Because it’s not about me.
It’s about her.
The press room at the label HQ is packed—half the entertainment press in New York stuffed behind a barricade of lights and cameras. Phones raised. Murmurs buzzing like hornets. They’re expecting damage control. Denials. Maybe some PR-polished charm to distract from the headlines still circulating like blood in water.
I lean into the mic. And I start with the truth.
“You’ve probably seen the stories,” I say, voice steady. “About the woman I’m seeing. About how she’s supposedly some kind of groupie who stumbled into my life.”
A few camera shutters click. A rustle of tension.
“I’m here to tell you you’ve got it wrong.”
More clicks now. I let them come. I want this on record.
“Nora Davidson is not a groupie. She’s not chasing fame or fortune. She’s not using me. If anything…” I pause, then smile, small but fierce. “I’m the one lucky enough to have earned her time.”
A hush falls.
“She’s a librarian. The real kind. She’s spent the last few months organizing a massive charity fundraiser to keep her local branch open in a city that keeps slashing public funding. She works with kids. Volunteers for story hour. I watched her spend her nights on a cramped tour bus designing flyers, scheduling vendors, and figuring out how to stretch a nonprofit budget like it’s magic.”
I glance at the front row—some of the label execs are blinking like they’ve never heard me speak this seriously in my life.
“She’s brilliant. She’s strong. She’s my rock.”
I lean forward.
“And let’s be very clear—if anyone wants to take shots at me, fine. I’ve earned most of them. But you don’t touch her. Not with headlines. Not with speculation. Not with your camera lenses in her face while she’s just trying to go to work.”
A beat of silence.
And then the questions start flying. But the tone’s changed.
Someone calls out, “What’s the name of the library?”
“Midtown East Branch,” I say. “They’re hosting a charity gala tomorrow. And I’ll be there.”
Another reporter: “Are you two serious?”
I don’t flinch. “Yes.”
Then another: “Why now? Why speak up today?”
I glance toward the camera, imagining her watching from the library break room, Melody curled in her lap.
“Because someone has to,” I say quietly. “And I don’t want her to ever doubt I will.”
***
Later, I check my phone. Social media’s exploding.
The phrase“groupie librarian”is trending—but now it’s dripping with sarcasm. People are sharing footage of the speech with captions like“Max Donovan’s love confession is hotter than his last album”and“BRB, crying over a rockstarstanding up for a librarian.”
Someone even made fan art. Nora in a superhero cape, holding a book like a shield.
I smile, but it doesn’t really land until I see the text from her.
Nora:
