The kindness in her voice hits like a sucker punch, but I nod and wave it off with a practiced smile. “Thanks, Shelley. Really. I’ve got it under control.”
She studies me for a moment longer, her eyes narrowing slightly, before she speaks again. “If you’re sure... I came by to check on all of you. Why weren’t you eating lunch with the guys?”
I hesitate, then shrug, keeping my tone light. “Just not hungry. And I’m excited to get this planned.”
Her brow furrows, but she nods slowly, as if she’s weighing whether or not to push. Eventually, she decides against it. “If you’re good, I’ll head back to the office. Can you swing by tomorrow morning so we can go over the plans you’ve created?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, my voice steady enough to sound convincing. “I’ll be there by nine.”
“Perfect.” She lingers for a beat, her gaze searching mine like she knows there’s more beneath the surface. But then she smiles and turns to leave, her heels clicking loudly against the floor.
As the door closes behind her, silence descends again, wrapping around me like a weight.
I drop into the chair and stare at the desk in front of me. My reflection stares back, faint and distorted in the polished surface. The woman I see is poised, professional—everything the world expects me to be.
But beneath the veneer, I can feel the cracks spreading.
The truth is, I don’t have it under control. Not the work. Not my emotions. Not the way their presence tears at the seams of the carefully constructed life I’ve built.
And no matter how tightly I clutch the walls around my heart, I can feel them slipping. Piece by piece, they’re crumbling, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hold them together.
The silence stretches, pressing down on my chest as I stare blankly at my notes. For a moment, I let the exhaustion creep in. My fingers curl tightly around the edges of the desk, grounding myself against the chaos in my head. I have to do this for the show. If I lose the show, what else do I have? Nothing. Because I gave it all up for a career.
The sound of the door creaking open breaks through my thoughts. I don’t bother looking up, certain it’s Shelley doubling back.
“Shelley,” I sigh, letting the frustration I’ve been holding back bubble to the surface. “I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to check on me every five seconds.” The words rush out, more bitter than I intended. I hesitate, my voice softening as the admission slips out. “I’m just… trying not to fall apart here. Primal Pulse—they are more than old acquaintances.”
The door clicks shut, and I glance up, expecting to see Shelley’s concerned face. Instead, Xayden leans casually against the wall, one eyebrow cocked, his grin sarcastic.
“Well,” he says, his voice smooth, laced with teasing, “don’t let me stop you. Falling apart could be great entertainment. Though I should probably grab popcorn first.”
My breath catches, heat flooding my face. I sit up straighter, scrambling to shove the vulnerability back into its box. “Xayden,” I say, my tone clipped, my mask firmly in place. “What do you want?”
He pushes off the wall, sauntering toward me with the kind of confidence that only someone like Xayden could pull off. His tattoos shift and ripple with every movement, intricate patterns running up his arms and disappearing beneath the cuffs of his flashy, gold-accented jacket. His hair is perfectly tousled, as if he hasn’t spent a second thinking about it, but I know better.
“What do I want?” he echoes, tapping a finger against his chin in mock contemplation. “Well, I came to grab my phone, but now I think I’d rather stay and see what falling apart looks like fortheAshlyn Robinson.”
His grin widens, but it’s cutting in ways his jokes weren’t when we were younger.
“Funny,” I say dryly. “If you’re done with your stand-up routine, maybe you should go back to rehearsal.”
“Maybe,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. But instead of leaving, he takes another step closer, his grin softening into something harder to read. “Or maybe I thought I’d stick around. Seems like you’ve got a lot going on in here.” He gestures vaguely to the room, though his gaze pins me like he can see through every wall I’ve built.
“There’s nothing going on,” I say, the lie sliding off my tongue too easily.
Xayden tilts his head, his grin slipping just enough to reveal the hard edge beneath. “Right. That’s why you’re skipping lunch and snapping at poor Shelley. Totally nothing.”
I flinch, a subtle reaction, but his perceptive eyes catch it anyway.
“Thought so,” he mutters, his tone softer but no less cutting. He moves closer, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, his presence impossible to ignore. He’s too close—close enough that my pulse spikes, my heart slamming against my ribcage in that maddening, familiar way it did with West last night and Jake earlier today. It’s like it’s fighting to escape, desperate to return to where it thinks it belongs—with them.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” I say, trying to sound firm, but the words come out thinner than I’d like.
His eyes narrow slightly, but his tone stays light, teasing. “Just checking in,” he says, spinning one of his drumsticks in his fingers with an easy grace that feels rehearsed. “You know, being the considerate one. That’s me—Mr. Empathy.”
I roll my eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at my lips despite the tension knotting my chest. “You? Empathy?”
His grin sharpens, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Gotta stay true to the brand, right?” He taps the drumstick lightly on the desk, the rhythm soft but steady, the sound filling the silence between us.
