That photo had been taken on a night that was burned into her memory for all the wrong reasons. It was when the whirlwind had properly started. She could still see it: the dim, smoky glow of the club, the crowd pressed tight around the stage, the bass so loud it thumped in her chest like a second heartbeat. Jax Devlin had owned the room the moment he swaggered onto the stage, leather jacket clinging to his frame like it was stitched onto his skin, dark hair falling perfectly messy over his eyes.
Those eyes… that’s what got her. He’d locked onto her from the second the spotlight hit him, holding her gaze between every song, like the rest of the crowd didn’t exist. It wasn’t entirely the fame, or even the music, that pulled her in. It was that feeling. That laser focus. Like, for that night, she wasn’t invisible. She wasthegirl.
After the gig, the band had swept her along like she was part of the furniture for drinks in some exclusive, hidden-away bar, the kind of place where you didn’t ask for the menu, the staff just knew what you wanted. Jax’s arm had been around her waist by the second drink. By the fourth, he’d had her laughing like they’d known each other for years.
The night ended in his hotel room, if you could even call it that. It was more like a penthouse playground. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking London’s skyline, a grand piano casually perched in the corner like some oversized prop, and a sunken spa tub that seemed more suited to a music video than real life.
Champagne, the expensive kind, the kind she’d never even looked at the price of, let alone bought, flowed like water and so did the compliments.
You’re different,he’d told her.You’re not like the others. You’re clever, sharp, funny. Not like the clingy ones. Not like the ones who just want to be seen on my arm.
For a while, she’d believed him, and for a while, it had suited her. The thrill of it all. The backstage passes, the free drinks, the whispers when people recognised him and, by default, her. The sex, wild and unfiltered, with Jax always knowing the right thing to say, the right way to touch, like he was reading her mind.
The longer the game went on, the clearer the rules became. Whenever he was in London, the phone would ping. One text– sometimes with just a hotel name and room number– and Fern would go, every single time. No questions, no expectations. Just her, at his beck and call. When he wasn’t in London? She knew the drill. There was always another girl. Different cities, different names. The same tired story.
At first, she’d told herself it didn’t matter. She wasn’t in it for love, after all. She was having fun, wasn’t she? She was living the life people dreamed about, dipping her toes into a world of fast cars, private parties, gated mansions with driveways longer than most streets. There were nights spent in his sprawling house, lying by the indoor pool under fake stars printed across the ceiling, drifting off to the sound of him strumming on an acoustic guitar, whispering lyrics she later realised weren’t even about her.
But ultimately she’d been coming to realise that the price of admission had been steeper than she’d initially expected. The longer she stayed, the more she saw behind the curtain. Thedrinks were never just drinks. The late nights bled into early mornings, fuelled by things that came in neat little bags. The women weren’t just ‘fans’ and, sooner or later, they stopped pretending they didn’t know about her. She was just another notch on the bedpost. Another face, another night. Yet still, every time his name flashed on her phone, she’d answered. Like clockwork. Like a fool.
Fern caught herself glancing sideways at Daniel. God, he was worlds apart from Jax. No leather jackets, no smoke and mirrors, no penthouse views or afterparties that stretched until sunrise. Just him. Easy, honest, no hidden agenda. Pure, in a way that felt rare. He was naturally funny and made her laugh without trying, never using charm like a weapon, the way Jax had done.
In fact, the more she thought about it, the harder it was to find a single fault with him. She’d been searching, too, because old habits die hard. But so far, Daniel was uncomplicated. The kind of man you could rely on, and she always felt safe in his company.
‘Earth to Fern,’ Daniel’s voice cut through her thoughts, light and teasing. He nudged her foot with his. ‘You’ve gone all quiet on me. What’s going on in that head of yours?’
She blinked, shaking her head, covering the slip with a small laugh. ‘Just thinking…’
For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t chasing the high. She wasn’t waiting for the text, or the next fix of attention. She was here. With him. That was enough.
Just as she reached for another prawn cracker, her phone buzzed twice on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with two new messages.
The first was from Ella.
ELLA
Are you home? Are we going to the gig together?
The second, almost perfectly timed, was from Jax Devlin.
Jax
Strap yourself in. I’m in town.
Her stomach did a little flip, though not the kind it used to when his name flashed on her screen. The old Fern would have felt that spark of adrenalin, the quick rush of excitement that came with the promise of his attention. Tonight, she didn’t feel any of those things. All she felt was flat.
She already knew Jax was in town and headlining the same gig she was meant to be covering after interviewing the band. She’d pencilled it into her diary weeks ago. But the prospect of the backstage passes, the free drinks and schmoozing, wasn’t what she wanted tonight. She’d rather stay right here where the air smelled of soy sauce and sweet chilli, and the only soundtrack was the soft murmur of the TV in the background and the occasional rustle of Daniel shifting beside her. She’d rather finish the food, curl up under a blanket and pick a film to watch with him, feet tangled, conversation easy, no makeup, no pretence.
She realised Daniel was talking but she hadn’t been listening.
‘Have you checked?’ he repeated, nodding towards her phone. ‘More items sold today from our No. 17 Curiosity Lane.’
When she turned to face him, he was wearing that crooked, boyish smile of his.
‘What are you smiling at?’ he teased. ‘You didn’t think we could actually make money, did you?’
Fern bit her lip before the smile she hadn’t realised had bloomed stretched wider. It wasn’t the sales, or the growing list of customers, or the fact that their little second-hand treasure trove was starting to turn a real profit that had her grinning. It was one word. One small, casual, off-the-cuff word that had slipped so naturally out of his mouth.
Our.
