Page 157 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

There are moments in your life where you understand exactly how violence happens. Not abstractly. Physically. The split second where grief and humiliation and rage all hit the same nerve and your body mistakes destruction for relief.

This is one of them.

“You don’t get to rewrite my life because you feel guilty now.”

“I’m not trying to rewrite it.”

“Then shut the fuck up about it.”

Dylan goes still.

Behind me, Gabe says my name once. Warning. I ignore him, because I can’t stop now. Not when it’s all sitting here in the open for the first time in years.

“You vanished,” I say to Dylan. “After Josiah died, after the band imploded, after everything fell apart, you disappeared.”

His face hardens. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” I laugh again. “You want fair?”

“I was grieving, too!”

The shout echoes through the entrance hall. Real emotion cracks through him cleanly enough I can see it. Not arrogance or defensiveness. Pain.

“I lost him, too,” Dylan says. “You think you were the only one wrecked after Josiah died? He was my friend, too. Okay, so he wasn’t my bandmate, but I still loved him.”

My chest tightens so violently it might as well be a pulled muscle. I look away first because I can’t breathe.

The silence after is worse than the shouting. Heavy. Raw. Nobody knows where to put themselves inside it.

Then, Julian walks back into the house.

He takes one look at the room and clocks exactly how bad it is.

“Well,” he says carefully, shutting the front door behind him. “This feels healthy.”

Nobody answers.

Julian exhales. “Okay. Great energy in here.”

“Not now,” I snap.

“Actually,” he says calmly, “now seems ideal before one of you says something you can’t take back.”

Too late.

We crossed that line years ago.

Julian looks between Dylan and me, reading the damage in real time. Then at Gabe, whose expression has gone flat in that dangerous way it does when he’s absorbing stress instead of showing it.

Finally, his gaze lands on me. “Sit down.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

“You’re pacing like you’re about to murder somebody,” he says. “And while I support self-expression creatively, this feels excessive.”

“Julian.”