Chapter 4
chapter
four
PRESENT DAY
“You don’t endure because you’re unbroken. You endure because there’s no other way.” – Cyrus
HAVEN
Nine hours down. Five to go.
The highway stretches in front of me, the horizon blurring under the weight of summer heat.
The windows are down, hair whips around my face, my voice is off-key as I belt out lyrics like the car is my private stage.
Freedom to me smells like gasoline and tastes like candy.
I swear every road trip deserves its own dessert name.
New Orleans is the beignet. Florida, the key lime pie. Canada, the beaver tail. Today’s trip? Something bittersweet. Maybe tiramisu, but layered, heavy, and dusted with chocolatey regret.
Dad says I missed my calling as a baker or dessert influencer. Maybe he’s right. But baking doesn’t feel like kissing freedom on the lips the way driving does. I think a long-haul trucker is a better choice. He’s not a fan of that idea.
Out here, I’m not anyone’s daughter, not the girl left behind, not the one haunted by Cyrus fucking Vale. Out here, I’m just Haven, loud and alive and free to be whoever I want.
And then, because the universe is a cruel bitch, Venomous hits the radio with their number one song, Cherry on Fire. Are you kidding me with that name?
My throat tightens before the first chorus. The song is too upbeat, pop-sweet with its shiny hooks.
She’s cherry on fire, sweet with a sting,
Dancing through danger like it don’t mean a thing.
Wrapped up in silk, yeah, she’s trouble tonight,
Kissing like chaos under red neon lights.
Catchy, sure. Marketable, definitely. But him? Cyrus Vale doesn’t belong in gooey bubble-gum pop. He belongs in shadows, in rage, in songs that bleed and make you want to cry.
I stab the button and flip the station, my chest heaving. Having to listen to him for work is one thing. But on my highway? My time? Fuck that.
Hozier is my go-to choice to drown out Cy’s voice. Drumming the wheel, swaying like a reed in the wind, my heart softens because Hozier always gets me. And then my phone lights up, and the car cuts the music with the call. Charles.
“Hey there.”
“Hello, beautiful. How is the newest rock star employee at LG Records, and my future wife?”
I smile because Charles is always quick with a compliment.
“I wish you were here for the drive.”
He sighs. “Me too. But the transfer to the LA office hasn’t been confirmed yet. A few more weeks, hopefully no more than a month.”
I slump against the seat.
“What happened to two weeks?”
“They’re swamped, I have obligations, and no one can take my open cases. I can’t push it, babe. I just made junior partner. I’m the youngest in the firm’s history. I don’t want to risk it.”
“Yeah, I know. I just miss you.”
He laughs. “You’re pouting. You’ve got that look…lip pushed out…that always gets me hot.”
He’s right, of course.
“Maybe that look can convince you to come visit? We can finally get some wedding plans sorted.”
“May…be,” he teases with a laugh. “That I can probably swing. I’ll check my case list and let you know,” Charles says, and my smile is back. “Do you know where you’re stopping for the night?”
“Yeah, my father insisted on making all the arrangements. I’m staying in Illinois at that hotel he loves, High Manor.”
“Very fancy. I’d better get back to work, but I miss you already. Text me when you get to High Manor safely.”
“Will do. I love you.”
“Love you too, Teddy Bear,” he says, and ends the call.
I groan, rolling my eyes at the nickname.
The memory comes back in a rush.
The first night we met, I crashed at his place after a party. Vodka twists, music, too many shots, and somehow, I passed out on his floor in nothing but my underwear, clutching an oversized stuffed bear like it was a life raft.
To this day, we don’t know where the bear came from. That was it. The name stuck. And, of course, the photo he snapped that night lives on in eternal, mortifying glory.
But not even a phone call from Charles can keep the storm clouds from rolling in black and wild, flipping the world from sunshine to chaos in under a mile. My wipers shriek to life, fighting sheets of rain. Lightning splits the sky, and Dad’s name flashes on my phone.
“Hey, Dad.”
“My little rock star,” he booms, voice loud as thunder.
I smile despite the storm. That nickname has followed me since I was four with a hairbrush microphone in hand.
We talk weather, hotels, and his overprotective demands for a four-star minimum. Then, his voice shifts to that serious timbre that always means bad news.
“So, listen…” Dad starts.
“Oh no. What is it?”
“Who says it’s going to be bad?”
“Dad, you’ve been using that same line on me my entire life whenever you’re about to drop something I don’t want to hear. Just spit it out already.”
He chuckles, the deep sound wrapping around me the way it always has. My dad is my hero. He’s not perfect—we clash, we butt heads, we burn each other out—but at the end of the day, he’s the kind of man you’re proud to call family. Proud to call Dad.
His taste in women, on the other hand, is…questionable. Mom excluded. God rest her soul.
“Fine,” he says, sighing in surrender. “You’re right. There is something I need to mention before you get here. You won’t be working with Jeremy.”
Shit. My excitement deflates a bit.
“I thought I could learn from him until he retires.”
“I know, but I need you on another task. One that’s more important right now. You’ll be in social media and PR. Managing…a band. Well…specifically managing just the social media, not the band, but you’ll work in tandem with the manager.”
My stomach drops. I know what he’s going to say. I can feel it in my bones.
“No,” I blurt out as my body trembles. I feel as out of control as a weathervane spinning wildly in a storm. “I’m not working with him.”
He chuckles nervously.
“Come on, who better to keep Venomous in line? You’ve always been the only one who can get Cyrus to listen.”
The car shudders as thunder cracks, and I nearly slam the brakes in disbelief.
“Hell no. Dad, I would rather scrub toilets with a toothbrush and then use the toothbrush.”
“That can be arranged,” Anita’s voice cuts in from the background.
I snap. “Am I on speaker?”
Click. Dad picks up his phone.
“Don’t be dramatic. This is a great opportunity, and you have full sway on creativity, what is posted, and everything else.”
“Sure, I just need to reign in the King of chaos. You know Cyrus and I would rather shoot one another than work together. Dad, please don’t make me do this.”
I hate that I sound as if I’m begging. But he doesn’t understand how working with Cyrus is as dangerous as playing Russian roulette with my sanity.
“Haven, listen to me. Prove yourself, and by next year, I’ll move you up to the position you really want. You’re going to take my seat when I retire, but you need to earn respect in the company first. I need to see you can handle…well…you know what Cyrus is like.”
My jaw aches from clenching. Fuck. He’s right. I know he’s right—but the thought of seeing Cyrus again, of reliving every cruel word, every smirk, every time he made me feel like less than nothing…it guts me.
“Is there no other band I can help?”
“None that needs it more than Venomous. None that will get you as many kudos and votes for the big chair. I know you can do this. I believe in you, and your mother would be so proud.”
“Low blow bringing Mom into it, Dad.”
“Why? It’s the truth.”
Of course, he had to pull out the big guns of manipulation. I chew my bottom lip as I wrestle with what to do.
“Fine,” I bite out. “But I want you to know I hate this.”
Dad laughs, victorious. Unbelievable.
“You’re doing this while I’m still two days away, so that I’ll have time to cool off before I arrive. I know your tricks.”
He says nothing about my accusation.
“I have all the faith you can salvage their reputation. I love you, Rock Star. It will be great to have you home. See you soon.”
I hang up and scream, pounding my hand against the steering wheel.
“This is a disaster. A fucking disaster.”
“I’m still here,” Dad says, and I close my eyes.
“Oh shit, sorry.”
I hit end again, then groan. Are you kidding me?
Static fills the car, rain pounding as loud as bullets hitting the roof. I whisper a curse into the storm. “Damn you, Cyrus Vale. Damn you all the way to Hell.”
Freedom tastes different when the past is waiting at the finish line, because this road isn’t carrying me home…I’m driving straight back into the firey depths of my worst nightmare.