I can’t speak. I nod against him, letting the tears, the fear, the longing, the relief—all of it—spill into him, into us, into this moment where nothing else matters.
I wipe at my cheeks, shaky hands twisting the wet strands of hair plastered to my face. “I… I need to tell you everything,” I whisper, voice breaking.
Ethan nods, steady as always, and for a second, I almost believe in calm. “Then we should go inside,” he says. His hand hovers near mine, gentle, patient. I follow without protest. He pulls away for a moment, locking the garage behind him, then guides me through the door connected to his house.
We settle at the kitchen table. He makes coffee without a word, the scent of roasted beans grounding me more than I could’ve imagined. I clutch the mug like it’s an anchor.
“I… I don’t even know where to start,” I say, and the words tumble out before I can stop them. “My mom… she died when I was ten. Overdose. I already told you that part. I… I never had a dad. I don’t even know who he was. I bounced through foster homes. Never stayed anywhere long enough to feel safe.”
Ethan watches, silent, letting me pour myself out without interruption. His eyes never leave mine, grounding, tethering me to the present.
“Then Jett found me. He was my manager, my producer, my… everything I thought I needed. I was fourteen. He… he ran me into the ground, Ethan. I was performing, touring, doing interviews, deals—millions of dollars, Grammy awards, ad campaigns, the whole damn circus. And he never let me breathe. I was Lucky Pink, the product, not me. Not… Lucky Vale. Just a… a thing for people to admire, to consume.”
My voice cracks. I take a shaky sip of coffee, the warmth barely calming the tremor in my hands. “And the stalker… Michael Scheifer… he broke into my home when I was twenty-one. For years, doctors prescribed sleep aides to knock me out. Dead to the world. I was unconscious when he assaulted me in my sleep. I… I lived in hotel suites for seven years because I was terrified he’d find me again, or that a copycat would. I couldn’t… I couldn’t be safe anywhere.”
Ethan leans forward slightly, placing a hand near mine without touching, letting me continue. I feel the tension in him, the quiet storm of anger and protection barely contained, and it gives me courage to speak.
“My last breakdown… it was all too much. Banks—he’s my personal manager, handles everything about my life outside the industry —he forced me into hiding, away from Jett, away from my fans, away from the band, away from everything that made me Lucky Pink.
To find myself. Because I… I had no idea who Lucky Vale was. All those years, all those personas… Lucky Pink is the only thing I’ve been able to control. The only thing I’ve been allowed to be. And even that…” I trail off, voice hollow, tears slipping again.
Ethan exhales slowly. The silence stretches between us, heavy, but not judgmental. Not cold. Just… solid. Protective.
“I get it,” he says finally, voice low, calm. “I get why you’ve built every wall, every mask, every excuse to push people away. And I get why you don’t trust anyone. Not after everything you’ve been through.”
I blink at him, surprised at how little he flinches at my confession, at the chaos of my history laid bare. “You… you understand?”
“I do,” he says. His hand hovers again, closer this time. “And I’m not going anywhere, Lucky. Not now, not ever. You won’t have to face that alone again.”
My chest tightens, the weight of years of fear, neglect, and abuse pressing down. But for the first time, I let myself believe it.
“I… I just—” I swallow, tears blurring my vision. “I never wanted anyone to see this side of me. The real me. I was scared you’d leave, like everyone else.”
He reaches, finally, fingertips brushing mine. “I’m not like everyone else. And you don’t have to be afraid of me. I’ll protect what’s mine, Lucky. That’s you.”
I exhale a shaky laugh, a sob breaking through. “I think… I think I needed you to hear all of it. All the dirt, all the mess.”
“And I’ve heard it,” he says firmly, his eyes steady and unflinching. “And I’m still here.”
I drop my head into my hands, elbows digging into the table, and finally let it come—the scream that’s been clawing at my throat for years. Tears spill over, hot and relentless, the kind that leave your skin stinging and your chest raw. I can’t stop them. My whole body shakes.
“Shhh…” Ethan leans closer, hand finally resting lightly against my back. Not pressing, just there. Solid. Anchoring me. I flinch at first, because physical contact scares me, but his presence is… different. Safe. I don’t have to fight it.
“I… I hated it,” I choke out between sobs, voice trembling. “I hated being Lucky Pink. That… that stage persona they forced me to be. On stage, off stage, even in my own apartment—I wasn’t allowed to breathe. My label, Jett, the public, the paparazzi… all of them deciding who I was, what I should do, how I should act. I hated… I hated being nothing but a product. A manufactured version of me that wasn’t me at all. And I kept crashing because of it. They’d pump me with whatever the doctors or witches prescribe and brought me back to life to get up on that stage and perform.”
I press my face into my hands, the tears soaking my fingers. “I… I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’ve lived inside her for so long… that persona. Lucky Pink. The bad-girl rocker. The loud, reckless, untouchable one. I forgot there was a girl underneath. A girl who just wanted to write lyrics, strum her guitar, and play music for people who actually… wanted to hear what I felt. Not the image, not the brand.”
I peek at him through my fingers. His eyes don’t blink; they hold me like a lighthouse through the storm. “Being here… at the lake, with Lily, with you… I think I’m starting to remember. To feel… myself. Lucky Vale. Not the stage act. Just me. But I don’t… I don’t know howto let go of her entirely. How to be one without losing the other. And I’m… I’m terrified I’ll screw it all up.”
His hand moves, fingers brushing over mine, a tether to reality. “I know,” he says quietly. His voice is low, calm, unshakable, like a wall I can lean against. “I can see how much you’ve carried. How heavy it’s been.”
I lift my face, and my hair, still wet from the shower, falls over my cheeks, clinging like a mask I can’t remove. “And Michael Scheifer… the way he… he broke into my home… and the lawyers, and the parole… God, Ethan, I’ve been terrified every single day since. Seven years, hiding, hotel to hotel, thinking… thinking I’ll never be safe again.” My voice shakes. I can barely breathe. “And now Lily… and this stupid post… I thought—maybe I could handle it. Maybe I could outrun it. But I can’t. I can’t run from myself or the past or him or… anything.”
Ethan leans forward, cupping my face in both hands. His thumbs trace my cheekbones, gentle, deliberate, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I have to hide. I let him see all of it—the chaos, the terror, the raw mess of me.
“You’re not running,” he says, voice firm but low. “Not from me. Not from Lily. Not from what matters. I’m not letting that happen. You won’t face it alone.”
I swallow, chest heaving, the tremor in my hands slowing as his presence grounds me. “I… I just—” My voice cracks, words tumbling out. “I never wanted anyone to see this… to see the wreck I am underneath Lucky Pink. I didn’t want you to… to see me and leave.”
