Page 78 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And then you’re leaving.”

He picks up a fry, pauses, and looks at me like he’s about to ruin my entire evening. “We’re still going to the bookstore.”

I exhale. I should say no.

But the thing is, underneath all the arrogance and boundary issues, Julian makes being around him feel easy.

Loud. Ridiculous. Slightly dangerous to my peace of mind. But easy.

And after the kind of day I’ve had, easy feels a little bit like a lifeline, which is probably how women end up making terrible decisions around men like him.

He picks up another fry like he didn’t just step in front of an entire diner for me without hesitation.

“You’re buying the coffee,” I mutter.

Julian’s grin breaks wide. “That sounds dangerously close to a yes.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

FOURTEEN

Xander

The Hawthorne House is finally starting to sound like what we built it for. It’s alive. The kind of alive that gets under your skin.

I stand in the control room with one hand braced against the edge of the mixing desk, watching Studio A through the thick soundproof glass while the latest playback rolls through the monitors. Drums first. Tight but a little rushed. Bass underneath, steadying it. Guitar bleeding through with enough grit to matter.

Good.

Not finished. Not even close.

But good.

The room around me is all movement and tension. Engineers shift between stations, trading clipped comments over levels and timing. Cables snake across the floor in black coils, disappearing beneath racks of gear and reappearing near the wall like the whole place is wired straight into a pulse point. Someone passes behind me carrying a fresh set of headphones. Someone else swears under their breath when a track lags half a beat.

It should feel chaotic.

Instead, it feels right.

For the first time since we moved all of this here, since the renovations and the contractors and the endless delays and the constant noise of building something people kept insisting couldn’t work in a town like this, the compound finally feels like it belongs to us.

Like a label.

Like a home for artists.

Like a risk that might actually pay off.

Inside the booth, the band we brought in for a development session last month is clustered together around the microphones.

They’re one of six acts we’ve been testing since opening the studio wing. Nothing official yet. No contracts. No public announcements.

That’s intentional.

They’re young. Early twenties. Raw in a way that still feels dangerous instead of manufactured. Good enough to make it. Inexperienced enough to ruin themselves if they get pushed into the wrong hands too early.

Exactly the kind of musicians we built Redemption Records for.