He watches me for a beat, then says quietly, “You do. You just don’t want to say it out loud.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right, and saying it would make it real, and Lucian doesn’t get that part of me again. Especially not after the way he left.
Rowan clears his throat, pretending not to hear about my blue balls, grounding the moment the way he always does. “All right, if Celeste can pull off the note change again, we can have our emotionally fueled setlist confirmed. We can give the crowd another cathartic breakdown to scream along to.”
Linkin leans in, his voice meant only for me now. “Just… let him earn it, ‘Leste. If he’s gonna be here, make him work for it. Every inch. Every word. Everything.”
I nod, my heart thudding too hard for such a small motion. Because the truth is, I don’t think I can trust Lucian not to walk away when things get rough again.
But God, I want to.
And that’s the most dangerous part of it all.
Korbyn abruptly flips out of the swivel chair, boots dropping to the floor as she turns around and kneels with her arms againstthe seat of the chair. Just rigid, like someone snapped a string inside her.
The room notices.
The easy noise fades. Linkin’s chatter trails off. Even Shiloh looks up, mug halfway to her lips.
She’s gone still, staring at her phone with her back to us.
“Little Crow, what’s going on?” I ask, already sitting up straighter.
Korbyn doesn’t answer, still as a statue.
“Korbs?” I try again, unease crawling up my spine.
Still nothing.
Rowan is already moving.
He circles behind her without a word, quiet as a shadow, and leans just enough to see the screen over her shoulder. Rowan makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before.
It isn’t a word. It isn’t even anger, it’s more like the sharp intake of breath from a man who has just recognized something he can’t unsee.
“I know them,” he says quietly.
Korbyn’s head jerks up. “What?”
His hand closes around Korbyn’s phone carefully, reverently almost, like he’s afraid the wrong pressure might shatter something already cracked. His fingers are shaking. He starts to scroll through her phone. Looking around Rowan’s shoulder, I see Korbyn’s husband in each of the pictures with different girls; each photo is more inappropriate than the last.
“I know these girls,” he says, the words coming out flat at first, like his brain hasn’t caught up to his mouth yet. He scrolls again, slower now, and his voice rises, tight and sharp with recognition. “I know them. I assigned their band to James when we signed them.”
Color blooms across his neck and jaw, an angry red that crawls up beneath his skin as his teeth grind together. The tabletslips forgotten from his other hand, clattering softly against the floor.
“This one,” Rowan says hoarsely, jabbing a finger at the screen. “She was on a support slot I booked last spring.”
Another swipe.
“And her—” His voice breaks, just barely. “Her mom called me. Thanked me for looking out for her.”
Korbyn makes a small, fractured noise that almost sounds like a sob, and Rowan stops scrolling.
The photo on the screen is different.
There’s no ambiguity. James is caught mid-act—covered enough to keep it from being explicit, but unmistakable in what’s happening, in where they are, in the intimacy that shouldn’t exist.
