Page 234 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

The industry loves a trainwreck comeback story almost as much as it loves destroying people in the first place.

If Redemption Records announces Dylan Harlow and The Last Rebels are recording their comeback album at the new compound, nobody talks about Willow anymore.

They’ll talk about him. About me. About whether the Harlow brothers finally stopped trying to kill each other long enough to make music again.

The thought exhausts me, but underneath the exhaustion is something worse.

Hope.

The cab pulls up outside an old studio building in Brooklyn. I stare at it through the rain. Same cracked brick exterior. Same flickering sign.

Christ.

I recorded here before The Lonely Ones exploded. Before fame turned everything poisonous. Before Josiah died.

Back when music still felt simple.

The driver clears his throat carefully. “You want me to wait, Mr. Harlow?”

“Yes, please.”

I step out into freezing summer rain.

The cold hits, icy enough to wake every nerve ending in my body. By the time I push through the studio doors, water drips from my jacket sleeves onto old hardwood floors scarred by decades of musicians dragging equipment through the halls.

The smell hits next. Dust, coffee, cigarettes buried so deeply into the walls they’ll probably outlive civilization.

I find Dylan through the glass control room of one of the studios, sitting on top of an amp with a guitar in his lap, head bent while he picks distractedly through a melody I don’t recognize.

I just stand there watching him until he finally notices me through the glass.

His hands stop moving. Neither of us moves for a beat.

He sets the guitar aside and stands. I walk into the studio. The silence between us feels physical.

“What are you doing here?” Dylan says, finally.

“Time to speak, I think.” I try to smile, but it doesn’t really come. “Thought about bringing a hostage negotiator.”

One corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “That bad?”

“Yes.”

The almost-smile disappears.

I look around the studio instead because it’s easier than looking directly at him for too long. Half-empty coffee cups everywhere. Open notebooks. Tangled cables across the floor.

The same madness Dylan’s always existed inside.

“You look like shit,” I tell him.

He snorts softly. “Nice to see you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

There’s no real bite behind it. That almost makes it worse, because anger I understand. This strange carefulness between us feels unfamiliar.