Page 215 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

People move carefully around Studio A now, tension and excitement hanging in the air after the podcast announcement. Staff members glance up when Xander passes.

This isn’t just some song.

This is history waking back up.

The studio doors open, and suddenly everything changes.

The room is dim except for soft amber lighting around the recording booth. Instruments rest everywhere. Guitars. Cables. Open notebooks covered in lyrics.

The atmosphere feels almost sacred.

Xander moves toward the soundboard while I hover awkwardly near the couch.

“What are we doing?”

He glances back at me. “You said you feel out of the loop.”

“Yeah?”

His gaze holds mine steadily. “So, I’m letting you in.”

My chest squeezes painfully hard.

He reaches over the console and presses play.

At first there’s only soft guitar. It’s rough and a little raw, beautifully so.

Then, Xander’s voice fills the studio, and I stop breathing. I’ve never heard him so stripped back.

The lyrics are unfinished in places, some lines mumbled half under his breath like he hasn’t fully committed to them yet.

But the emotion in it is overwhelming. It doesn’t sound like some polished rock anthem. It sounds like grief. It’s longing, someone clawing their way back toward life after spending years buried underneath loss. It’s unbelievable.

My chest physically aches listening to it.

The song builds slowly, layered guitars weaving beneath his voice while the chorus hits like a punch directly to the ribs.

And underneath all of it, there’s hope.

By the end of the track, my eyes are burning. I blink quickly, embarrassed.

The room stays quiet after the song ends.

Finally, I look at him.

“That’s…” My voice catches. “Xander, that’s incredible.”

“You really think so?”

The question catches me off guard. Beneath all that confidence and intensity and control, there’s an unexpected vulnerability in the way he asks it.

I stand and move toward him.

“You can feel every second of what you’ve been through in that song,” I say. “It hurts to listen to.”

His eyes hold mine. “Good.”

I shake my head softly. “No,” I whisper. “Not good.”