Chapter 25
Taio
Morning light hits the penthouse windows like a tactical assault, cutting sharp lines across the marble kitchen island where I’ve set up camp.
The coffee maker gurgles behind me—some fancy European model with too many buttons that took me fifteen minutes to figure out—and my notepad is open, pen moving steadily across the page.
Charlie’s still in the shower. I can hear the water running through the walls, and every few minutes, the muffled sound of her singing drifts through the bathroom door. Something from her new album, I think. The melody is familiar now, constantly woven into the fabric of my days with her.
I turn back to my task: replenishing her paper hearts supply.
She has two back-to-back shows in Atlanta, and knowing Charlie, she probably didn’t pick just one. I bet she blew through all of the ones I snuck into her box before I left for New York. Time to restock the arsenal.
Tweety—
Remember: you’re not performing for them. You’re sharing yourself with them. There’s a difference.
I tear the note free, fold it into a small square, and add it to the growing pile beside my coffee mug. The next one comes easier:
The voice in your head that says you’re not enough? She’s a liar. Don’t trust her.
And another:
Black Cat and I are watching from the wings. Well, I’m watching. He’s probably napping. But we’re both proud of you.
I stare at that one for a moment, then add a small drawing in the corner—a terrible stick-figure cat with too-big eyes. Charlie will laugh. That’s the point.
Your mom would be proud of you.
I know I am.
The dancers have your back. Trust them to catch you—literally and figuratively.
My girlfriend is smokin’ hot… Sorry, that one was for me.
—Your Taio
I pause, tapping the pen against my lips. These notes hold so much weight—words to carry her through the moments when the lights are too bright and the crowd is too loud and the doubts start creeping in.
In my old life, I showed affection through physical presence.
Through protection. Through the careful maintenance of boundaries between client and provider that somehow still allowed for genuine care.
But with Charlie, I’ve discovered something different.
Words matter to her. Written ones especially—maybe because of her mother’s paper hearts, maybe because she’s spent so long having her words twisted and misrepresented by tabloids.
When I write these notes, I’m giving her something no one can take away or misinterpret. Private truths, just for her.
The coffee maker beeps, announcing completion, and I pour myself a cup—black, no sugar, the way I’ve taken it since I was sixteen and trying to seem more adult than I was.
The penthouse kitchen is absurdly well stocked; someone on Charlie’s team clearly called ahead.
Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, pastries from some local bakery, enough snacks to feed an army.
I grab a croissant and return to my notes, chewing thoughtfully as I consider what else to write.
A soft thump interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to find a familiar black shape materializing on the counter beside me. Black Cat settles his furry ass directly on top of my notepad, tail swishing with the supreme indifference of a creature who knows he owns every surface he touches.
“Hey, buddy.” I scratch behind his ears, earning a rumbling purr. “Where were you last night? I didn’t see you when we got back.”
He blinks at me slowly, offering no explanation. Probably hiding somewhere, traumatized by the sounds coming from the blanket fort. Smart cat.
“I missed you while I was gone, you know. New York was lonely without your judgment.” I run my hand down his spine and the vibration of his purr intensifies. “Charlie took good care of you, though. Four meals a day, I hear. You’re getting spoiled, and honestly? Good for you. Enjoy being loved.”
He head-butts my palm, demanding more attention.
I oblige, working my fingers through the soft fur at his neck while my mind wanders to the life this cat must have had before we found him.
Stray. Hungry. Probably kicked around by people who should have known better.
And now here he is, living in penthouses and eating gourmet tuna, completely unaware of how dramatically his circumstances have changed.
Maybe we have that in common.
“You know what?” I say, studying his golden eyes. “I think it’s time to name you.”
He stares at me with the blank indifference of a creature who has never cared about human conventions and never will.
“I already have a Tweety in my life,” I continue, thinking out loud. “So how about Sylvester? Keep the theme going. You’ve got the coloring for it—black and sleek. And you’ve mastered cartoon-villain energy.”
The cat yawns, displaying an impressive set of fangs, then begins grooming his paw with absolute disregard for my poignant naming ceremony.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You don’t give a damn what I call you as long as the tuna keeps coming.” I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “Fair enough. Sylvester it is. Welcome to the family, officially. It’s small and new. But it’s a good one.”
I attempt to reclaim my notepad from beneath his furry body, but he’s dead weight.
I’ve learned cats have this peculiar skill that defies physics—they become twice as heavy when they don’t want to move.
I end up sliding the notepad out from under him inch by inch while he glares at me with the righteous indignation of royalty being disturbed.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to write nice things for your other parent.”
He does not seem impressed. I’m mid-battle with Bla—Sylvester—when I hear footsteps approaching. The bathroom door must have opened while I was distracted.
Charlie rounds the corner into the kitchen, hair still damp from the shower, wearing one of my T-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh.
She looks soft and rumpled and utterly beautiful—the kind of beautiful that doesn’t require makeup or styling or any of the beauty-armor she wears for the public.
Just her, fresh-faced, rosy cheeks, freckles on display. So real.
“Morning,” she says, padding toward me on bare feet. There’s a slight hitch in her walk—a tenderness that makes heat creep up my neck when I remember why.
“Morning yourself.” I catch her hand as she passes, pulling her close enough to press a kiss to her knuckles. “How’d you sleep?”
“Yeah.” She pushes my shoulder. “You were gone when I woke up. What gives?”
I sigh. “Okay, remember that thing we need to talk about?”
A sly smile crosses her face. “Does it have anything to do with your father naming me in an illegal scheme to pay off a judge?”
My heart drops to my ass and throbs there. “Who called you?”
“Dad called me very early this morning. He oversees everything legal and finance for me. It’s in his DNA.”
My head droops. “Well, I’ve certainly made a great first impression on your dad.”
“Oh you did,” Charlie says enthusiastically. “He saw you grab a sleazy paparazzo by the scruff and nearly beat Grayson to a pulp. He says he’s very much looking forward to meeting you.”
The warmth settles in my chest. “That’s a relief. So what now?”
“We’ll do the Atlanta shows, then we’ll fly to New York, give a statement. Easy-peasy.”
“What if it gets out though?”
She arches an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a playful half smile. “The world will probably end. Real Armageddon zombie-apocalypse shit.”
“You don’t care?”
“I’ll always be some kind of headline, Taio. Might as well give them something interesting to conspire about. I’m not mad, babe. I am…wondering how you are. I’m sorry about your dad. I’m so sorry he tried to use me against you.”
I let out a heavy exhale. “He only knew because I told him how excited I was about us. How much you already meant to me. I didn’t expect—”
“Shhh.” Only when I’m seated are we eye level. She holds my gaze as she traces my frown lines with the tip of her finger. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t let you beat yourself up over this. You and me? We’re a team now. We’ll solve your problems like we did mine—together.”
I gather her in my hands, tracing her silhouette. “How did you sleep?”
“Like the dead. Turns out orgasms are better than melatonin. Multiple orgasms? Basically a medical-grade sedative.” She grins at my expression—somewhere between proud and flustered—then reaches past me to steal my coffee cup, taking a long sip.
“Ugh, how do you drink it black? This tastes like punishment.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“It’s an acquired cry for help.” But she takes another sip anyway, wrinkling her nose. “Okay. So.” Her face shifts into something more serious, the playfulness draining away. “Are you ready for the reckoning?”
“The reckoning?”
“Sage is on her way up. She texted me while I was in the shower. Actually, she texted me approximately thirty-six times while I was in the shower.” Charlie sets down the coffee cup and pulls out her phone, scrolling through what I assume is a parade of damage.
“She’s mad, Taio. Like, capital-M Mad. The kind of mad where she stops using exclamation points and starts using periods, which is how you know it’s serious. ”
“How bad is it?”
“Grayson went nuclear on socials overnight.” She turns the phone toward me, showing a screenshot of an Instagram story—Grayson’s face, artfully lit, with a caption that reads: Some people show you who they really are. Believe them the first time.
“He’s…” Embarrassed, wounded, and probably mortified. But that’s not what I say. “…such a punk-ass bitch.”