3. Take Me Home
Take Me Home
Apparently, heartbreak is great for business—at least in this one. The label is placated by the other night’s club appearance, for now. But I’m still processing the wreckage of my love life while the world dissects it for views and likes.
I promised Philippa I’d show up, so here I am—war paint on, chest hardened—sitting in a boardroom at a post-release A&R meeting, to “monitor progress” and “discuss future direction”.
What it really means is—smile, behave and play nice with the men who sign the checks. A not so subtle reminder that they took a seven-figure risk on a girl, that was all but washed up, to deliver three-albums in six years.
So I sit here, biting my tongue, watching as the same people who were vilifying me weeks ago now fawn over my numbers. Patting themselves on the back, toasting to the success of an album they rebranded from grief over my mother into heartbreak over him.
“We’ll want to get you back into the studio,” says Suit One.
“There’s sure to be a U.S. tour on the cards,” adds the other.
“You’re trending,” says Kylie.
“Well done,” adds Mark, his face beaming with pride.
“Sounds great,” I say, teeth clenched, practically crawling out of my skin.
I wanted to be back at work.
But this? This wasn’t it.
I stand—rather abruptly—over this shit.
“Please excuse me—I’m hit with a wave of inspiration,” I say, my voice dripping with disdain. I can’t be here another second.
I’d rather be in the studio or at home in my music room writing and working through this heartache the only way I know how.
The chair scrapes against the polished floor, loud enough to make them pause, though no one says a word as I grab my bag and head for the door. I’m sure they’ll chalk it up to another temperamental tortured artist.
Listening to them is torture.
My heels echo down the hallway as I move fast, if I don’t get out now, I might actually scream.
The elevator feels like it takes forever, and my reflection in the metal doors stares back at me—haunted eyes, pale skin, lips pressed in a hard line. I try to breathe through the vice gripping around my ribs.
I don’t even think as I rush through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk, the fresh air hits me but so does the roar of bodies.
“ELENA! ELENA, OVER HERE!”
“Who is Sparks about?”
“Is the album about Alex?!”
“Are you and Alex done for good?”
“Are you and Cooper Witney an item?”
“Look this way! Smile for us, Elena!”
Flashbulbs explode, blinding me.
People shout my name in all directions, holding up my album and posters for me to sign. Somewhere beyond them paparazzi bark questions like they’re entitled to the pieces of me I haven’t even figured out yet.
Fuck.
How did they find me?
My pulse pounds in my ears.
I can’t breathe.
Hands reach out for me, cameras are shoved in my face. My vision blurs at the edges as I stumble backward, heart racing.
It feels like an eternity passes before I feel a pair of hands pulling me back into the safety of the lobby, I glance at the man—building security.
“Ma’am are you okay?”
I can barely speak, grasping my phone with trembling fingers, nearly dropping it, my thumb shakes over the names trying to figure out who to call.
Riley—somewhere in Brooklyn, working.
Philippa, Andrew—both would be at the Montgomery Towers. Both within arm’s reach of my father. And I don’t want him finding out what’s going on. Not yet. Not like this.
My finger hovers over the only other person I know in the city.
Then—I tap his name.
Would he pick up?
It rings twice.
“Elena?” His voice—calm, deep, familiar—cuts through the noise like a lifeline.
My throat closes. “Broderick, I…I need.” But I can’t get the words out.
“Where are you—what’s going on?”
“Pacific,” I whisper, choking on a sob I don’t want anyone to hear. “There’s so many people, I can’t leave.”
“I’m coming. Stay where you are. Do you hear me? Stay there—I’m on my way.”
His certainty grounds me, but my hand still shakes as I clutch my phone.
“Okay.”
“I’ve got you. Just hold on.” He ends the call.
I pace in a hidden hallway, away from the glass, peering into the lobby and wait for Broderick.
He won’t be far, Goodman Enterprises is only a few blocks away from Pacific.
I can still hear them—shouting my name, arguing with security.
The screen lights up again.
Broderick.
I answer so fast I nearly drop it.
“Brody.”
“El—listen to me,” he says firmly, that tone that makes me want to do whatever he tells me to just because it’s him.
“I’m parked around the back by the service exit.”
Tears sting my eyes—hot, angry and relieved.
“I thought I could handle it, but I can’t…it’s too soon.”
“You don’t have to handle this alone. I’ve got you.” His voice softens but stays steady, like an anchor holding me down before I drift too far.
“Where’s the service exit?”
“Ask one of the staff. They should show you. I’m right outside—you’ll see my car. I’m here.”
Letting out a shaky breath. I spot one of the receptionists and approach her.
“Can you—um—show me where the service exit is, please?”
She looks concerned, but kind. “Follow me.”
Swiping her card, she guides me down another hallway.
“Thank you,” I whisper, glancing at my phone—Broderick still on the line.
“Okay, I’m coming now.”
“Good girl,” he says gently, and something about the way he says it makes my stomach flutter. “I’ll be here. Just get to me.”
The moment I step outside, I see him dressed in a suit—leaning against his car, tense, scanning for me.
The whisper of autumn in the air hits me and his presence is a relief.
“Broderick,” I breathe, throwing myself straight into his open arms.
He catches me without hesitation, shielding me from the world as he wraps me up and keeps me close, blocking out all the madness with his body.
I breathe him in—mountains, the rain—and I instantly feel safe. He’s here.
“Baby, I’ve got you. You’re okay,” he murmurs, his hand cradling the back of my head.
Broderick holds me before helping me into the car gently.
He slides in beside me, pulling out onto the street, driving away from it all, one hand resting on my knee, a quiet reassurance.
The car is silent, the city noise fading as Broderick pulls away from the pandemonium outside Pacific.
I press my head back against the seat, shutting my eyes, focusing on breathing—in, out, in, out—until the burning in my chest eases just a little.
His hand stays on my knee, grounding me in the softest, most casual way—he always seems to know exactly what I need.
After a long moment, I exhale shakily and glance over at him. “Thank you.”
He looks at me sideways, giving me that gentle, crooked smile. “You already said that.”
I huff a soft laugh. “Well, I mean it.”
He shrugs, still watching the road. “You don’t have to thank me. We’re friends. It’s what I do. I show up for you.”
Something about the way he says friends pulls a chord in my chest, but I force it down.
“I’m sorry…I should’ve reached out sooner. Since you’ve been back,” I say, picking at the sleeve of my jacket.
He steals another look my way, a flicker of something in his eyes, but he shakes his head.
“It’s okay, your life just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”
And he’s right, while I hoped my album would be well received and have success, I did not anticipate the velocity at which it occurred.
“I...” I trail off, searching for the words. “Riley’s in Brooklyn, and with Pip, I didn’t want my father to know. And I didn’t know if you were working, but, I had no one else.” My voice breaks, as a tear slips out again.
“Elena,” he cuts me off gently, and his hand squeezes my knee before letting go just long enough to brush his fingers along my arm. The touch makes me look at him.
“I was working, but I figured rescuing a damsel in distress takes priority.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Damsel in distress? Am I really that pathetic?”
“Hey, don’t ruin my moment. I like the idea of being your knight in shining armor.”
I snort. “Pretty sure knights don’t drive matte-black SUVs.”
He shrugs, smiling, his dimples on full display. “Modern times. Gotta adapt.”
The tension in my shoulders soften, relaxing in his presence.
“I...didn’t want to be a burden.”
Broderick lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “El, you could never be a burden to me.”
We’re idling in traffic when I glance over, and find him already watching me—eyes steady and impossibly intense. It’s the kind of look that makes me feel seen in a way I hate and love all at once.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.” His lips curl slightly, teasing again. “Besides, if you keep calling me when you’re falling apart, I get to be the hero. It’s like every man’s dream to be Batman. It’s win-win.”
I laugh—actually laugh—shaking my head, as we start moving through the streets again.
“Brody,” I say, smiling despite myself.
“What?”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yeah—impossibly charming and hard to resist,” he agrees easily, shooting me a wink.
I laugh again, settling back in my seat. “Thank you.”
His hand finds mine this time, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Always.”
Broderick drives in comfortable silence, his hand still loosely holding mine until the city streets look familiar again—my neighborhood.
When he pulls up out front, I hesitate, not quite ready to let go of the safety of being next to him.
But he turns to me, giving my hand a final squeeze before letting go.
“You’ll be okay?”
I nod, trying to muster a smile. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anytime.”
I hesitate again, then glance over at him. “You should get back to work. I didn’t mean to pull you away...”
He sighs, leaning slightly toward me. “If you call me, I’ll come. Plus I’m my own boss so I won’t write myself up for it.”
“You’re a good man, Brody.”
“Don’t let that get out,” he says, flashing me a grin as he reaches across to open my door. “Ruins my reputation.”
I laugh softly, sliding out of the car, the scent of him still lingering around me.
“Text me later?” he asks.
“I will.”
And with that, he watches until I’m safely inside before pulling away.