4. Jaxon
Jaxon
"Fuck this whole day." I slam the door to my home studio, the soundproofed walls swallowing my outburst. Board meetings, custody concerns, and now Gerald Lumina wanting me as the face of his men's line while his company plays political games with Vivienne's career.
The studio is my new sanctuary, the one place in this massive house that's truly mine. Guitars line one wall, a sleek mixing board dominates another, and the baby grand piano sits by the window overlooking the garden.
I grab the worn Taylor acoustic, the one I've had since before the money, before the fame. Before Andrew's betrayal changed everything.
My fingers find the strings, muscle memory taking over as I play the opening chords to "Empty Frames," a song I wrote after leaving home. The melody is familiar, comforting in its melancholy. I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me.
Three days since that dinner at the Clarkes', where Henry threatened to pull the rug out from under his daughter's career. Three days of Luke pushing the idea of using Vivienne as part of my PR strategy to keep Lily. Three days of her sharp eyes and sharper tongue lingering in my thoughts.
I transition into a different song, one I've never recorded. One I'll never share with anyone. The notes are haunting, intimate—a melody I wrote for Sophia years ago, back when I believed in love's simplicity.
Sophia. My first love. Andrew's greatest betrayal; she was his friend, but he knew she meant more to me.
As I play, the memory washes over me, visceral and unwanted.
Eight years ago. Summer heat making the air thick in my downtown apartment. No air conditioning, just open windows, and cold beer. I was nobody then—just a kid with a guitar and ambition, playing small clubs and dreaming of more.
Sophia appeared in my doorway, hair wild from the humidity, eyes bright with something I couldn't name. She was supposed to be with Andrew at his internship party.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, setting down my guitar.
"I told him I was sick." She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "I needed to see you."
We'd been dancing around it for months—the tension, the stolen glances when Andrew wasn't looking. The way our hands lingered when passing a drink, a book, anything.
"He's my brother," I said, the protest weak even to my own ears.
"I know." She moved closer, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. "But this isn't about him. It's about us. About this."
Her hand touched my cheek, and I knew I should pull away. But I didn't. I couldn't.
"Play for me," she whispered. "That song you were working on last week."
I picked up the guitar and began playing the melody that would later become "Stolen Moments." Her eyes never left mine as my fingers moved across the strings.
When I finished, she took the guitar from my hands, setting it carefully aside. Then she was in my lap, her lips on mine, tasting of cherry lip balm and forbidden desire.
"We shouldn't," I murmured against her mouth, even as my hands slid under her thin cotton shirt, finding the warm skin beneath.
"I don't care," she breathed, arching into my touch. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. "I've wanted this—wanted you—for so long."
Her confession broke something loose in me. I stood, lifting her with me, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carried her to my bed. She tugged at my shirt, impatient, and I pulled it over my head before lowering her to the mattress.
She was sunshine and heat beneath me, responsive to every touch. I kissed my way down her throat, across her collarbone, lower to the swell of her breasts as she arched beneath me.
"Jaxon," she sighed, my name like a prayer on her lips. "Please."
I took my time undressing her, memorizing every inch of exposed skin with my hands and my mouth. She writhed beneath me, impatient, desperate. When I finally slid inside her, her nails dug into my back, marking me as hers.
We moved together in the heat of that summer afternoon, sweat-slicked and frantic, then slow and deliberate. Learning each other. Memorizing the sounds she made when I touched her just right. The way her breath caught when I whispered in her ear.
Afterward, tangled in damp sheets, guilt crept in around the edges of our stolen happiness.
"What are we doing?" I asked, tracing patterns on her bare shoulder.
"Being selfish," she admitted, pressing a kiss to my chest. "But I don't want to stop."
Three weeks later, I found them together—Andrew and Sophia—announcing their engagement at our parents' anniversary party. The shock in her eyes when she saw me enter, the cold calculation in Andrew's. The diamond ring catching the light, mocking me.
I left that night. Took the guitar, some clothes, and never looked back. Built my career, my fortune, my life away from them all.
Six months later, my first single hit the charts. A year after that, Andrew and Sophia were married. According to Andrew, they divorced two years later—Sophia disappearing to parts unknown, leaving Andrew to eventually marry Shannon, Lily's mother.
A twisted circle of betrayal and abandonment that somehow led to me becoming guardian to my brother's stepdaughter.
The memory fades as the song ends. I let the final note hang in the air, vibrating with old pain and unresolved anger.
"Fuck," I mutter, setting the guitar aside and moving to the piano. My fingers find a different melody—something new, something that's been forming since that night at the charity gala.
It starts hesitant, and questioning, then builds with determination. Fire and defiance in musical form. Without planning to, I'm composing for Vivienne Clarke—for her sharp wit and burning ambition. For the way she stood her ground against her father, refusing to be diminished.
I lose myself in the creation, adding layers to the melody, finding the bridge, the chorus. It's different from anything I've written before—less melancholy, more vibrant. Challenging, like her eyes when they met mine across her father's study.
My phone rings, cutting through the creative flow. Luke.
"Please tell me you're calling with good news," I answer.
"Define 'good.'" His tone sets my teeth on edge. "I just got off the phone with our lawyers. They're concerned about Zackery Dean's latest move."
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. "What now?"
"He's requesting a formal review of your guardian status through his legal team. Claims he has evidence of an 'ongoing pattern of behavior inconsistent with responsible guardianship.'"
"What evidence?" I demand. "I've barely left the house except for work since Andrew died."
"That charity gala, for one. Photos of you with Vivienne Clarke looking cozy while Lily was at home from her injury and some older stuff they're digging up—the usual rockstar behavior from your touring days."
"Ancient history."
"Not to family court," Luke says grimly. "Look, we need to move on this PR strategy. The Lumina contract is a good start—very respectable and corporate. But we need more."
"I'm not using Vivienne as a PR shield," I say, though the idea has been circling in my mind since her father threatened her at the dinner.
"Why not?"
I run my fingers absently over the piano keys, the notes of Vivienne's melody lingering. "I'll think about it."
"Think fast. Dean's lawyers are pushing for a hearing next month." Zackary Dean is Lily’s second cousin. His mom, a cousin to Lily’s mom’s.
His claim of family was tenuous, but it certainly did not stop him from trying to use it to his advantage, especially against me and the possibility of controlling Andrew’s company.
After ending the call, I return to the piano, finding the melody again, letting it build and evolve. The tempo increases, passion and frustration bleeding into the notes. I'm so absorbed that I don't notice how much time has passed or the studio door opening until I reach the song's crescendo.
I let the final notes hang in the air, a question without an answer, before turning to find Luke with his usual stack of papers requiring signatures.
"That's new," he says, nodding at the piano. "Working on the next album already?"
"Just experimenting." I stand, stretching my muscles stiff from hunching over the piano. "What needs signing?"
"The Lumina contract, for starters. Gerald was impressed with your 'authenticity' at the dinner. Wants to announce the partnership next week."
I take the papers, skimming the terms. "Did he decide about Vivienne's campaign?"
"Still weighing options, according to his assistant. The Fischer pitch is scheduled for tomorrow, then Vivienne's team presents their final concept the day after."
"Have you spoken to our lawyer's about a response to Dean's petition?"
Luke hesitates. "About that. They strongly recommend we consider a more... stable personal presentation. Dean's team is painting you as a womanizing rockstar unprepared for fatherhood."
"I'm not Lily's father," I correct automatically. "I'm her guardian."
"Semantics to the court." He places another document on top of the Lumina contract. "This is a proposal from PR. A three-month strategy to reshape public perception. Item one is the Lumina partnership. Item two is..."
"Let me guess. A respectable relationship."
He nods. "Vivienne Clarke would be ideal. Good family, solid career, no scandals."
"Except the ones involving me," I point out.
"Which can be reframed as the start of a touching romance. The rockstar tamed by the career woman."
I snort. "Have you met her? She's hardly the taming type."
"Even better for the narrative. Two strong personalities find balance together. It writes itself."
I walk to the window, looking out at the garden where Lily had been playing earlier. She's inside now, working on homework with Mrs. Patterson. Four weeks, and already I can't imagine her not being here.
"I'll think about it," I say again.
"Think quickly," Luke advises, heading for the door. "I have another meeting with the lawyers tomorrow morning. They need direction."