Page 47 of The Song We Lost

I open my mouth and almost say yes.

Almost.

But then I see it in my mind: headlines, speculation, the whispers...

No.

He does not get to make me small in public after making me bleed in private, not while he's out with her.

“I can’t,” I say, voice steady in a way that surprises even me. “I have to do this. I have to keep moving.”

Rachel studies me, then, “Okay,” she says. “Then we keep moving.”

She leaves, and I stand very still. Then on an exhale, my knees buckle and I barely catch myself on the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the duvet like I can anchor myself through fabric. A sob tries to climb out of my chest, but I swallow it back. Another wave threatens to come, so I press my fist to my mouth, hard.

My eyes burn, and my throat hurts.

I shake once, silently, like my body is trying to purge something poisonous. It doesn’t help.

I wipe my face, because I won’t go downstairs with red eyes. I won’t give anyone that.

I give myself sixty seconds, one minute. I count as I take deep breaths, and then I stand.

Jackson’s team has been exactly what Rachel said it would be: strategic and respectful.

No chaos or ego-circus. We meet in a small room off the venue, with bottled water lined up neatly and a schedule printed and placed in front of each chair with security notes, stage marks and timing. It’s so… controlled and easy to be a part of.

It makes me realize, with a strange flash of clarity, how much of my career has been built around managing other people’s instability. The constant negotiation between what I want and what I’m allowed to want without causing a fight.

This isn’t like that.

Jackson isn’t here yet. His team is. Two assistants, his tour manager, a PR rep and his security lead. All of them are polite, and they seem genuinely excited about this collaboration.

Rachel sits beside me, an unspoken protective wall. My team is next to her, eyes bright with adrenaline. They’re excited. They should be. This is huge. This is the kind of collaboration you don’t just get.

The door opens, and Jackson walks in without ceremony, he walks around the room shaking hands, and thanking everyone for their time. He makes a small joke that loosens the room and then turns his attention to me.

“Bailey,” he says warmly. “Good to see you.”

“Jackson,” I reply, “Thank you for doing this.”

He gives me a look that says he knows what my thank you actually means.

When the meeting starts, it’s business. Timing. Song choice. Announcement phrasing. A full album collaboration, not a one-off feature. A strategic rollout over the next months. Studio blocks. Co-writing options. It’s all clean lines and clear plans.

It should feel like safety. Like my exit plan is all coming together. I can see it. So close. And it also makes my grief spike, because safety is unfamiliar right now. Safety used to look very different.

The room breaks into smaller conversations, and Jackson steps closer to me, just slightly to the side, like he’s giving me privacy without isolating me.

“Can I ask you something?” he says quietly.

I keep my smile in place. “Sure.”

“Why now?” he asks and I get a sense that there isn’t any judgment, just curiosity.

My breath catches, because this is the first time anyone has asked me directly.

I could lie. I could say timing. Momentum. Strategy. But my body is exhausted from carrying secrets, so I tell the truth in the smallest way possible.