Chapter thirty
Violet
LA is a relentless bitch.
We step off the plane and she’s already got her claws into Carter. He’s engulfed by security, handlers, and a studio rep with a clipboard. In under three seconds, he’s being hustled into a private tunnel, before I can even get a chance to say goodbye or good luck.
That’s pretty much the next three days.
A blur of schedules and cameras, with Carter drifting in and out of my orbit. He slips into bed sometime between two and four every morning, exhausted, smelling like sweat and cologne. I barely stir before sneaking out at dawn, letting him sleep because I know he desperately needs it.
The only time I see him—really see him—is through my lens.
Through my viewfinder, I steal tiny fragments: the glaze of exhaustion over his eyes between flashes, his mouth kicking up at something Kai says, the momentary blankness when he forgets he’s “on.” Little private Carters, flattened into pixels. Heaven and torture rolled into one.
But I don’t have time to dwell on it.
LA is an engine, and Chris runs it with efficiency. Every minute is blocked out, color-coded, and cross-checked. Photoshoots. Radio. TV. Label meetings. If there’s a corner of this city they haven’t dragged these boys into, I haven’t seen it.
I finally understand why they hate this part. The stage is their high. This is . . . the invoice.
The press conference is a whole other circus.
The ballroom is packed with row upon row of journalists. Lights blaze from above, hot enough to melt skin. The guys sit shoulder to shoulder on a narrow platform, a Pulse-branded media wall behind them, and a line of microphones in front.
Theo slouches, dwarfing the seat underneath him. Kai taps his foot, restless energy gushing out of every pore.
Xander has murder in his eyes and a smile plastered to his face. If someone asks him a question he’s answered a million times before . . . shit will undoubtedly go down.
But the room tilts toward Carter, like it always does. Even fried, he radiates that thing he has—whatever it is that makes people lean forward without realizing.
The questions start simple. Reporters call out one after another:
“How has the tour been?”
“What city surprised you the most?”
“Any plans after New York?”
“How do you handle being away from home for so long?”
“Last night’s show was incredible. You’re this close to the end of the tour, but there were zero signs of fatigue. How do you keep that energy up?”
They volley answers back—Theo with dry sarcasm, Kai waxing poetic about crowd energy, Xander throwing out two-word replies that somehow don’t sound arrogant or short. Carter goes into pro mode: smooth and charming, giving just enough without actually saying anything of substance.
I weave around the outside of the room, getting shots between heads and camera rigs. Theo’s eye roll. Kai’s grin. Xander’s nostril flare. Carter’s veined hands linked together in front of the microphones.
Inevitably, someone decides to stir shit up.
A woman in the third row stands, tablet held in both hands. “Carter,” she calls. “There have been a lot of rumors online about your health lately. Do you have any comments?”
Carter leans toward the mic. “I’m one hundred percent healthy,” he says with confidence. “Never better.”
He tries to move on, points to someone else, but she doesn’t let go.
“And a quick follow-up—did you know you’ve been voted Sexiest Man Alive again? Fourth year in a row. Congrats. Is the sexiest man alive officially off the market . . . or still single?”
Laughter ripples through the room. More flashes go off.
I see it—the micro-shift in his face. A shutter dropping half an inch.
“I didn’t know,” he says. “And when I have anything to announce about my personal life, I will.”
Which is the politest “fuck off” I’ve ever heard.
She opens her mouth again. He’s already pointing at a reporter on the far side of the room. Next question. Move on.
Cindy has wedged herself as close to the stage as security will allow, eyes glued to Carter.
My own personal hemorrhoid in lipstick. At one point, she tears her gaze away from him, scanning the press line.
Her expression changes slightly. I try to track it, but whoever she was looking at is lost behind a wall of raised hands.
I keep shooting, adjusting, focusing. I slip around Megan and Mika without thinking—we’re a well-oiled machine by now.
My camera shutter clicks. Carter’s gaze skims over the crowd and lands on me. Even from across the room, with fifty people between us, our connection is a force to be reckoned with.
Chris finally calls an end to the press conference, thanking everyone. The guys are swept offstage, and we’re hustled out the back, lugging our equipment cases and camera bags, into one of the black SUVs baking in the heat. It’s the wrong kind of hot for this time of year.
By the time we reach the private terminal, the band still isn’t there. Apparently, some last-minute issue back at the hotel. Someone probably lost their phone, or Kai lost his favorite drumsticks . . . again. Who knows with these guys.
I dump my backpack on the floor and fold into one of the plush chairs in the lounge. Megan is across from me, phone in hand, eyebrows carved into one solid line. A notification pings; she frowns harder.
“I’m going to go grab a charger,” I tell her, hauling myself up along with my bag.
She waves a distracted hand, already getting up and walking toward the far corner to take a call. When she answers, her words are clipped.
I slip out into the main terminal, weaving through families and business travelers, until I find a convenience store wedged between a perfume shop and a luxe watch boutique.
I grab a charger off the peg. At the counter, I fish my card out.
And then I see it. Down by my knee, crammed into a metal rack beside a stack of gum—Carter on a magazine cover.
My fucking photo.
He’s sprawled on my hotel bed in Singapore, shirtless and skin washed out by flash. Eyes closed. Face slack. The crop makes him look almost . . . dead.
The headline in huge bold letters is stamped across his body:
EXCLUSIVE!
DOWN AND OUT: CARTER ASHFORD OVERDOSES
And in smaller text near the bottom:
Vega Wolfe tells all with behind-the-scenes tour pics.
For a second, my brain refuses to compute. Thousands of thoughts compete at once before one eventually wins out. Then the floor drops out from under me.
“No,” I whisper. It comes out cracked. “No, no, no . . .”
I snatch the magazine, fingers fumbling the glossy paper, and start flipping. Pages slap over one by one.
“We just got that in, arrived thirty minutes ago,” the cashier tells me, completely oblivious to my internal meltdown.
The final page flips over and there they are—raw, private moments of Carter, unedited and unfiltered.
Carter, half asleep in a hotel room, eyes bruised with fatigue.
Post-show, collapsed on a couch, head tipped back, throat exposed.
In swim shorts in Como, skin glistening from the sun.
Every unguarded moment I’d shot for us, without lighting or editing, and without permission.
My vision tunnels.
The words on the page smear. My hands shake so hard, the magazine rattles.
The photos weren’t meant for PrimeTime+ or for the band. They weren’t for anyone. They were mine. His. Ours.
I drop the magazine on the counter like it burns.
“Miss? Your charger.” The cashier holds it up, brow creased.
I’m already backing away.
“Miss, are you—”
I don’t hear the rest. I’m out of the store, air cutting in and out of my lungs. My feet move on autopilot. I make it three storefronts before my stomach gives up.
I lurch toward the nearest trash can and barely get my hands on the rim before everything comes up. Acid scorches my throat. My whole body shakes like I’m trying to eject my organs along with my lunch.
People stare. A woman veers away, dragging her kid with her. Someone whispers something about “drunk already.”
I gag again, spit dangling from my lower lip, tears blurring my vision.
Flashes of the pages flip through my brain.
That disgusting headline.
His name, my images, attached to a story about him overdosing when he didn’t.
What if he’s already seen it?
What if someone showed him and he thinks—
He thinks I did this.
That I sold him out.
That this job, this relationship, was all some elaborate revenge arc, just like Chloe said.
My body convulses again with a useless dry heave. I choke, wipe my mouth with the bottom of my T-shirt, and stagger away from the bin.
I force my legs toward the private lounge.
Two airport security guards stand outside the frosted-glass doors, arms folded. Megan is next to them, pale and rigid, phone clenched in her fist.
My stomach caves in on itself.
I move closer, throat burning from the residual bile. “You saw it?”
The expression on her face guts me. A mix of anger, pity, and something worse—disappointment.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I saw it.”
My knees almost give out.
She glances at the guards, then back at me. “Head office called. They want you off the tour.”
My mouth dries up. “I’m fired?”
“I don’t know what they’re calling it.” She rubs her temple. “All I know is Chris is furious, and he’s already booked you on a commercial flight back to Sydney. It started boarding”—she checks her watch—“five minutes ago.”
“No.” It comes out hoarse. “No, I’m not leaving. I didn’t do this, Megan.”
“I’m not saying you did,” she says quickly, stepping closer, dropping her voice. “I like you, Vi. You know I do. But you can’t be here right now. This is a PR nightmare—for Carter, Pulse, PrimeTime+, for everyone. Go home. Let the lawyers and suits untangle it.”
“Lawyers,” I repeat numbly, my mind going a mile a minute. “Because of copyright?”
She nods. “PrimeTime+ owns everything you shoot under this contract. They didn’t sign off on a third-rate tabloid dropping an ‘exclusive’ using our material. And that’s before we even get into consent of the images or privacy.”
“I didn’t sell them.” Every word grinds over my teeth. “I would never sell them.”
“But your name is on the credit line. And Vi . . .” She swallows. “There are photos of you, too. Of you and Carter.”
My vision wavers.
“What?” My voice shreds. “No. I didn’t—I only saw—” My brain stutters, trying to scroll back. “I only saw the ones of him.”
“They’re online,” she says gently. “I get it. But trust me. It’s worse than you think.”
The world goes grainy. My stomach lurches violently again, and I double over, grabbing my knees to steady myself.
“Why didn’t you tell me about you and Carter?” There’s a cool edge to her voice now, the sympathy facade slipping. But all I can do is shake my head. I don’t have space for her feelings, or her judgment.
“What if he thinks . . . ?” I can’t even finish the sentence.
“You’re on a Qantas flight. Your boarding pass is at gate fifty-six. If you don’t go now, you’ll miss it, and then Chris will be even more homicidal than he already is.”
“Shit.”
Gate fifty-six is practically in another zip code. I don’t have time to think or argue.
I don’t want to go. Every cell in my body rejects the idea of leaving him.
But this isn’t just about Carter anymore—this is my job, my reputation. And right now, I’m radioactive.
I run.
I blow past designer shops and crying kids and people carrying duty-free bags the size of a small suitcase. I leap onto a travelator and sprint down the middle of it, lungs burning, calves screaming. The lights overhead turn into a flickering tunnel.
Halfway there, I yank out my phone to text Carter and nearly drop it. I fumble it again, hands shaking, and finally flip it upright—
I jab the screen.
Nothing.
Black.
“Come on,” I rasp, hitting the screen again. “Come on, you piece of—”
It’s dead.
“FUCK!” I let out a sharp, ugly sound that earns me a side-eye from a businessman. I couldn’t care less. I shove the useless thing into my pocket and keep running.
I need to tell him. I need to explain. I need him to hear my voice.
Carter lives under a microscope every damn day.
His every move dissected, every breath recorded, yet he still fights like hell to keep the last scraps of his life private.
And now even that—the one corner of himself he guarded, the one part he never shared with the world—has been ripped away from him. Violated and exposed.
I can’t wrap my head around what that’s doing to him.
The idea of him seeing those pictures—our pictures—my mouth floods, and I swallow it back down.
Somewhere over the speakers, my name cracks through the terminal commotion.
“Paging Violet Henderson. Passenger Violet Henderson, this is the final boarding call for Qantas Flight 508 to Sydney. Please proceed immediately to gate fifty-six.”
My heart thrashes hard enough to bruise bone.
When I skid up to the gate, chest heaving, the attendant isn’t impressed.
“You’re lucky,” she says. “We’re about to close the doors.”
“Sure,” I manage, out of breath. “Feeling real lucky right now.”
My vomit breath nearly makes me gag again.
She scans the boarding pass that’s already been printed and hands it over.
“Straight down the jet bridge,” she adds. “They’re waiting.”
The terminal noise fades behind me, replaced by the low drone of the aircraft and the hiss of air-conditioning.
I reach my seat, and everything inside me is scoured out. My job is gone. My reputation is hanging by a thread I can’t see. My photos—my art—have been twisted into something ugly with my name printed underneath. I’m boarding a flight home with no way to contact Carter, no way to explain.
The worst part is, I don’t know how to fix this.
I have no idea who did it. And I don’t know how . . . or why.
I buckle in on autopilot, stare at the back of the seat in front of me as the cabin lights dim, and the only thought left that doesn’t dissolve into static is the one that burns:
I’ve lost everything.