And it was exactly what she deserved for being stupid enough to think she could hide here forever.
She stood at her kitchen window, watching a man with a camera lean against the garden wall, clearly settling in for a long wait. The guitar in her hands felt heavier than usual, or maybe that was just the weight of everything else pressing down on her shoulders.
She tried to remember that she'd written a song. A proper one. Not the half-formed fragments she'd been cobbling together for months, but something real. Something good. Andmore were coming. She could feel them, waiting just beneath the surface, ready to be pulled out and shaped into something worth listening to.
Her music was back.
Which meant it was time to leave.
The realization sat like a stone in her chest. She'd known it was coming, of course. She'd always known Bankton was temporary. A pit stop. A place to lick her wounds and figure out what came next.
She just hadn't expected "next" to arrive quite so soon.
Or to hurt quite so much.
She set the guitar down carefully and turned away from the window.
She’d already spoken to Claire. Talked about the options, told her that she wasn’t returning to Krimson Khaos no matter what. And, to her credit, Claire had taken it in stride. There was support there for her to go solo, especially now she could write her own material again. She wasn’t going backwards, she told herself. This was a step forward, a good thing. She’d found everything she’d come here to find.
All she had to do was say yes.
Sign the contracts. Go back to London. Start recording. Start the machine up again, interviews, photoshoots, promotional appearances.
She wasn't running anymore, was she? She'd found what she'd lost. The music. The creativity. The part of herself she'd thought Alissa had taken with her when she'd gotten married in bloody Vegas.
So really, there was no reason to stay.
The village was a disaster now, anyway. Parents were probably complaining to Lily about "Annabelle's judgment" in bringing a celebrity to the school. Gloria had been cornered by three different journalists asking invasive questions aboutthe fundraiser. Even sweet, cheerful Blossom had snapped at someone yesterday for taking photos of customers without permission.
Raven had upended everything. Made a mess of the one place that had offered her peace.
And Annabelle…
No. She wasn't thinking about Annabelle right now.
Except she was. Obviously. Because every time she closed her eyes, she saw Annabelle's face when she'd told her about the article. The way her expression had crumbled. The tears in her eyes as she'd tried to explain.
I defended you. I told them the truth.
You told them MY truth.
Raven pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She needed to stop replaying that conversation. It was done. Over. Annabelle had made a mistake, a well-intentioned, devastatingly naive mistake, and Raven had walked away before she said something she'd regret.
That was the mature thing to do, right?
Except now it was the next day, and the photographers outside had multiplied, and Raven still hadn't figured out what the hell to say.
I'm angry, but I understand. I'm leaving anyway. Sorry for ruining your life.
Yeah. That would go over brilliantly.
She tried practicing in her head as she made coffee she didn't drink and toast she didn't eat.
Annabelle, I know you were trying to help, but…
No. That sounded condescending.
Look, I'm not mad anymore, I just think it's better if…
