Page 199 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

I drag a hand over my face and lean back in my chair.

Outside the office windows, the compound shines softly in the dark. Lights are still on in Studio B. Someone’s laughing somewhere downstairs. Movement carries through the halls.

Life continues.

Meanwhile, my brain refuses to stop moving long enough to breathe.

My phone buzzes again.

Unknown Number: Interested in commenting on rumors involving Willow Jameson?

Delete.

Another buzz follows.

Entertainment Weekly requesting statement regarding…

Delete.

Then another.

Then another.

I finally silence the damn thing and toss it onto the desk harder than necessary.

Control is slipping. That’s the issue. Not the publicity itself; publicity can be useful. Manufactured attention built half of this industry.

But uncontrolled narratives? Those destroy people.

And Willow was never built for this world.

I stare at the spreadsheet in front of me without actually seeing it.

The office door opens.

I look up.

Willow stands there barefoot, wearing leggings and one of Julian’s oversized hoodies, dark hair piled messily on top of her head. She hesitates when she sees me still working.

“You know it’s after midnight, right?” she asks softly.

“I’m aware.”

“That sounded aggressive.”

“It wasn’t intended to.”

She studies me before stepping fully inside and closing the door behind her. “You look stressed.”

“I am stressed.”

“Wow.” She folds her arms. “Look at you, embracing honesty and vulnerability.”

Despite myself, my mouth almost twitches.

“I thought you’d still be downstairs,” I say.

“I couldn’t sleep. Again. So,” she says eventually, wandering further into the office, gaze drifting over the whiteboards covered in schedules and rollout plans, “how bad is it today?”