“It’s not that simple,” I said, stepping closer. “And you know it.”
He finally looked up, his eyes dark and accusing. “What do you want, Ciarán? You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You got her.”
I shook my head. “It’s not about that. It’s about her. About what she needs. And if you say no—if you walk away—then what? You think she’s just going to settle for me? I’m not you, Oak. And I don’t need to be. But you and I both know I’m not the one she built dreams with.”
He stared at me, jaw tight, the anger simmering beneath the surface. “So what? You’re saying I should just… what? Share her? Let you have her?”
“I’m saying you need to think about what she said,” I replied, my voice steady. “For both of our good. Because if you don’t—if you let your pride get in the way—then she’s going to leave. And she’s not going to look back.”
He stood suddenly, fists clenched at his sides. “You think this is about pride?”
“I think you’re scared,” I said, holding his gaze. “And I get it. But this isn’t just about you. It’s about her. And if you love her—if you really love her—then you’ll do what’s best for her. Even if it’s not what you want.”
He took a step toward me, chest rising and falling hard. “You don’t get to tell me what’s best for her. You don’t get to act like you know her better than I do.”
“You keep missing the fucking point on purpose. I don’t know her like you know her—and you don’t know her like I know her. And if you don’t realize that, you’re going to lose her. And so am I.”
He took another step. His breath was ragged. For a second, I thought he was going to say something. Argue. Yell. Maybe even agree.
But then—without warning—he swung on me.
His fist connected with my jaw, the force sending me stumbling back. Pain exploded across my face, and I tasted blood.
I flexed my hand at my side. It had been a long fucking time since a motherfucker hit me and I didn’t beat their ass. But what the fuck would that look like to Jordin?
I gritted my teeth and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. My fingers came away red. I grilled him.
“Feel better?” I asked, my voice calm despite the throbbing in my jaw.
He didn’t answer. Just stood there, chest heaving, fists still tight.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
I stood there, heart pounding, and let out a shaky breath. I didn’t know if I’d gotten through to him. I didn’t know if anything I’d said even mattered.
But I knew one thing for sure:
If Oak said no—if he walked away—then this was over.
For both of us.
forty- Oak
The studio was louder than I expected. Not just the music, but the people. The energy. It was like stepping into another world—one where time didn’t exist, and nobody gave a fuck about anything but the beat. Jordin had invited me because she said we need time to be away from the house, something to occupy our minds. I had been thinking a lot about what she had said and I was considering see how thing went if we did it her way.
I looked over to my right and Ciarán was in his zone, head bobbing, eyes closed, rapping under his breath while the engineer fine-tuned the levels. I stayed posted on the couch, arms crossed, trying not to look as out of place as I felt in khakis and a button-up.
I couldn’t believe this was my first time in a studio with Jordin. And just then, it hit me—
That might’ve been one of our problems.
The rapper, “Kold-B,” was treating the space like his personal throne room.
I watched Jordin move through it all, a diplomat in a den of wolves. She was correcting a lyric sheet with Kold-B’s producer when it happened. His hand—thick-fingered and dripping with gold—slid from the small of her back down to her hip.
My entire body went rigid.
The pen in Jordin’s hand—a Montblanc she borrowed from me—stilled.
