“What—” Rafe starts, but the woman barrels forward again, hands shaking as she digs into her pocket.
My blood turns to ice.
“No,” someone says sharply—Marco? Miles? I don’t know.
The woman yanks her hand out. Silver flashes.
A blade.
Not huge, but real enough to make my body recoil.
I stumble backward, reaching for Rafe at the same time to pull him away, heart hammering.
Seth moves faster than I’ve ever seen—lunging in, grabbing her wrist with both hands, twisting sharply. The knife clatters to the floor.
A scream tears out of her.
Vinny’s already on her other side, pinning her arms, hauling her away from the center of the room with controlled force.
People are shouting now—security, staff, donors panicking, chairs scraping.
Rafe’s face goes pale.
The woman thrashes, sobbing and screaming, voice cracking under the weight of whatever fantasy she’s been feeding. “You don’t get to touch him!” she shrieks, spittle flying. Her eyes lock on me like I’m the intruder inherstory. “You don’t get to—after everything?—”
“What the hell?” someone gasps behind me.
She jerks against Vinny’s grip, furious and frantic. “He lovesme,” she screams, pointing past Vinny, past the chaos, like she can still see Rafe. “He wrote it for me. He looks at me. He—heknowsme.”
My stomach drops.
It’s not jealousy that hits. It’s the sick realization of how far gone she is.
“You think you can just show up,” she spits at me, mascara streaking down her cheeks, “and take him? Like you deservehim? Like you didn’t just—” She’s cut off as security appear in front of her.
Rafe’s hand clamps around my arm, hard. “Move,” he says, voice low and razor-sharp.
Vinny doesn’t even look back. “Out. Now.”
Rafe hauls me with him, Vinny leading, Seth hovering close, the rest of the band flanking like instinct kicked in and turned them into a shield.
My face is still wet with whatever she threw. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I stumble through the crush of bodies, half dazed, trying to piece together what just happened.
An obsessed fan. A blade. A room full of money and good intentions shattered in seconds.
Rafe’s grip constricts. He doesn’t look at me. He looks forward, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together with sheer force.
We push through the exit doors into a smaller holding room, the sounds of chaos muffling behind us.
10
RAFE
The door slamsshut behind us and the noise drops instantly—shouts, scraping chairs, raised voices collapsing into a dull, distant roar like we’ve been shoved underwater.
We’re in a small space just off the ballroom. Beige walls. A folding table shoved against one side. Bottled water stacked in a crate. No windows. The space is clearly designed for logistics, not trauma.
Vinny is already moving, hand pressed to his earpiece, voice low and clipped as he coordinates with venue security. Seth hovers close, jaw clenched, eyes still sharp with adrenaline. Two security guards take positions at the door without being asked.
