Chapter 30
MAX
A Meeting with Jake
It’s late afternoon, and I’m back at my apartment after an early morning meeting—down to just sweatpants and an old T-shirt with a torn collar and a faded logo from some obscure band only five people remember.
Melody is curled up in the corner of the couch, her little body twitching with dreams—probably chasing invisible strings in her sleep.
I haven’t heard much from Nora today, but she deserves a day to decompress. Maybe even a quiet one without me for once. That’s totally fine.
I’m enjoying the quiet too, strumming a lazy G chord and letting it ring out.
A notebook rests on one knee, the guitar neck angled toward the ceiling. I’m working on a new song—simple, catchy, a little brighter than my usual vibe.
But I can’t help it.
I’ve got sunshine in my damn blood this week.
I hum the hook under my breath as I sketch out another verse:
She came in quiet / like a page turning slow / but her laugh hit like a chorus I already know...
Cheesy? A little. But it works.
I run through the chord progression again—D to B minor to G to A—letting it flow smoother this time. The tune’s got a bounce to it. One of those songs that feels like a grin you can’t suppress. Definitely not my usual late-night, whiskey-and-regret kind of track.
But this? This is a Nora song.
Soft cotton and cat fur. Books on the floor. Her bare feet on my coffee table, laughing like I’m the funniest thing on Earth.
My fingers go still on the strings.
It’s not just a lyric. It’s truth. That thing I’ve been circling for weeks without saying it out loud.
A truth that snuck up on me.
I want her in every room I walk into. I want her shoes by my door, her hair on my pillow, her mug in my sink. I want to write songs she’ll never hear and songs she’ll hear onstage with my heart in every line. I want her.
And shit, I love her.
The realization hits like a wave.
I love her.
I set the guitar down and grab the notebook. The melody's clearer now. Words pour out, fast and unfiltered, like they’ve been waiting for this moment to find their shape.
She’s the verse I didn’t know I needed / the truth in between the lines / she’s quiet thunder, soft lightning / she’s mine—if I’m brave enough to ask her to be.
I’m halfway through laying down a rough voice memo when my phone buzzes across the counter.
Jake Armstrong.
I stare at the screen.
We haven’t been in contact since he complained about losing his exclusive. He’s been quiet ever since—which I’ve taken as a blessing.
The message reads:
I have some sensitive information that you’ll want to know about. We need to meet. In person.
My jaw tightens.
I should delete the message.
Hell, I should block his number, and go back to writing my song in peace.
But I don’t.
Because there’s something in the wording. Not his usual smug manipulation or thinly veiled threat.Sensitive information.You’ll want to know.
I shoot back a reply.Where and when?
It takes less than a minute for the dots to appear.He was waiting.
The Waverly, back room. One hour.
I sigh and set my notebook aside.
Guess I’m having lies for dinner tonight.
***
The place is dark wood and brass polish, soaked in jazz and secrets. Jake's already nursing something neat at the far booth, looking like he owns the room. His Rolex catches the low light when he lifts his glass, but it’s the smirk that sets my teeth on edge.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says, sliding a drink toward me. I don’t touch it.
“Make it quick.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a tablet.
“Fine. Let’s skip the foreplay.”He unlocks the screen, swipes to a video file, and hits play.“Because you’re being played, Max.”
That stops me. Cold.
On the screen: a clunky old fan forum.
Banner up top: Storm & Silence Forever.
The site’s a relic—bare-bones layout, glitchy fonts, the kind of place you'd expect to find grainy bootleg tour photos and fanfics typed out on someone's mom's computer.
The screen recording scrolls down—posts, usernames, dated comments.
But one name keeps repeating: Nora_D.
My mouth goes dry.
Jake narrates like a smug museum tour guide. “She was posting here for years. Always about you. Always obsessively detailed.”
The video pauses on a post with bolded text. My eyes snap to it.
If I get knocked up, that’s basically retirement.The librarian angle makes me look innocent—men like that eat it up.Volunteering at events he might show up to = step one.
The timestamps? They’re from four, five years ago. Way before we met.
Jake swipes to another screen—account details.
Linked recovery email :n.davison@
Nora’s actual work email.
My stomach lurches.
No.
No way.
I get up and turn to leave, but Jake stops me. “Don’t walk away from this, Max.”
I whirl on him.
“Oh, I’m not walking away,” I bite out. “I’m shutting you down.”
He lifts both hands, all mock-innocence. “I thought you’d want to know. You’re welcome, by the way.”
I step closer. “You sat on this? For how long?”
Jake blinks. Doesn’t even pretend to deny it. “I’ve had it a while.”
“And you waited—what? Until things got serious between me and Nora? Until you could do the most damage?” My voice drops into something colder. “Why now?”
He shrugs, smooth as always. “Thought you’d figure it out on your own. But love makes people blind. Stupid.”
Something behind my ribs tightens.
“She’s not like that,” I say quietly. “Whatever that post was, it’s old. Anonymous. Could’ve been anyone using that email.”
Jake just tilts his head. “You really think that? Or do you just want to?”
I clench my jaw. Hard. The weight of everything—of what I’ve built with Nora—presses into my spine, demanding I hold the line.
“She didn’t come after me,” I say. “She didn’t even know who I was when we met.”
“You sure about that?” he shoots back. “Because you’re not just some guy—you’re Max fucking Donovan. Some girls play the long game. Sooner or later, she’s gonna drop the baby news. Trust me.”
I clench my fists under the table.
“She’s not pregnant,” I say firmly. “We’re careful. That’s not something we want right now.”
Jake’s mouth curves into a humorless smile. “Maybe not something you want.”
My pulse thuds like a warning drum.
“She’s not pregnant,” I say again.
Jake shrugs like it’s inevitable. “Just remember this conversation when she drops the news. And when she does?” He taps the side of his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I push back from the table so fast the legs screech against the floor. I can’t sit here another second, can’t breathe the same air as him.
“You don’t get to talk about her,” I snarl. “Not like that. Not ever.”
He doesn’t move.
“I know Nora,” I say low. “You don’t. And whatever this is? It’s not about protecting me. It’s about control. About keeping your grip on this band. On me.”
Jake scoffs. “You think I care who you date? This isn’t personal.”
“The hell it isn’t,” I snap. “You don’t like that I’m not playing your game anymore. You’re pissed that I don’t need your strings. So now you’re pulling this stunt?”
His expression hardens, something ugly flashing through his eyes.
“This girl is going to ruin you,” he says. “Mark my words.”
“Then I’ll be ruined,” I say. “But I’ll be ruined with her. Now leave us the fuck alone.”
I turn to go—but he grabs my arm.
Wrong move.
I shove him back. Hard.
Jake stumbles into the booth behind us, fists up now, like he’s forgotten he’s not twenty anymore.
“Hit me,” he spits. “Go on.”
I don’t.
But my fists are clenched, breath coming fast.
His jaw works. He drops his hands.
“This isn’t over.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It is.”
***
Jake leaves with that smug smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’s already won.
The door swings shut behind him with a quiet snick that feels louder than it should.
I stare after him, the last few minutes replaying like a reel of static in my brain.
My fingers curl into fists on the table, slow and tight and I sit back down, exhausted.
The condensation on my glass slides down, unnoticed. I don’t feel the chill. I don’t feel anything except the slow, creeping crawl of something under my skin.
That handle—Nora_D—the stupid, half-baked posts from years ago. The timing. The language.
It doesn’t add up.None of it feels like her.
I see Nora’s face in my mind: flushed with laughter, lit by ambition. The way she cradled Melody when we brought her in from the alley. The way she defended that library like it was her kingdom.
She’s not a liar.She’s not a schemer.
She’s the kind of woman who treats a rare edition like holy scripture and blushes when people call her beautiful.
“She’s not like that,” I say to myself aloud. “She’s not some gold-digging groupie trying to trap me.”
This is Nora.And I trust her.I have to.