Before I can talk myself out of it, I push the door open, the familiar scent of coffee and baked goods washing over me. I step inside, the warmth of the space a stark contrast to the chill outside. I order without thinking, barely tasting the cappuccino as I sip it, my mind still racing.
That’s when I hear his voice.
“Ashlyn?”
I freeze, the cup hovering halfway to my lips. I know that voice—smooth, confident, with just the slightest edge of entitlement. Slowly, I turn, and there he is. Owen.
“Ashlyn,” he says again, a smile spreading across his face as he steps closer. He looks the same as always—polished and perfect, his expensive coat tailored to perfection. But the sight of him sends a sour taste to the back of my throat.
“Owen,” I say, my voice even, controlled. “What are you doing here?”
“Grabbing coffee,” he replies smoothly, holding up his cup like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “And apparently running into the one person I’ve been dying to see.”
I take a step back, but he closes the distance, his smile faltering slightly as his eyes search mine. “Ashlyn, come on. Don’t do this. I just want to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say firmly, but he doesn’t budge.
“Really?” he counters, his tone lightening. “You can’t even give me five minutes? After everything we had?”
I clench my jaw, every muscle in my body screaming to leave, but the way he’s looking at me—like I’m still his, like he still has some claim—roots me in place.
“I moved on, Owen,” I say. “You should too.”
But instead of stepping back, he reaches out, his hand brushing my arm in a way that looks intimate—too intimate. “I know that the tabloids are wrong, you’re not really with Primal Pulse,” he says quietly. I stiffen, but before I can pull away, I notice a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye..
My head snaps toward the window, and my stomach sinks. Paparazzi. Of course. There’s a group of them outside, lenses pointed directly at us, and I already know what they’re seeing—Owen leaning in close, his hand on my arm, the tension in my body that could be mistaken for something else entirely.
“Perfect,” I mutter under my breath, shaking him off and stepping back. “Thanks for this, Owen.”
“Ashlyn, wait,” he pleads, his voice rising as I turn toward the door.
I don’t wait. I push past him and out onto the sidewalk, the flashes of cameras blinding as the paparazzi close in. Questions fly at me—“Are you back with Owen?” “Trouble in paradise?” “What about the band?”
I don’t answer. I keep walking, head down, my heart pounding as I escape down the block.
The chaos fades as I put distance between us, but it stays heavy in my chest. I already know how this will look, how it will spin, how it will hurt Jake—and the others.
But right now, all I can focus on is the fear clawing at me, the voice in my head telling me this is why I can’t let myself fall again. This is why I can’t let them in.
Because the moment I do, it all falls apart.
CHAPTER 31
West
The studio buzzes with chaos—modelsstrutting through rehearsals, assistants rushing with tablets, and Shelley barking orders like her life depends on it. The energy is electric, but I barely register any of it. My focus is locked on her. It has been since we walked in.
Ashlyn sits at the judges’ table, her expression calm, professional. Too professional. I know her tells—know how the tension in her shoulders and the tightness in her jaw means she’s barely holding it together.
But damn if she doesn’t look perfect trying.
I adjust my guitar strap, my fingers brushing over the strings as I try to stay grounded. It’s no use. My thoughts are a mess. With the urge to storm over there and demand to know why Jake isn’t helping. It keeps pushing to the surface, edging me on to do something—saysomething—but I shove it back down.
Not here. Not now.
The memory of Jake strolling into the studio yesterday with that stupid grin on his face hits me again, and my jaw tightens. He didn’t say a word, but his scent—warm, satisfied—saideverything. Something happened between them, and I can’t get it out of my head.
Jealousy churns low in my gut, a dark, simmering heat I can’t shake. I shouldn’t feel this way—she’s not mine. Not anymore. But the knot in my chest doesn’t care about logic, and neither does the part of me that still sees her as mine.
