Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Ezra
The penthouse was a storm of movement, assistants rushing in and out, stylists setting up, managers running through last-minute schedules.
DreamCrest had back-to-back interviews today, an all-day press circuit filled with scripted answers and fake smiles.
I stood near the edge of the chaos, watching as Dominic went over the itinerary with their handlers, Riley scrolled through his phone with a half-hearted smirk, and Jaden quietly tuned his guitar in the corner.
Theo was on a call, already negotiating something, probably a brand deal or a tour budget.
Everything was running like a machine, every piece moving exactly as it was supposed to.
Except one.
Ezra was missing.
I noticed it immediately, the empty space where he should have been, the absence of his usual snarky remarks and careless attitude. He was always the last one to be ready, always dragging his feet just enough to annoy their handlers, but he never missed a call time.
"Where’s Ezra?" I asked, scanning the room.
Dominic barely looked up from his phone. "Probably still in his room. Someone go get him."
No one moved. They were all too busy, too used to him showing up late but always showing up. But something didn’t feel right.
"I’ll check," I said, already turning toward the hall.
Dominic didn’t argue, just nodded as he continued scrolling through emails, his shoulders tense with the weight of everything else he had to handle.
I walked down the quiet hallway, stopping in front of Ezra’s door. I knocked once. No answer.
I knocked again, harder. "Ezra, wake up. You’ve got ten minutes before they start throwing a fit."
Still nothing.
I frowned, pressing my ear against the door. The room was silent, too silent. No music, no movement, no snarky response telling me to go away.
Something was wrong.
I tried the handle. Locked.
A slow, uneven inhale.
The sound was faint, but it was there, barely audible over the muffled noise from the main room. My stomach clenched.
I knocked again, firmer this time. "Ezra."
Silence.
Then, a strained voice. "Go away."
I didn’t.
Instead, I leaned against the door, my voice steady. "I know what this is."
A pause. A sharp exhale.
"You don’t know shit, Dauntless," he muttered, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, back against the door. "You’re having an anxiety attack."
Another pause.
Then a bitter laugh, hollow and rough. "Congratulations. You diagnosed me. Now leave."
I rested my arms on my knees, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the way he was trying to control it, to fight it down before it consumed him completely.
"You don’t have to open the door," I said calmly. "But I’m not leaving."
Ezra let out another unsteady breath, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was his breathing, still too fast, still too shaky.
"If they know," he finally muttered, his voice quieter now, "they’ll use it against me."
I knew exactly who he meant.
The industry. The media. The fans who thought they owned them. The people who waited for weakness, just so they could tear them apart.
I closed my eyes briefly, exhaling. "I won’t tell anyone."
Another silence. Then, finally, the lock clicked.
I pushed the door open slowly.
Ezra was sitting on the floor, back against the tub, legs bent, arms resting loosely on his knees. His fingers twitched slightly, his jaw tight, his usually relaxed, confident posture gone. His skin was paler than usual, his breaths still uneven, but he wasn’t fighting it as hard anymore.
He looked at me, dark eyes sharp despite the exhaustion behind them. "What, you gonna give me some security lecture about deep breathing techniques?"
I sat down across from him, mirroring his position. "No."
He scoffed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Good. Wouldn’t work anyway."
We sat there in silence, the tension slowly settling, his breathing gradually slowing. I didn’t rush him. Didn’t ask questions. Just waited.
After a while, his hands steadied. His shoulders dropped slightly. The worst of it had passed.
"You do this a lot?" I asked quietly.
Ezra let out a humorless chuckle. "Only when I don’t have time for it."
I tilted my head. "And how often is that?"
He smirked slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "More than anyone realizes."
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Because what was there to say?
That it wasn’t fair? That he shouldn’t have to deal with this alone? That the industry shouldn’t chew people up until there was nothing left?
He already knew all that.
And it didn’t change anything.
After a few minutes, Ezra ran a hand through his hair, exhaling one last time before finally pushing himself up. "I should get ready."
I stood as well, watching as he stretched his arms out, rolling his shoulders, shifting back into Ezra Carter, the reckless bad boy of DreamCrest.
The mask was back on.
But I had seen underneath it now.
By the time we got back to the main room, the others were still too busy to notice anything had happened.
Dominic was on the phone, speaking in low, clipped tones. Theo was reading through emails, already onto his next problem. Riley was sprawled on the couch, making sarcastic comments at Jaden, who looked half-asleep but still composing something on his phone.
No one noticed the way Ezra’s fingers curled slightly at his sides, or how his jaw flexed as he settled back into his role.
But I did.
Dominic finally glanced up, his gaze flickering between me and Ezra. "You good?"
Ezra flashed a smirk, his usual lazy confidence sliding back into place. "Always, boss."
Dominic didn’t look convinced. But he didn’t push.
Neither did I.
Because I knew it didn’t matter.
Ezra would walk onto that stage, sit through those interviews, say exactly what he needed to say. He would laugh on cue, flash his perfect smirk, make the audience swoon.
And no one would ever know that ten minutes ago, he had been falling apart in silence.
Later that night, when everything was over, when the penthouse was quiet again, I passed by Dominic’s office. The door was open just a crack, and I saw him sitting there, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed against his temples.
He was tired.
Not physically. Something deeper.
I realized then that he carried all of it—every moment, every struggle, every piece of their shattered selves that they refused to show to anyone else.
And I wondered how much longer he could do it before he broke too.
By the time I reached my room, the weight of the day sat heavy in my chest.
No one cared about the person underneath.
They only cared about the performance.