Chapter 15
Taio
I wake up alone, and for a disorienting moment, I have no idea where I am.
Sheets. Flameless candles, their LED flickers timed out. Goldfish crackers scattered across cushions like tiny orange casualties of war. A pink romance novel splayed open near my knee, spine cracked to the page where I must have finally stopped reading.
I sit up slowly in the fort, my neck protesting the angle I apparently slept in.
At some point in the night, I must have shifted from sitting upright with Charlie against my chest to lying flat on my back, because I’m now sprawled across three couch cushions with a throw pillow wedged awkwardly under my shoulder blade.
My phone has migrated to somewhere near my hip, buzzing insistently with notifications I’ve apparently been ignoring for hours.
I fish it out and squint at the screen.
12:47 p.m.
I haven’t slept past noon since college. Maybe not even then—Alaina was an early riser who believed sleeping in was a moral failing, and her internal alarm clock became mine.
But last night I slept like the dead. Deep and dreamless and so complete that I feel almost hungover from the rest. My body is loose in a way it hasn’t been in months.
Years, maybe. The constant tension I carry in my shoulders—the hypervigilance that comes with always watching for threats, always calculating exits, always preparing for the next disaster—has dissolved into something resembling peace.
I think about Charlie falling asleep against my chest. The weight of her, slight but solid. The way her breathing slowed and steadied as I read, her body going boneless with trust. Complete trust. The kind you can’t fake, the kind that only comes when someone feels genuinely safe.
She felt safe with me.
At some point I must have stopped reading and just…
held her. Let myself exist in that moment without calculating the risks or cataloging the reasons it was a bad idea.
Her hair smelled like whatever expensive shampoo stocked the bathroom—floral and sweet.
Her hand had curled into my shirt like she was anchoring herself to me even in sleep.
It felt good. It felt like something I could get used to.
It felt absolutely terrifying.
I scrub a hand over my face and start scrolling through my phone, partly to distract myself from the direction my thoughts are spiraling and partly because I should probably check in on the outside world.
The tour doesn’t stop just because I built a blanket fort and caught feelings like some kind of lovesick teenager.
Instagram first. I don’t post—my account is locked down tighter than Fort Knox, no photos, no followers except a few verified accounts I use to keep tabs on industry news—but I keep regular surveillance on the celebrity gossip pages that have been dissecting Charlie’s every move since the scandal broke.
The shift is immediate and obvious.
Three days ago, every headline was some variation of “Charlie Riley’s Balcony Romp” or “Pop Star’s Secret Scandal” or “Is This the End of America’s Sweetheart?
” The comments were vicious—people who’d never met her confidently diagnosing her with personality disorders, addiction issues, attention-seeking behavior.
The memes were everywhere. Her career was supposedly over, finished.
Now?
“Charlie Riley SLAYS Miami Concert: The Tour Is Alive!”
“The Moment That Made Us All Cry: Charlie Riley Goes Raw and Real”
“From Scandal to Standing Ovation: Charlie Riley’s Big Comeback”
“Who Is the Mystery Bodyguard? Fans Are OBSESSED”
I click on that last one, morbidly curious.
It’s a compilation of photos and videos from the concert—Charlie at the piano, her face luminous with something that looks like joy and terror combined.
Charlie taking her bow, tears still wet on her cheeks.
Charlie being escorted through the crowd by a tall figure in black, his hand pressed protectively against her lower back.
Me.
My face is mostly obscured in the shots—caught in profile, hidden behind a shoulder, conveniently blurred by movement. The paparazzi got a few clearer angles, but nothing that would hold up to serious scrutiny. Nothing that would trigger facial recognition or link back to my other life.
Knowing Sage, that’s not an accident. She probably had someone reviewing footage before it went live, flagging anything too identifying. The woman operates like a chess grandmaster, always thinking six moves ahead.
The comments on the bodyguard post are…something.
“okay but the bodyguard can GET IT”
“the way she looks at him in that backstage video?? ma’am that is not professional”
“I would commit crimes to have five minutes alone with that man”
“charlie’s bodyguard is giving very much ‘I would kill for you and enjoy it’ energy and honestly? goals”
I scroll past before I can read any more, feeling heat creep up the back of my neck.
The narrative has shifted completely. The escort angle is dead—buried under an avalanche of new content, new storylines, new things for the internet to obsess over.
The bodyguard story is holding. Charlie’s performance overwrote everything else, gave people something new to focus on, something that painted her as triumphant rather than tragic.
Sage Hilston is a damn genius.
I keep scrolling. The tide has turned so thoroughly that I’m finding actual think pieces about Charlie’s “artistic evolution” and “vulnerability as strength.” One entertainment site has already published a retrospective of her career, framing the scandal as a catalyst for growth rather than a catastrophe.
The comments are full of people supporting her continuation of the tour, claiming they “always knew she had this in her” and “never believed the haters.”
The internet has the memory of a goldfish and the loyalty of a weathervane. Yesterday they wanted to destroy her. Today she’s their queen again. Tomorrow, who knows? But for now, the tide has turned, and I’ll take the victory.
I keep scrolling, switching over to Twitter—or X, or whatever they’re calling it now.
The trending topics confirm what Instagram suggested: #CharlieRiley is up there, but this time the associated tweets are glowing.
Video clips of the piano performance have been viewed millions of times overnight.
Someone’s already made a fan edit set to emotional music that’s racked up six figures’ worth of engagement.
There’s even a hashtag specifically for the bodyguard situation: #CharliesBodyguard. I tap on it against my better judgment.
It’s mostly thirst tweets. Extremely creative thirst tweets, some of which describe acts that are probably illegal in some states.
There are also conspiracy theories—people convinced I’m actually a secret boyfriend, or a planted actor, or some elaborate PR stunt designed to distract from the original scandal.
One person has apparently spent several hours trying to identify me through analysis of the birthmark behind my ear, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
The most-liked tweet in the hashtag is a zoomed-in screenshot from backstage footage, catching a moment where I’m looking at Charlie while she talks to someone off-camera.
My expression in the photo is painfully revealing.
Soft in a way I didn’t realize I was being.
Obvious in a way that makes my stomach clench.
The caption reads: “this man would walk through fire for her and you can’t convince me otherwise.”
The replies are full of heart emojis and keyboard smashes and people tagging their friends with comments like “find someone who looks at you like this.”
I close the app.
I should feel relieved. This is good news—great news, actually. It means the plan is working. It means Charlie’s career is recovering. It means my presence here is serving its purpose, and when this is all over, I can walk away knowing I helped instead of hurt.
Instead, I feel something more complicated.
And it has nothing to do with PR strategies or professional responsibilities or the carefully constructed boundaries I’ve been maintaining since this whole thing started.
It has everything to do with the woman who fell asleep in my arms last night, trusting me completely, and how badly I wanted to stay in that moment forever.
My entire locus of control has shifted. Who am I now?
Apparently whatever she needs. A friend.
A bodyguard. Her protector. Her confidant.
A man who wants her way more than he’ll ever let himself admit.
My thumb slides down the screen, pulling up a laundry list of notifications.
Charlie
Awake yet, sleeping beauty?
I check the timestamp. She sent it twenty minutes ago. There’s a follow-up from three minutes later:
Charlie
I fed Black Cat.
Another follow-up fifteen minutes later.
Charlie
Okay, twice. I fed him TWICE.
I smile at my phone like an idiot.
Me
Just woke up. What time did you get up?
Her response is immediate, like she’s been waiting for me.
Charlie
Hours ago. Been very productive. Definitely not pacing around nervously.
Me
Nervously about what?
Charlie
Come to my bedroom when you’re functional. I have something to show you.
Me
Should I be concerned?
Charlie
Yes.
I stare at the devil emoji for longer than is healthy. In my experience, that particular symbol from Charlie means one of two things: she’s about to do something chaotic, or she’s about to do something that will test every ounce of my carefully maintained self-control.
Given our current trajectory, probably both.