“Say what?”
“That you think you can do this without him.”
The words hit me dead center.
My mouth opens… nothing comes out. Because I don’t know. I don’t.
Banks moves closer, voice breaking around the edges. “You know the truth, goddammit. You know he didn’t make you. You made yourself. All he did was take the credit.”
“Maybe.” My voice drops to a whisper. “But I don’t know if I can do it without him.”
Banks exhales hard, shaking his head. “You can. You already are. You just don’t believe it yet.”
Heat spikes beneath my skin — embarrassment, anger, something jagged. I pull the notebook back protectively.
“He’s not the problem,” I mutter.
“He’s always been the problem.”
“Well, excuse me for trying to work!” My voice cracks, too loud, too close to what panic feels like. “I’m sick of hiding like some fragile little—”
“You’re not fragile.” Banks sits forward, eyes warm and steady. “You just refuse to accept what happened to you. And that’s okay. But you can’t keep running back into the same fire expecting not to get burned.”
“Enough.” It comes out sharp. Ugly. “I don’t need therapy from you.”
“And I don’t need you to like what I’m saying,” he shoots back. “I just need you to stay alive.”
The words punch a hole through my chest.
I stand too fast, the chair scraping. “Get out.”
Banks freezes. “Lucky—”
“No.” My voice slices the air. “Don’t you, Lucky me right now.”
He stiffens. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re trying to drag me somewhere I’m not ready to go,” I snap back. “You always do this.”
His brows fly up. “Me? Me?” His voice jumps an octave. “Lucky, are you actually comparing me to Jett right now?”
I flinch, but pride keeps my chin up. “He didn’t hurt me the way you think.”
Banks laughs—sharp, incredulous. “Right. He just owned you. That’s all.”
Heat floods my skin. “He discovered me! I was fourteen, Banks. Fourteen. No one gave a shit about me. I had nothing, and he—”
“Gave you a contract instead of a childhood,” he fires back. “He locked your whole damn life behind deadlines and studio walls. He told you what to wear, how to smile, and how to breathe on stage. And you think that’s love? You think that’s care?”
My vision tightens. “I never said he loved me.”
“No,” Banks says, leaning closer, eyes burning. “But you talk like you owe him your whole damn soul.”
“I do!” I shout. “Without him, I’d still be some kid bouncing between foster homes. Or worse. Maybe stoned out of my mind like my mom, maybe dead in a ditch. You don’t know! You don’t get to judge where he pulled me from.”
Banks’s face breaks open — devastation and fury tangled together.
“Lucky,” he says, quieter now, “he didn’t rescue you. He claimed you. There’s a difference.”
