Chapter 2
Stephanie
Present Day — Los Angeles
I couldn't stop shaking.
Three hours. It had been three hours since it happened, and I couldn't stop shaking. My teeth chattered despite the California heat, despite the cashmere blanket I'd wrapped around myself, despite the locked bedroom door between me and the rest of my house.
My house. My safe place. The ten-million-dollar fortress in the Hollywood Hills that was supposed to protect me from the world.
The security team was still downstairs, talking in low voices, making excuses. I could hear Gary's deep rumble through the floor—the same voice that had assured me just this morning that the new protocols were "military-grade," that no one could get past them. The police had left an hour ago—no evidence, they said. No DNA. No clear footage. Nothing they could do except file a report.
A report. Like he was a stolen bicycle instead of a man who'd had his hands on me, in me, who'd whispered things that made me want to peel off my own skin.
I pulled my knees tighter to my chest, the movement making my ribs scream where he'd slammed me into the wall. My mouth still tasted like copper from where I'd bitten my tongue trying to scream through the duct tape.
The Grammy sat on my dresser, catching the light from the hallway. Three of them actually, lined up like soldiers. Best New Artist. Album of the Year. Song of the Year for "Midnight Drive"—a song I'd written about Liam, though nobody knew that. The world saw Stevie Wilson, country music's sweetheart, the girl who'd gone from YouTube covers in her Austin bedroom to selling out Madison Square Garden in five years.
What a joke. Country music's sweetheart, curled up in a ball, too scared to leave her own bedroom.
Just four hours ago,I’d just gotten home from the studio, exhausted but good exhausted. The new album was coming together, though it felt more like product manufacturing than art these days. Robert had focus-grouped every song, tested every lyric with demographic data. "Your fans want empowerment anthems," he'd said, rejecting the quiet, poetry-inspired pieces I'd written. "Save the artistic stuff for when you're established enough to take risks."
Established enough. Three Grammys, forty-seven million monthly Spotify listeners, tours that grossed nine figures, and I still wasn't established enough to write the songs I wanted to write.
My security team had done their usual sweep—all clear, they said. Gary, my head of security, had given me the thumbs up before positioning himself outside like always. Six-foot-four of ex-LAPD muscle, and he'd been useless when it actually mattered.
I'd kicked off my red-bottomed boots—the ones my stylist insisted I wear everywhere because they "maintained the brand"—and poured a glass of the expensive wine my manager kept sending me. I didn't even like wine anymore. It all tasted like obligations and fake smiles.
I was heading to my bedroom to change out of the jeans that cost more than most people's rent when I heard it. A floorboard creak in the hallway behind me.
"Gary?" I'd called out, annoyed. "I told you, you don't need to?—"
The hand came from nowhere. Hard. Fast. Covering my mouth before I could scream.
Hot breath hit my ear, sending chills down my spine. “Shh, baby. Don't fight."
I hadn’t recognized the voice. Low, rough,excited. I’d tried to twist away, but he was bigger, stronger, and he’d known exactly what he was doing. The duct tape was on my mouth before I could draw breath to scream. Then my hands were yanked behind my back and taped with practiced efficiency.
The duct tape muffled my cries for help, and the man was too strong to break free from. But it hadn’t stopped me from trying. He’d let out a low growl when I’d stomped my heel into his foot. “You little bitch!”
He’d shoved me forward, and I’d hit the wall hard enough to see stars. My platinum record for "Texas Hearts" crashed to the floor, glass shattering. Then I was on the floor, his weight on top of me, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel his hands?—
One in my hair, yanking my head back. The other sliding down my stomach, fingers fumbling with the button of my jeans.
"You've been teasing me for so long," he’d whispered, his breath smelling like cigarettes and something sour. "All those songs about wanting someone to come find you. Well, I foundyou, baby. I've been watching you for so long. That red dress at the CMT Awards? You wore that for me. I know you did. You're mine now."
His hand had slipped inside my jeans, inside my underwear, and I’d thrashed, tried to buck him off, but he’d just laughed.
"That's it. Fight me. I like it when you fight."
His fingers had been moving lower when the front door slammed open.
"Stevie? You in here? You left your other phone in the car?—"
Marcus's voice. My assistant. The weight had lifted off me instantly, footsteps running toward the back of the house. By the time Marcus had found me, the stalker had gone through the back door, vanishing into the LA twilight like smoke.
The sting in my skin brought me back to the present. Water beat down my back, my skin red and raw from the two showers I’d already taken. It didn’t seem to matter how much I scrubbed, I could still feel his hands. Still smell his breath. Still hear his voice.
