I talked to him yesterday, tried to calm him down and reassure him, but, of course, he’s still spiraling. Banks doesn’trelax.He paces, he plans, he catastrophizes like it’s his cardio.
I scroll through the messages anyway.
CALL ME.
LUCKY ANSWER YOUR PHONE.
I’M CALLING OFF SECURITY LIKE YOU ASKED, BUT YOU NEED TO CHECK IN. EVERY FEW HOURS. NONNEGOTIABLE.
I swear to God, Lu, if you disappear on me—
I exhale slowly, guilt clawing up my ribs.
He’s worried because he actually cares. Because he’s seen me break in real time — backstage, on tour buses, in hotel bathrooms with paper-thin walls.
I told him we were “handling it.”
Ethan made me say it, that low commanding voice of his cutting through my panic:
Tell Banks to stand down. I've got my man on Sheifer. Less noise. Less attention. Trust me.
And I did. God help me, I did.
But now Banks wants check-ins every few hours like I’m a runaway teenager.
I open the contact.
Banks:You alive? Check in, Lu. It’s been 18 hours.
Okay. I deserve that.
I type back:
Me:I'm alive. I'm safe. Promise. Didn’t want to wake you at 3am. I’ll call soon.
Before I can even lock the screen:
Banks:LUCKY VALE I SWEAR TO GOD—
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Because it’s him.
Because it’s familiar.
Because for a second, it makes me feel like the world isn’t tilting.
But the second I look out the window, the reality hits me again.
The lake looks calm. Beautiful. The sun cuts diamonds across the surface. Birds skim the water like it’s a scene from a life I don’t belong in.
And yet… I won’t step outside.
Not with every door wired by Ethan.
Not with motion sensors around the deck.
Not with cameras in the trees.
