Chapter 2 #2
"Tell me something real," I'd begged him. "Something that isn't manufactured or focus-grouped or approved by a committee."
So he’d told me about Sophia’s new boyfriend—how the kid was terrified of him and kept calling Liam “sir” like he was a drill instructor.
About Wyatt still pining for Ivy after fourteen years and pretending he wasn’t.
About a new fence line he and Hunter had put in last week, and how Clay had “helped” by mostly drinking beer and flirting with the neighbor’s daughter.
Then his voice had softened, settled into that quiet way he only ever used with me.
“I finally finished the barn,” he said. “The new one.”
I could hear the pride in him, even through the static. “The one on your land?” I’d asked, smiling without meaning to.
“Yeah. Took me damn near eight months, but it’s done. Five stalls, all polished up. Smells like cedar and fresh hay.” A pause. “Feels like mine. First thing that ever really has.”
Something in my chest had pulled tight. “You’re really doing it,” I whispered. “Your own place. Your own horses. Your own cattle.”
He let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Got the herd moved over yesterday.” A beat, then—soft, almost shy: “You’d like it, Steph. The way the light comes through in the mornings? Looks like the whole barn is glowing.”
I’d closed my eyes then, pressing the phone harder to my ear, wishing I could fall straight through the line and land beside him.
“What about your favorite horse?” I asked lightly. “Did you move her, too?”
“Mhm. Put her in the last stall, the one with the big window. Thought she deserved the best view.”
“And why’s that?” I teased.
He chuckled, that low, warm sound that always settled me. “Because she’s stubborn, dramatic, and likes attention. She reminds me of someone.”
“Liam—”
“Elbows sharp, dreams even sharper,” he said, voice dipping soft. “That one’s all you, Stephy.”
My throat had gone tight, too tight. We both felt the words we weren’t saying.
And we let the silence hold them.
I'd cried after we hung up. Quiet tears in a luxury hotel suite, missing a home I'd never really had, missing a boy who'd become a man without me there to see it.
He'd made me laugh that night, even through the exhaustion. He always made me laugh. Even from eight hundred miles away, Liam Walker could make me feel like myself again.
I hit call before I could lose my nerve.
It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then—
"Walker."
His voice, professional and distant. He was at something, probably another Blackwood gathering. I could hear music, laughter, the sounds of a real family having a real celebration.
I tried to speak, but nothing came out except a broken sound.
"Lee..." My voice shattered on his name.
"Stephy?" Instant change. Concern flooding through. "What's wrong? Talk to me, sweetheart."
The endearment broke me. He only called me sweetheart when he was worried, when he forgot to maintain the careful distance we'd built since that night in Austin five years ago. That night when we'd pretended for eight perfect hours that our lives could fit together.
"He... Lee, he was in my house. He was—" I couldn't say it. Couldn't put words to what had almost happened.
"Are you safe right now? Are you hurt?"
"I don't... I can't..." I was hyperventilating, my chest too tight, the room spinning.
"Where are you?"
"Home. LA. My house. The police were here, but they're gone, and my security is useless and my team just wants to control the story and I'm so scared, Lee. I'm so fucking scared."
"Lock yourself in a room. Stay on the phone with me."
"I can't... my phone's about to die. I dropped it when he... when he grabbed me and the screen is cracked and—"
"Stephy, listen to me. Lock the bedroom door. Push something heavy in front of it. Stay in that room until I get there. Six hours. Can you give me six hours?"
"You promised," I whispered, hating how small I sounded, hating that I was twenty-eight years old and still needed him to save me. "You promised if I needed you—"
"I'm coming. I swear to God, Stephy, I'm coming. Just hold on."
"Please hurry." My voice broke completely. "Please, Lee. I need you."
The line went dead, my phone finally giving up, the cracked screen going black.
I stared at it for a long moment, then did what he said.
Locked the door. Pushed my dresser in front of it—the heavy antique one that had cost thirty thousand dollars and now served as a barricade against my own security team's failure.
Then I curled up in the corner between my bed and the wall, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like the lavender detergent my housekeeper used, and waited.
Six hours. I could survive six hours.
I'd survived the last three hours, hadn't I?
Survived the police questions, the photos, the evidence collection that found nothing.
Survived my manager's calls about containing the situation.
Survived my security team's excuses about how he must have had inside information, as if that somehow made it better instead of worse.
But now Liam was coming. My Lee. The boy who'd held me through my first heartbreak, who'd taught me to throw a punch after Brady Coleman grabbed my ass in eighth grade, who'd slow danced with me at prom when my date abandoned me for his ex.
The man who'd loved me in an Austin hotel room like I was precious, then let me go because our dreams were taking us in different directions.
Except his dream had come true—he was a Texas Ranger now, probably the youngest in the state.
And mine had become a nightmare wrapped in rhinestones and record sales.
The one person in this whole facade of a life who knew the real me. Not Stevie Wilson, the brand, the product, the carefully curated image that sold out stadiums. Just Stephy. His Stephy, who used to write poetry in his truck and steal his fries and believe that words could change the world.
I pulled my knees tighter to my chest and watched the bedroom door, counting minutes, counting heartbeats.
Somewhere in this house was a stalker's DNA that the cops couldn't find.
Somewhere in this city, he was planning his next move.
And somewhere between here and Copper Creek, Liam Walker was coming for me.
Please, Lee, I need you.
Outside, I could hear my security team still making excuses, my assistant fielding calls, my entire team more worried about containing the story than containing the threat.
Tomorrow, there would be meetings about narrative control, about press statements, about how to spin this into sympathy without affecting the album sales.
But none of that mattered now.
Because Liam was coming.
And for the first time in three hours—hell, for the first time in three years—I thought maybe I might actually survive this.
Maybe I could find my way back to being Stephy again.
Maybe I could remember what it felt like to be real.