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“I’m asking you to turn those down. Because Atlas Falling has something. I know it, Steve knows it, and the fans know it. I damn well know you boys know it too. Don’t give up on us, please. If you really want to go, then fair enough, but I know you guys, and I know how much you love this band. We’ve got one of the best fucking fan bases in the world.” It’s true. Our fans are seriously ride or die. “We can’t give up now.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment.

“We’re brothers,” I say. I look at all three of them. “That’s still true. Whatever happened, that part is still true. And I am asking you, as your brother, to give me one year to fix this. I know I don’t deserve to ask. I’m asking anyway.”

Harrison is looking at the table. His jaw is tight.

“Harrison,” I say.

He looks up.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean that.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. Something crosses his face that I can’t name—not forgiveness, not even close, but maybe a small amount of hope.

“One year,” he says. It comes out hard. “And then you’d better have something worth coming back for. You’re a good fucking writer, Cal. Use the time to come up with something, ok? We can work together on stuff too.”

He picks up his jacket and walks out without looking back.

Luca lingers a moment longer. He looks at me and shakes his head, grinning. I grin back.

“One year, brother,” he says. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He claps me once on the shoulder, harder than necessary, and follows Harrison out.

Which leaves Eli.

Eli hasn’t moved. Hands still flat on the table. He’s looking at the folder, not at me, when he finally talks.

“I covered for you,” he says. “The first three days. Before it got bad. I told everyone you had a family emergency, told them to back off, told the label you’d be back, and you’d explain, and it’d be fine, because I know you. I know you don’t just—” He stops. Starts again. “I went to bat for you with people who were already ready to fight, because I was sure there was a good reason. I told them there’s a reason, you don’t know him, there’s always a reason with Cal, he wouldn’t do this for nothing.”

He looks up.

“And then I wake up this morning to you on a table at The Vault looking like you don’t have a care in the goddamn world.” He scoffs. Again, it takes all my might to resist saying I invited you!! You could’ve been not caring with me!!! “Cal, it’s me. Whatever it is.”

I nearly break. Eli and I have been through a fucking lot together. Heck, the guy was in the room next to me when I lost my virginity at a high school party, and fist bumped me afterwards.

But it doesn’t matter. The promise I made wasn’t to Eli. The promise I made was to the one person who’s never asked me for anything, in a room that smelled of antiseptic, telling me she was fine in the slow voice the illness had given her. And there’s no way I’ll break her only wish. It’s her dignity. It’s the headline that doesn’t get to exist. It’s the one thing she asked me for.

“Maybe there isn’t a reason.” I summon a shrug and the careless half-smile he hates. “Maybe I’m just an asshole. You’ve always known that.”

I know in that moment it will piss him off the most. I need him to back off. I’m 90% sure he can keep a secret…but I was 100% sure Issy wouldn’t betray me and look where that got me.

The price of fame is that nothing is private.

Eli looks at me for a long, long second.

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “Maybe you are.”

He stands, picks up the folder, tucks it under his arm, and leaves me.

I’m alone in the room with the nice view and no band and no deal and an advance I owe instead of own, and I let everything go. I let my face do whatever it wants, which it turns out is frowning.

The band is gone unless I bring it back. And you don’t bring four scattered, broke, betrayed musicians back with an apology. They need to see fucking action. They need money on the table and a reason to believe.

Which takes money I don’t have.

I run through my accounts. The numbers are almost funny. From the outside, Atlas Falling looks successful. In reality, the label paid for the flights, hotels, dinners—all the shiny evidence of success.