Chapter 7
chapter
seven
“You can burn the bridge, baby. But I’m still walking through the fire.” - Haven
HAVEN
The motel room smells like lavender soap, shrimp Pad Thai takeout, and all my bad decisions.
This isn’t the sleek hotel Dad booked for me. I’m supposed to be at The Ridge—mountain-modern luxury, overpriced cocktails, a valet who probably wears cologne that costs more than my rent in New York. Instead, a flat tire and zero cell service have stranded me at the Crescent Pines Motor Lodge.
The name sounds cute. Reality? More Bates Motel than boutique getaway.
The people here are…off. Not horror-movie threatening, just unsettling.
Everyone smiles too wide, eyes are a little too flat, their politeness is sharp around the edges.
Stepford, but in denim and plaid. I haven’t seen a Starbucks, a grocery store, or a single normal interaction since I was towed into town.
I keep waiting for someone to hand me a pamphlet about The Circle.
Still, the sheets don’t smell weird, the room is clean, they have a wide variety of takeout, and there’s Wi-Fi. Okay…barely on the Wi-Fi. Small mercies.
I’m perched on the bed in a motel, in a robe that clings damply from my shower, and a towel twisted on my head. My laptop screen glows with the Venomous press kit like a neon nightmare. Photos, bios, and notes.
-Don’t let him talk over you.
-Remind him he’s replaceable.
-We want to double the band’s followers in the next eight months.
-Look into how to appeal to international markets.
-Keep Cyrus away from Finland. He got arrested there.
Dad’s fingerprints are all over the file, which proves he’s been plotting this for a while now. I want to be furious with him, but maybe this is just what I need to get Cyrus out of my system once and for all.
I stab a shrimp, chew, and try to convince myself that I can stomach the idea of managing the world’s biggest disaster. A dangerous aura in ripped black jeans with sexy tattoos and piercing blue eyes. Ugh.
For five years, I’ve acted like Cyrus Vale is radioactive. I methodically went through my phone, deleting his songs. I switch stations when his voice hits the airwaves. I refuse to follow a single update. He no longer exists.
Until now. Now, he’s my problem.
Ding.
I look at my phone. Dad. Great.
Dad: The plans have changed. I wanted to brief you in person before you meet up with the band, but I need to head to Ireland for a few nights. Head straight to Nevada for the first stop of the tour. I just sent you the address.
Ding.
Sure enough, the address pops up, and I snarl.
Haven: Got it.
Dad: You still angry with me?
Haven: Angry is not the word I’d use.
Dad: Lmao, I’ve missed you, Rock Star. I’ll see you at either the second or third stop.
I sigh and shake my head. My mind tells me it will be alright, but my stomach says this is a terrible idea.
Haven: Alright, and I’ve missed you too, Dad.
Dad: You’re going to be great.
I hope he’s right.
The Jack Malone Show glows on the TV screen, and I almost change it. Almost. But some masochistic part of me…call it professional curiosity, call it something worse, needs to watch. This is my job. My father’s plan. My life for the next year, apparently. May as well start taking notes now.
Spoiler…Cyrus hasn’t changed.
He walks onstage like he owns the air that everyone breathes. Same cocky smirk, same swagger, his sunglasses low, the whole I’d-rather-be-anywhere-else thing dialed to eleven. He looks sexier than I remember, a human train wreck if ever there was one. And God help me, my pulse spikes.
I pluck another shrimp from the container beside me as Jack Malone tosses the group softball questions. Then the interviewer brings up Patrick, and Cyrus’s smile hardens. The edge in his voice slices even me. For a second, I almost pity him. Almost.
And then Malone says my name.
I cinch the robe tighter, as if fabric can hold me together. Cyrus doesn’t hesitate.
“She’s not here to save me, Jack. Don’t let the sweet, doe-eyed act fool you.
Haven Gaillard is a Grade-A bitch. A leech in lip gloss.
She plays innocent well, but she’s poison.
She wraps herself in morality while stabbing you in the back with a smile.
Haven Gaillard isn’t some industry fixer, she’s poison.
She’s the kind of person who watches you drown just to write a blog post about it.
If this is supposed to be our redemption, I’ll take damnation. I bet she won’t even last a month.”
My fork drops from my hand.
“Oh no, he did not.”
Bursting to my feet, I pace the room with my robe flaring like a cape.
“What the hell, Cyrus? What did I do? EXIST!”
I jab my finger at the screen.
“You’re calling me poison? You bullied me every chance you got. You mocked my clothes, my voice, my lack of friends, my entire existence, like it was a sport. And now you want to play the victim? Screw you.”
Memories flood my mind of the night I dragged him out of that club, drunk, high, drowning in grief.
He cursed me the whole way home. I lied to Dad for him.
Protected him. I was there for him when he needed someone.
Hell, I gave him my virginity, and he repays me by spitting lies on national television.
The host stammers, tries to make a joke, and moves on, but tension hangs like smoke even through the screen. Jack tells everyone that the group is going to sing, and I stomp my foot as they get up from the couch, like Cyrus hasn’t just thrown me under the bus.
Cyrus picks up his guitar, sings half a chorus, then walks off. He leaves the band, the cameras, and chaos in his wake. They all look at one another with genuine shock. This is not a pre-planned publicity stunt.
“No way,” I whisper. Then louder, “Are you serious?”
He acts like he’s immune to consequence, like the world is a toy he’s broken for fun. I feel something solid in my chest snap open. Anger rises not just at him, but at the humiliation of our names tangled together in headlines.
I snatch my phone off the bed and hammer out an angry text to my father.
Haven: You don’t need a social media rep, you need a miracle.
Dad: I know, you’re my miracle. Good luck, honey.
Grabbing a pillow I scream into it. “Ahhhhh!”
I collapse onto the bed, fury a live wire under my skin.
I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I do what I always do…I sharpen my planning skills.
Sitting up, I grab my notebook and open it to a clean page. At the top, I start to write.
DAMAGE CONTROL PLAN: OPERATION WRECKED ROCKSTAR.
Underneath, in ink pressed so hard it grooves the paper, I write.
CYRUS VALE IS GOING TO LEARN.
Needing a moment of calm before I start this mess, I call Charles. Voicemail. My voice is too soft when I leave a message, too hopeful. I hate that he doesn’t pick up. Hate that I still want the comfort of someone else’s steady heartbeat when mine is chaotic.
God, I feel stupid, even after all this time. I’m still that girl he tortured. Still hoping too loudly.
No, not anymore.
I underline the words three times and close the notebook.
Operation Wrecked Rockstar isn’t just in motion…it’s all-out war. And Cyrus Vale has no idea what’s coming. He burned me once, but now I’m the fire.