A manager.
They're assigning us a fuckingmanager. Like we can't be trusted to handle our own careers.
I read the name again.
Carmine Caruso doesn't ring any bells—no pun intended—but that doesn't mean much. The music industry is full of faceless suits who think they know better than the artists actually creating the work.
My thumb hovers over the screen, ready to fire off a response that will probably burn whatever bridge we've managed to build with Meridian. But I force myself to keep reading.
Please note that acceptance of Mr. Caruso's oversight role is a non-negotiable condition of the contract offer. Failure to comply will result in the termination of negotiations and forfeiture of all proposed terms.
They're not even pretending to give us a choice.
I want to throw my phone across the room.
But I don't.
Because underneath all the rage, underneath the instinctive rejection of anyone trying to control my band, there's a voice in my head that sounds annoyingly like Nash, like he isn't fucking finished haunting me after tonight's nightmare even though I'm wide awake.
This is what you wanted,it says.A comeback. A tour. A chance to make Stephen pay for everything he took from us. Are you really going to throw that away because they want to assign a babysitter?
I hate that voice. Hate that it's right.
And if Stephen follows through on his threat—if my hideous face ends up splashed across every gossip site and tabloid—then this tour might be the only thing left.
The only legacy that matters.
Rafael shifts on the couch, mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep. I watch him for a moment, this alpha who's been with the band since the beginning, who stuck around even when everything went to shit, who's currently dressed like a yacht club reject because he spent his evening protecting a woman he barely even knew existed until I fucking blackmailed her.
A woman I refuse to hand over to Stephen no matter what it costs me. Because she's good for Vespyr.
That's all.
That's theonlyfucking reason.
Even though every time I blink, I see those honey-gold eyes.
CHAPTER 7
RAFAEL
Phoenix read the email out loud twice.
I made him stop when he started on a third pass, snatching the phone away and scrolling through it myself. The words blur together—management oversight, non-negotiable terms, tour preparation—but the message is clear enough.
Meridian doesn't trust us to handle this ourselves.
Now we're all arranged in the living room like some kind of dysfunctional family portrait. Bells is cross-legged on her floor pillow, that spot she's claimed as her own. Phoenix sprawls across the sectional, carefully positioned at the opposite end from where I've perched on the arm. Close enough to seem normal, far enough that our knees won't accidentally brush.
I thought things would get less awkward after our grocery store outing. They haven’t. But I guess that would require an actual conversation, not… whatever the fuck this is.
Now there's thisthingbetween us.
This awareness.
Every time our eyes meet, I feel it.
And Rex is watching.