Jax rubs his fingers over his forehead then peers at me. “And in the future? When other assholes come out of the woodwork? Because they will. Half the public already blames you. For the simple fact that you’re a woman, and Killian’s now acting unhinged.”

“Great.” Though I’m not surprised. Victim-blaming is alive and well in modern society.

“Yeah, great,” he repeats with a sigh. “He cannot handle it—not when the spotlight of judgment is on someone he cares about. He couldn’t handle it on me, and he absolutely won’t be able to take it on you.” Jax kneels next to me, his eyes tired but intense. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel the repercussions of what I did. I feel guilty as all fuck for the way I hurt them. But especially for the way it caused Killian to break down. Because he was the one who tried to shield me from the press and take it all on his shoulders.”

After last night’s confession, I know more than anyone how much it still hurts Killian. My throat clicks as I swallow. “This is why you didn’t want me here?”

Jax nods. “I didn’t know what would happen. But I knew there’d be something.” He laughs sadly. “There always is on a tour. And I knew Killian wasn’t ready. He doesn’t have his walls up anymore.”

No, he doesn’t. I don’t either. Both of us are walking around exposed and vulnerable. I feel naked enough as it is. But the idea that I’m also Killian’s weakness is intolerable. You’re supposed to protect the ones you love, not leave them open to pain.

“Promise me something,” I whisper, because my voice is fast fading. “Be…kind to him. Take care of him. He needs it.”

Jax nods, tension working between his brows. When Jax leaves, I head to another room.

Scottie answers on the second knock. It’s a betrayal, what I’m about to do. But it doesn’t stop me. “Can I come in?”

Killian

“We are not amused, Mr. James.”

Sitting at a glossy conference table in a cold hotel meeting room is not my idea of fun. Listening to the duo I like to call Smith One and Smith Two is giving me heartburn. My two least favorite record label execs sit across from me, both of them in identical black Armani suits and sharing the same reproachful expression. They only need sunglasses and ear pieces to complete the Agent Smith look.

As soon as I calmed down last night, I knew this meeting was coming. You cause a scene at an industry party, you will be hearing about it.

Back when Kill John first started, we’d been their bitch—attending parties and functions when they wanted us to, touring when they demanded it, every damn aspect of our lives under their control. Those days are gone. You put out a diamond-status album like we did with Apathy, and the tables turn. Kill John no longer kisses ass, we get our cocks sucked.

Doesn’t mean certain execs don’t forget that once in a while, especially when they smell blood in the water—something Smith One clearly has been waiting for. “First we had to deal with John Blackwood’s drug habit—”

“He didn’t have a fucking drug habit,” I snap. “He was clinically depressed, and I’ll thank you to shut the fu—”

Scottie holds up a hand. “What happened with Jax isn’t pertinent to yesterday’s events.”

“I beg to differ,” Smith One says. “It is yet another pileup in the car wreck that is Kill John lately.”

A red haze swarms over my vision. “Metal Death left a bathtub full of actual shit in a hotel room, but you’ve got a problem with me defending a woman?”

“Property damage can be quietly taken care of,” Smith One retorts. “You, on the other hand, attacked a man in a room full of reporters.”

“Details.”

“You damaged our newest talent, breaking his nose and busting open his lip, because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

“No,” I say with exaggerated care, “I beat the little turd because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” I give Smith One a smile with teeth. “You see the difference? Because it’s an important one. You go after an unwilling woman—my woman in particular—and you’re going to get hurt.”

He doesn’t miss the warning. His eyes narrow. “We’ve had to hold off our promotional plans until Marlow’s face heals. Thousands of dollars wasted in cancelled appearances.”

“You should probably talk to him about his behavior. Assign him community service so he can think about his sins.”

“You think this is funny, Mr. James?” Smith Two taps his gold pen on the table as if to get my attention. “Because I assure you the label isn’t laughing.”

“No,” I agree. “They’re sweeping an attempted sexual assault under the table. Bravo for that.”

“Not to mention,” Smith One puts in, “that you damaged your hand.”

I refuse to move my wrapped fingers from their gaze. “It’s fine.”

“It’s insured for a million dollars, Mr. James.” Smith One shoves a stack of papers toward me as if I’m going to read them. “Premiums just went up.”

I laugh, a short bark of annoyance, and then catch Scottie’s eye. Up until now, he’s been sitting back, almost lounging in his chair. Although the Smiths are wearing Armani, Scottie’s sharp tailoring makes them look like slobs, because his charcoal-grey bespoke three-piece suit is straight up Gieves & Hawkes out of Savile Row. My father shops there, and his standards are only slightly less particular than Scottie’s.

Scottie’s appearance is its own form of intimidation. The fact that nothing scares him is another.

“Marlow is a flash in the pan,” Scottie says, bored. “And yet here you are insulting your highest-earning client. I suggest you make amends for wasting his time with this meeting and direct your efforts to putting a better spin on the story.”

Smith and Smith blink in unison, and Smith One sneers. “Mr. James is under contract—”

“Mr. James has fifty-million followers on Twitter alone.”

News to me. But I join Scottie in leveling them a long How you like me now, bitches? stare. Whatever it takes to get them off my back and away from Libby.

Scottie rises. “None of whom would appreciate him being mistreated. Never underestimate the power of social media or fanatical fans. Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. My client has a concert to perform.”