inch at a time. Like I’m watching the distance stretch in slow motion, unable to stop it, unable to follow. I’ve lost too many people to let this happen again, but I know deep down: I never really deserved her.
So, I do what I think is best.
“You owe me two favors,” I remind her.
“I thought it was three,” she suddenly says.
I shake my head. “Agreeing to come with me was the first one.”
“…I’m listening.”
I nod slowly, afraid to breathe. “The second,” I say, careful not to lose whatever thread of connection still binds us, “is to stay a couple of days. Rest. Get warm. Just . . . be safe. Please.”
Her throat works around something that might be a yes.
“And the third?” she asks, voice tight.
I exhale through my nose, nerves crawling up my spine. “Keep my secret.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes brim with something she won’t let fall.
“You told Jules,” she states. “How do you know she’ll keep your secret?”
I press my lips. “She signed an NDA before I spoke with her. Needed her help, but as my lawyer and friends told me, I couldn’t risk it. I trust you. Her . . . I have no idea.”
That earns me a look, unreadable but not dismissive. She sways slightly, like the world tilted beneath her feet and she’s trying to stay upright.
“Why me?” she finally asks. “Why trust me?”
“Because when I met you, you treated me like a person. You were pissed and weird and honest. You thought I was an amateur and told me to fuck off—in a nice, professional way. That’s rare, Aly.”
She wraps her arms around herself. “You lied. That’s not rare at all.”
I lean closer, but stop short of touching her. “I’m sorry.”
Silence again.
She stares out the oval window, her reflection caught against the black sky, as if the answers she needs might be floating somewhere out there—above the clouds, beyond the stars, anywhere but here with me.
Her arms are locked around her torso, as if she’s holding herself together piece by fragile piece.
The silence inside the cabin isn’t peaceful. It hums beneath the low drone of the engines, filled with every word we didn’t say soon enough and every truth I should’ve never let her find out this way.
“None of this is normal,” she says, her voice tight, like it’s unraveling thread by thread. “I should run.”
She turns to face me, her eyes burning, and the look she gives me doesn’t just hit—it fucking lingers.
Like I’ve carved this into her. Her glare strips away whatever fragile peace we had left.
And beneath all that anger is something I can’t unsee—betrayal, disbelief, and hurt carved into every line of her face.
I did that.
I fucking did that.
And I hate myself for it.
“I wouldn’t stop you.” My voice barely makes it out, thick and frayed around the edges. “But I’d miss you.”
That startles her. Her gaze snaps to mine like she wasn’t expecting anything soft from me. Maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe I’ve already proven I’m not the safe option.
“I don’t even know you,” she says, barely above a whisper. Like it’s a truth she’s only just realizing.
“You know more than most people do.” I take a breath that barely makes it past my ribs. “I’ve told you things I haven’t told anyone else. If you stay . . . you’ll know everything. The real me. Not the one in a headline. Not the one they built from press releases and family scandals. Me.”
Her brow creases. “What happens when we’re back in Seattle?”
I glance at her lips, then up at her face. She’s barely moving, but everything about her feels tense—like she’s trying not to breathe too loudly, like even that would make this unravel faster. Something knots in my throat. I wish I had an answer. But nothing about this—about me—is ever that simple.
“Whatever you want to happen,” I murmur. “I’ll follow your lead. I can disappear the second we land in San Cristobal. I can keep my distance. Or maybe . . . maybe we can figure it out. I don’t know.”
My chest burns as I force the words out, one after the other, like they’re costing me something I might not get back. Something I never had, for that matter.
“But if you’re even thinking about a future—about anything beyond this jet—you need to know who I am. Not just the guy who played along. Not just the name on your lips right now. All of it. The damage. The press. The family. The expectations. And the fallout.”
The cabin hums with that low, constant drone. Outside the windows, there’s nothing but blackness and reflection. But in here, the silence stretches too far. The air feels too thick, too dry. There’s nowhere to hide up here, not from her stare and not from myself.
“You gave me something I didn’t think I’d ever feel again,” I say, and the words feel scraped raw. “Hope.”
Her gaze cuts to me for a brief second, sharp and searching, but she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.
“You gave me hope,” I repeat. “You made me feel like I wasn’t some fuck-up coasting on a last name I didn’t ask for. You made me feel real. These past few days—Aly, they were more than I deserved. You gave me space to breathe. You gave me warmth I haven’t known since . . .”
I trail off. The words tremble in my throat, refusing to come out all the way. My voice drops to a rasp.
“Not since Mom died.”
That last sentence settles in such a brutal way it releases all the memories from my past.
Alyssa still hasn’t said a word. But her posture shifts, as if she’s carrying more now than she meant to, and it’s my fault. All of it is.
I stare at the seat across from me, at the curve of her knees pulled tight beneath her, her fingers pressing into the armrest like she's holding herself in place. Like if she lets go, she’ll fall through the floor of this jet and into something she can’t crawl out of.
And maybe I would too.
Suddenly, her eyes widen. “Oh my God. I’m so stupid. You told me your parents died, and I kept making jokes about you living in your mom’s basement.”
She drags her hand down her face with a low groan. “I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry. About them. About everything.”
She’s curled slightly in the leather seat across from me, legs tucked up, shoulders tense, like she wants to disappear into the upholstery. I shift in mine and lean forward slightly, not reaching for her, just trying to meet her where she’s coming apart.
“It’s okay,” I say gently. “I didn’t mind you being confused. Honestly . . . I never corrected you, because I was afraid you’d see through me.”
She looks over, wary. Her expression caught between guilt and disbelief.
I rest my forearms on my thighs, voice lower now. “The offer to help you find your mom still stands. I have people. They’re discreet. If you want to look for her . . . I’ll make it happen.”
Her fingers toy with the seam on the armrest, her mouth pressing into a line. She doesn’t answer. Not yet. But she doesn’t shut me down either.
And right now, in this cabin high above everything else that’s ever gone wrong—that’s something.
Her eyes fall to the floor. She starts chewing on her lower lip, and I have to force myself to look away because there’s still a part of me—stupid and aching—that wants to kiss her. That wants to fix everything with a touch I don’t have permission to give.
“You should’ve told me sooner,” she says, voice barely holding.
“I know.”
“And you shouldn’t have let me believe you were someone else.”
“I know that too.”
“But you did.”
“I did.” I nod, not making excuses, not reaching for a way out. “And I’d be lying if I said I regret it. Because if I’d told you the truth from the start, I never would’ve had the chance to sit across from you like this. To know you the way I do now.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Just presses her hand to her mouth like it’s the only way to hold herself together. Like if she lets one word out, everything else will follow, and she won’t be able to stop it. Her shoulders lift with a shaky breath, then fall like it costs her something.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.” Her voice is fragile.
“I think I do.”
She shifts in her seat, angling her body away from me, her shoulder pressing into the curved wall of the cabin. But her voice slices through the stillness like a match striking in the dark.
“You made me feel safe.”
She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze stays locked on the oval window, but I feel every word like it’s meant to undo me.
“You made me feel like I could believe in something again.”
Each word hits harder than the last. She’s not yelling. She doesn’t need to. Her pain is quiet, contained, but no less consuming. Worse, it lingers in the air, in the silence, in her turned back.
“And I fucked it up.”
“Yes.” Her voice cracks.
I could tell her that she made me believe in music again. In me. There’s no point in that. My gain is her loss and that makes me an asshole. Eddie warned me this would happen when I asked for help to fix this.
The silence that follows is alive with the grief of what we almost had.
“Let me try to fix it,” I whisper.
She shakes her head, slowly. Her eyes are glassy when she turns to face me again. “You can’t fix everything with a song or a smirk.”
“I know.”
“Or by asking me to stay.”
“I’m not asking.” I swallow hard. “I’m hoping.”
We just sit there—two people clinging to a thing we can’t name. Her expression is unreadable, but I swear something soft flickers behind her eyes. Just for a second.
“I’ll stay,” she says finally, voice thick and low. “But I still don’t know how to feel about all this deception.”
“I’ll take that,” I say gently. “And I hope you’ll let me grovel.”
That earns the faintest lift of her brow.
“Plus, there’s the beach,” I add. “You’ll have that.”
“Why are you taking me to the beach?” She frowns.
“I asked where you’d go if you could be anywhere,” I remind her. “You said a beach. So . . . here we are.”
Her chin quivers. The way she gets when she’s watching one of those wedding moments she doesn’t expect to cry over. When the groom spins the bride or a grandma starts dancing, and something about it opens her up just enough.
And then, just as fast, the warmth fades.
“But we’re not okay,” she says.
“I wouldn’t expect us to be.”
“And if you lie to me again—”
“I won’t.” The words cut from my throat before she can finish. “No more hiding. Not from you.”
She studies me for a long, painful beat.
Then she nods once, small and slow. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s not goodbye.
And that’s more than I deserve.