2. Jaxon
Jaxon
"Where the hell have you been?" Luke demands as I slide into the back of the waiting Bentley. His face is illuminated by the harsh glow of his phone, forehead creased with familiar worry lines.
"Doing exactly what you asked." I loosen my tie, the memory of champagne still clinging to my skin despite the fresh shirt. "Making nice with Manhattan's elite. Being seen at the right event. Proving I'm not completely undomesticated."
"You were supposed to network, not get into an altercation with Henry Clarke's daughter."
I snort. "Hardly an altercation. She spilled champagne; I changed my shirt. End of story."
"Not according to Simone Wells." He holds up his phone, showing me a tweet with a blurry photo of Vivienne and me, faces inches apart. The caption reads: Sparks fly between billionaire bad boy Jaxon Hart and socialite Vivienne Clarke at Children's Hospital Benefit. #NewPowerCouple?
"Jesus Christ," I mutter. "Vultures work fast."
"They always do." Luke pockets his phone. "How's Lily?"
The mention of my niece—my responsibility—sends a fresh wave of anxiety through me. "She is feeling better, the Dr. feels she is not likely a concussion risk and we don’t need to wake her up every hour, according to Mrs. Patterson. We'll be home in ten."
Home. The word still feels foreign when applied to the sprawling mansion I inherited, along with custody of an eight-year-old girl I barely know.
"You need to be careful, Jax." Luke's voice softens. "Every move you make is under scrutiny now. The board members are watching. Zackery Dean is watching. One wrong step, and they'll use it to question your fitness as Lily's guardian."
"I'm aware." I stare out the window as Manhattan's glittering skyline slides past. "Trust me, I'm excruciatingly aware."
The car falls silent as the weight of my new reality settles between us.
Four weeks ago, I was on tour in Europe, living the life I'd built for myself—far from family complications, far from the past. Then came the call.
Andrew dead. Heart attack at forty-one. And me, somehow, named guardian of his stepdaughter.
My brother, whom I hadn't spoken to in years. My brother, who knew exactly what he'd stolen from me. My brother trusting me with the most precious thing in his life when he couldn't even trust me with his honesty.
The irony isn't lost on me.
"Lily's mother?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Still unreachable." Luke scrolls through emails. "Her last known location was somewhere in Thailand. The lawyer's investigator is still trying to track her down, but legally—"
"Legally, I'm responsible." I finish for him. "Regardless of whether Shannon Johnson ever decides to remember she has a daughter."
The car pulls through the wrought iron gates of the estate—my estate now. Andrews until a month ago. The drive curves past manicured gardens and fountains, everything perfect, pristine, just like our parents demanded. Just like Andrew always was.
"Meeting with the board tomorrow at ten," Luke reminds me as we pull to a stop. "Quarterly financial review, but they'll be watching for any sign of instability. Wear the navy Armani."
"I know how to dress for a board meeting, Luke."
"You know how to dress for a concert. Different audience."
I can't argue with that. "Anything else?"
He hesitates. "Zackery Dean requested a private meeting next week. Says it's about a potential partnership."
"Bullshit." I reach for the door handle. "He's fishing for weaknesses. Deny the request."
"Jax—"
"Not now, Luke. I need to check on Lily."
His expression softens. "Of course. Call if you need anything."
I nod and step out into the cool spring night. The mansion looms before me, windows glowing warm against the darkness. Not so long ago, this house represented everything I resented—privilege, expectations, the ghost of our parents' legacy. Now it's my responsibility, just like Lily.
Mrs. Patterson meets me at the door, her silver hair pulled back in its perpetual bun, worry etched across her kind face. She's been the housekeeper here for thirty years, saw Andrew and me grow up, watched us drift apart. Now, she's the closest thing to family Lily has, besides me.
"How is she?" I ask, shrugging off my jacket.
"She seems fine and isn’t complaining about a headache or any other pain from the fall," she replies. "She ate a little and took a pain reliever without complaint."
"Good." I hesitate at the foot of the grand staircase. "Is she...should I..."
Mrs. Patterson's expression softens. "She asked about you. Twice."
Guilt twists in my chest. I should have been here, not at some bullshit charity event.
"Thanks for staying late," I say. "I can take it from here."
She pats my arm. "You're doing fine, Jaxon. One day at a time."
After she leaves, I stand in the foyer, listening to the hollow silence of a house too big for just two people, especially when one is an almost stranger to the other.
I loosen my tie further and climb the stairs, pausing outside Lily's room. The door is cracked open, a sliver of nightlight spilling into the hallway. I hesitate, then knock softly.
"Lily? You awake?"
No answer. I push the door open gently. The room is painted soft blue—Andrew's choice, not mine—with glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across the ceiling. Lily lies curled on her side, dark hair splayed across the pillow, her breathing even but slightly congested.
I should leave. Let her sleep. But something keeps me rooted to the spot.
She looks so tiny in that massive bed, so vulnerable. And utterly dependent on me, a man who's spent the better part of a decade avoiding responsibility for anyone but himself.
"Uncle Jaxon?" Her voice, scratchy from sleep, startles me.
"Hey, kiddo. Sorry if I woke you. Just checking in."
She blinks at me, eyes hazy with sleep and fever. "Did you catch bad guys at your party?"
I smile despite myself. "It wasn't that kind of party. How are you feeling?"
"My head hurts a little." She pushes herself up against the pillows. "And my dreams are scary."
I move into the room, perching awkwardly at the edge of her bed. "Scary, how?"
She looks down, finger tracing patterns on her comforter. "I dreamed about Dad again. He was calling for help, but I couldn't find him."
My chest tightens. I have no playbook for this. No training manual for comforting a grieving child.
"That sounds really scary," I say finally. "But you know that's not how it happened, right? Your dad's heart... it happened very fast. He wasn't calling for help."
The words sound hollow even to me. She nods, not looking convinced.
"Would you..." I clear my throat. "Would you like some water? Or I could sit with you until you fall back asleep?"
She studies me, her expression unnervingly adult. "Mom used to sing to me when I had bad dreams."
The mention of Shannon, who abandoned her daughter and terminated her parental rights for some "spiritual journey", sparks a flare of anger I quickly tamp down.
"I'm not much of a singer," I admit. "Not like that, anyway."
"Dad said you sing for thousands of people." Her fever-bright eyes fix on me. "He kept all your records. Even the ones Mom didn't like."
Something twists in my chest. "Did he?"
She nods. "He said you were the most talented person he ever knew. But the most stubborn."
A laugh escapes me. "That sounds like Andrew."
Silence falls between us. There's so much I want to ask her about my brother, about the man he became in the years we didn't speak. But that's my baggage, not hers.
"I could play something for you instead?" I offer. "On the guitar, I mean. If that would help."
Her face brightens. "Would you? Really?"
"Sure. Let me grab the acoustic from my room."
When I return with the guitar, she's sitting up straighter, looking more alert. I settle into the chair beside her bed, feeling strangely nervous. I've played stadiums across the world, but this audience of one matters more somehow.
"Any requests?" I ask, adjusting the tuning.
She shakes her head. "Something you like."
I think for a moment, then begin playing the opening notes of "Homeward," a song I wrote years ago, before fame, before the rift with Andrew—a song about belonging nowhere and everywhere.
I don't sing the lyrics—too raw, too personal—but let the melody speak for itself. As I play, I watch Lily's eyes grow heavy, her body relaxing against the pillows. By the time I finish, she's breathing deeply, her face peaceful in sleep.
I set the guitar aside and carefully adjust her covers. On impulse, I brush a strand of hair from her forehead, checking her temperature with the back of my hand. Still warm, but not dangerously so.
As I turn to leave, my eyes catch on a framed photo on her nightstand—Andrew holding a younger Lily on his shoulders, both laughing at the camera. Beside it sits another frame, and the sight always stops me cold.
It's me, on stage at Madison Square Garden, caught mid-performance. I remember that night five years ago, my first sold-out arena show. What I didn't know was that Andrew was there, somewhere in the crowd. That he'd brought Lily.
That he'd kept a photo of me in his daughter's room despite everything between us.
I sink back into the chair, a memory surfacing unbidden. Andrew, nineteen years old, bringing home a girl from college. Me, seventeen, falling instantly, stupidly in love with her. Sophia, with her warm laugh and gentle eyes.
I'd written songs for her and played them when Andrew wasn't around—watched her eyes light up with something more than friendship.
But the relationship between them carried the day, and I left home for good, building my life and career as far from Andrew's orbit as possible.
Yet, in the end, he trusted me with his most precious responsibility. Why? Some twisted form of atonement? Or something else?
My phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling me from the past. Luke.
"What now?" I answer in a whisper, stepping into the hallway.
"Turn on Page Six's website." His voice is tight with controlled panic. "Right fucking now."
I move quickly to my office down the hall, booting up the laptop. The website loads to reveal a headline that makes my blood run cold:
BILLIONAIRE BAD BOY'S NEW CHALLENGE: CAN JAXON HART HANDLE FATHERHOOD? Sources Question Rockstar's Fitness as Guardian After Charity Gala Flirtation
Below is a photo of me and Vivienne Clarke, her hand on my chest, my eyes locked with hers. Beside it, an older photo of me leaving a club with two women, clearly intoxicated. The article quotes "sources close to the family," questioning whether a "notorious playboy" is fit to raise a child.
" Zackery Dean," I growl into the phone. "This has his fingerprints all over it."
"Doesn't matter who it is," Luke replies. "What matters is how we respond. This is just the beginning, Jax. Someone will be coming for custody."
I glance back toward Lily's room, an unfamiliar protective rage building inside me. Three weeks ago, I barely knew her. Now, I can't imagine losing her to the system or, worse, to someone like her mother, who would use her as leverage against me for gain.
"Over my dead body," I tell Luke, my decision crystallizing with surprising clarity. "No one is taking her from me. I don't care what it costs or what I have to do."
"We need a strategy. A way to reshape your image overnight." Luke pauses. "What about the Clarke woman?"
"What about her?"
"She's respectable. From a good family. Connected. If you were seen as settling down..."
I bark out a laugh. "You can't be serious. I just met her tonight."
"I'm not suggesting you actually date her. Just... consider the optics."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, thinking of Vivienne's sharp wit and her refusal to be intimidated by me. The unexpected spark between us had nothing to do with her family connections and everything to do with the recognition of a kindred spirit.
"I'll think about it," I say finally, which is more consideration than I'd give almost any other PR suggestion.
"That's all I ask." Luke sounds relieved. "Get some sleep, Jax. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
I end the call and return to Lily's doorway, watching her peaceful sleep. Three weeks ago, my life made sense. Chaotic, but on my terms. Now, everything has changed, and I have no roadmap for this terrain.
But looking at her, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I won't fail her the way everyone else has. Not her absent mother. Not the system that would chew her up and spit her out.
And not even Andrew, who should have had decades left to raise his daughter, not three weeks.
For the first time in years, I wonder what my brother would think of me now if he'd recognize the man standing guard in his daughter's doorway, willing to fight the world to keep her safe.
I wonder if, somehow, that's exactly what he expected all along.