I'd survived the last three hours, hadn't I? Survived the police questions, the photos, the evidence collection that found nothing. Survived my manager's calls about containing the situation. Survived my security team's excuses about how he must have had inside information, as if that somehow made it better instead of worse.
But now Liam was coming. My Lee. The boy who'd held me through my first heartbreak, who'd taught me to throw a punch after Brady Coleman grabbed my ass in eighth grade, who'd slow danced with me at prom when my date abandoned me for his ex.
The man who'd loved me in an Austin hotel room like I was precious, then let me go because our dreams were taking us in different directions. Except his dream had come true—he was a Texas Ranger now, probably the youngest in the state. And mine had become a nightmare wrapped in rhinestones and record sales.
The one person in this whole facade of a life who knew the real me. Not Stevie Wilson, the brand, the product, the carefully curated image that sold out stadiums. Just Stephy. His Stephy, who used to write poetry in his truck and steal his fries and believe that words could change the world.
I pulled my knees tighter to my chest and watched the bedroom door, counting minutes, counting heartbeats. Somewhere in this house was a stalker's DNA that the cops couldn't find. Somewhere in this city, he was planning his next move. And somewhere between here and Copper Creek, Liam Walker was coming for me.
Please, Lee, I need you.
Outside, I could hear my security team still making excuses, my assistant fielding calls, my entire team more worried about containing the story than containing the threat. Tomorrow, there would be meetings about narrative control, about press statements, about how to spin this into sympathy without affecting the album sales.
But none of that mattered now.
Because Liam was coming.
And for the first time in three hours—hell, for the first time in three years—I thought maybe I might actually survive this.
Maybe I could find my way back to being Stephy again.
Maybe I could remember what it felt like to be real.
Chapter 3
Liam
The phone was still warm in my hand when I hit the road.
Not running. Not quite.
But that hard-edged, ground-eating stride tore out of me—the one that always came when something inside me snapped clean in half. My pulse hammered at my temples, sharp and punishing, every breath tight in my chest. My body knew this feeling. Had known it since I was fifteen years old and learned exactly what it meant to betoo late and not enough.
Get to the airfield. Get to Stephy. Get her home.
The night blurred past the truck windows—streaks of Texas black and gold smearing into one frantic smear. Owen’s Ford roared beneath me like it understood the stakes, the engine vibrating through the floorboards, shaking loose memories I never let myself look at straight on.
A slammed door. A scream. The cold, paralyzing realization that no one was coming for us except me.
My stomach clenched, violent and hollow.
Not again. Not her. God, don’t let me be too late again.
The phone buzzed through the truck’s Bluetooth, making me jolt even though I saw the call flash across the dash.
TOM MORRISON
Good. Owen had reached him.
“Liam,” Tom said the second I answered, his voice gruff with concern. “Owen told me what’s going on. The jet’s fueled, warmed, and ready whenever you are.”
Relief hit me low and sharp, like inhaling too fast after holding my breath for too long.
Tom had lived next door to Owen and Lou forever. I’d spent half my childhood in his barn, learning how to fix shit with my hands because fixing anything was better than feeling helpless. He was the kind of man who’d show up when things went to hell—quiet, steady, the opposite of chaos.
Everything I’d tried to become.
“Thank you,” I said, voice scraping out of me. “I owe you.”
