I scroll again, finger shaking. And there it is.
A photo of Rafe being half carried, half guided out of a venue. Vinny is at his side, one arm firm around Rafe’s waist, face set in that calm, professional way that means something is wrong.
Rafe’s head is bowed, hair strands falling forward, his body heavy like he’s barely holding himself upright. The caption is worse than the photo.
Altercation reported. Witnesses claim “drug use” in public view.
My throat closes. “No,” I say out loud, the word ripping free.
Marco’s voice is cautious. “They’re saying a lot of things.”
I barely hear him. I stare at the words until they blur, until my eyes sting, until my chest feels like it’s caving inward.
Drug use. In public.
Rafe isn’t that stupid.
He smokes weed. The guys do too. I’m not naïve. I know the industry he’s in. I know how easy it is to slip, to experiment, to get pulled into things people treat like normal. But Rafe isn’t reckless like that. Not anymore. Not since the band started blowing up. Not since he’s had cameras on him constantly.
He tried coke once in college, hated it, told me it made him feel like his skin didn’t fit right. He laughed about it later and swore he’d never touch it again.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
My fingers move on autopilot as I hit Call. Rafe’s number rings. Once. Twice. Then voicemail kicks in. I try again immediately. Voicemail a-fucking-gain.
My stomach drops through the floor. I don’t care that Marco is next to me. I don’t care that this is humiliating. I don’t care that my hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold the phone.
I call again, but still there’s no answer. Panic surges up, sharp and choking. I need to know he’s okay, that he isn’t spiraling because of me.
I need?—
I hit the Call button on Miles’s contact. It rings once and he picks up immediately.
“What the fuck did you do to our boy?” Miles’s voice is sharp, furious. No greeting, no warmth.
I press my lips together. It’s on the tip of my tongue to lie. To deflect. To pretend I don’t know what he means. Instead, I force the truth out, ugly and raw. “I fucked up,” I say. “Is he okay?”
A harsh exhale down the line. “He’s fine,” Miles snaps. “Which you would know if you were with him where you said you’d be.”
My stomach twists. They knew about the plan. Of course they did. They live together. They’re his family. They knew he was going home, knew this mattered.
“I—” I swallow. “He’s not answering my calls.”
“Well, clearly he doesn’t want to speak to you,” Miles says, voice dripping with disgust.
The words hit hard because they’re probably true.
“Please,” I say, hating how desperate I sound. “Tell me where he is.”
A pause. Miles’s voice goes colder. “Why? Are you going to see him?”
The question is a trap. Because the truth is, I have PR in an hour. I have the team. I have damage control. I have a flight this afternoon. I have obligations stacked like bricks on my chest.
And Rafe’s parents are an hour away, and I was supposed to be there. But I’m not.
My voice cracks. “I can’t.”
