“I know.” I’ve resigned myself to the fact that she will do what she thinks she needs to achieve her ultimate goal—protect the kids.
“You don’t have to like it.”
“I don’t.”
The DJ announces her name, and the club's restless hum sharpens into charged silence. The lights drop, plunging the room into shadow, until a single white beam slices through the haze and pools at the center of the stage. Andi steps into it, the restraint jacket's stark white almost glowing against the darkness. For a heartbeat, the onlysounds are the low hiss of the fog machine and the faint clink of glasses from the bar.
A ripple of confused laughter breaks out, uncertain and uneasy, then fades as the symbolism settles over the crowd. The headlines, the photos, the whispered labels—unstable, unfit—are suddenly made real, embodied in the way she stands motionless, letting the discomfort build. I can feel the tension in the air, thick and electric, as if everyone is holding their breath.
The first notes of ‘Gunpowder and Lead’ drift out, low and haunting. Andi’s eyes sweep the crowd, her gaze steady, searching not for approval but for something deeper—maybe understanding, maybe defiance. Her voice, when it comes, is clear and raw, threading through the smoky air and vibrating in my chest.
Then I see it—a flicker in her focus, a subtle tightening of her jaw. My eyes follow hers to the back left corner. There, a man sits too still for the chaos around him, his baseball cap pulled low, shoulders rigid. Even in the dim light, I recognize the set of his mouth, the cold calculation in his stare. Jackson Rhoades.
He doesn’t clap. He doesn’t move. He just watches, his presence here conveying a silent threat that seems to chill the air around him.
The tempo builds, the music pulses through the floorboards, and the words of the song strike every nerve in Jackson, even if he doesn’t show it. Andi reaches the first chorus and, with a sharp motion, rips the restraint jacket open, letting it fall to the stage in a heap. The crowd erupts—cheers, whistles, the stomp of feet—but she barely seems to hear it. Her movements are precise, almost ritualistic, as if she’s reclaiming something piece by piece.
Behind her, the club’s screens flash a rapid-fire montage: psychiatric photos, headlines, news clips questioning her right to be near children. The flickering images paint the walls in harsh, shifting light, and I see people in the crowd shifting uncomfortably, some whispering, some falling silent.
This isn’t just a performance. It’s an indictment of all those who judged her prematurely and unfairly.
She lifts a bright orange prop shotgun—plastic, but vivid under the lights—and aims it toward the back corner. Not with a flourish, but with deliberate intent. The message is unmistakable.
Her voice sharpens as she changes the bridge:
“He locked me up, but now I’m stronger.
He won’t hurt them any longer.”
Maria steps onto the stage, then the others—five young women, each standing tall behind Andi, shoulder to shoulder. The energy in the room shifts again, from entertainment to something heavier. The applause is still there, but now it’s threaded with recognition, with solidarity.
Rhoades sets his glass down, the sound lost in the noise. He doesn’t storm out or make a scene. He simply stands, his restraint more menacing than any outburst. Our eyes meet across the crowd—his gaze cold, mine unflinching. He turns and walks out, as calm as he entered.
When Andi comes offstage, her skin is flushed, her breath coming fast. I can almost feel the adrenaline humming through her veins. She scans the room, searching for him.
“He left,” I say quietly, my hand finding hers.
She nods, relief and resolve mingling in her eyes. We linger for another fifteen minutes, the noise of the club washing over us, before slipping out into the night. The drive home is silent, the air between us thick with everything that’s just happened—fear, pride, and the knowledge that tonight, she took back a piece of her story.
ANDI
The house feels different the moment I step inside—a subtle shift, like the air itself is holding its breath. Shadows stretch longer across the floor, and the usual warmth is gone, replaced by a hush that prickles along my skin. Luke senses it too. He doesn’t say a word, but I see the tension in his shoulders as he moves ahead of me, his footsteps soft but purposeful, checking corners, doors, windows. The faint scent of wine and something metallic lingers in the air.
I follow him into the kitchen. The lights are dim, casting everything in a muted gold. The silence is thick, broken only by the soft click of the wine bottle as Luke opens it—a ritual, a grasp at normalcy. He pours two glasses, the liquid catching the light, and hands one to me. His hand is steady, but I can feel the current of unease running beneath his calm.
He lifts his glass, his eyes never leaving mine. “To the woman who refuses to disappear.”
My throat tightens. I force a smile, my voice barely above a whisper. “To the man who refuses to let me.”
Our glasses meet with a soft chime, the sound echoing in the stillness.
Then—a slow, deliberate clap slices through the quiet, coming from the darkness beyond the dining room. The hairs on my arms stand on end. Luke reacts instantly, stepping in front of me, his body tense and protective.
The moment Jackson Rhoades steps from the shadows, the air in the kitchen thickens—charged with something cold and electric. The overhead light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the gleam of his watch, but leaves his eyes in shadow. The faint scent of wine lingers, mingling with the metallic tang of fear that suddenly prickles at the back of my throat.
Luke’s body tenses in front of me, his shoulders squared, every muscle coiled and ready. I can hear the subtle shift of his weight on the tile, the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. My own pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the hallway clock.
Jackson’s voice is smooth, almost gentle, but there’s a razor edge beneath it. “I admire commitment,” he says, his words slicing through the silence. “Even when it’s misguided.”
