With a deep breath, I press the button. The phone rings once. Twice.
Then—
“Ashlyn. Finally.” Shelley’s voice is clipped, her words tight with frustration. In the background, I can hear voices, the rapid-fire clicking of a keyboard, the unmistakable chaos of her office when she’s putting out fires.
I open my mouth, but she doesn’t give me the chance to speak.
“I have spent the pastthree daystrying to do damage control while you’ve been—” she exhales, lowering her voice, “—hiding away.”
My throat tightens. Iknewthis was coming.
“You disappeared, Ash. You weresupposedto be seen, making headlines in agoodway. Instead, we getthis.”
A click, then thepingof a forwarded link. I glance at my phone screen, and my stomach drops as the article loads.
"PRIMAL PULSE’S OMEGA VANISHES: HEAT OR HONEYMOON?"
The article isbrutal. Speculation about my absence, the canceled shows, the suddensilencefrom me and the band. Fans are furious. Some arejealous. Some are calling meunprofessional. The media is already spinning a thousand different stories—each worse than the last.
I swallow hard.
Shelley sighs, the sound clipped and tired. “Look, Ash, Ipushedfor this. I thought it was a good angle, I thought the press would eat it up—but I didn’t account forthis. You obviously didn’t take your blockers. Fans are turning against you. People arequestioningif you’re serious about your career. The network isnothappy.”
I grip the phone tighter. “And what exactly are you saying, Shelley?”
“I’m sayingend it.”
A deep inhale pulls through my chest.
“The fake dating, the story—all of it,” she presses on, voice firm. “Come back to New York, do some press appearances, reclaim the narrative. We’ll spin it however we need to, but youcannotstay where you are. Right now, you’re making headlines for all the wrong reasons.”
She’s making me choose.
Betweenthem.
And my job.
The silence stretches long between us, and I know she’s waiting. Waiting for me to say that I’ll do what she wants. That I’ll pack my bags and leave them behind. Again.
My stomach churns, my emotions tangled in a mess too big to sort through.
Then—movement.
A shift in the air.
I turn just as Todd steps into the room.
His eyes lock onto mine, taking in my stiff posture, my white-knuckled grip on the phone. I don’t know how much he’s heard, but it’senough. And I know he can feel what I’m feeling, because I can still feel his emotions.
His jaw tightens.
But when he speaks, his voice is steady.
“You should go.”
I shake my head. “Todd?—”
“We’ll always support you, Ash,” he says simply. “No matter what. The tour will only keep us away for a few months. You can fly out on weekends.”
