“Fallen Angel: Former Sweetheart Now Rocks With Bad Boys”
My eyes land on a meme, already viral, of my head, the caption reading, “WHY CHOOSE JUST ONE?”
A dull, ugly pressure begins behind my eyes. The world stutters with each scroll. My jaw aches, probably from clenching it so hard.
Before I can even process what this means for me, or for the guys, I hear shouting from the kitchen.
Nash’s voice is unmistakable, even when he’s not swearing. “MotherFUCKER! I’ll kill whoever did this. I’ll actually, literally—“ A glass shatters, sharp and high, the sound like an alarm.
I toss on the nearest sweatshirt and bolt down the hall. The kitchen is a warzone: Nash is in motion, stalking around the island, his hair wild and fists balled, every inch of him radiating threat. Blake sits at the table, eyes fixed on his phone, handslocked so tightly around a mug I’m surprised it hasn’t exploded too. Darius is already online, hunched over his laptop, swiping through newsfeeds like he’s looking for a secret message. Keaton’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed so hard the fabric of his tee is stretched to its limit, face utterly blank. Only Tris is motionless, standing dead center in the chaos, scrolling through every image, every caption, with the flat, analytical stare of a sniper.
They all look up when I enter, but only Darius speaks. “Raina… have you seen it yet?”
“Yeah.” My voice is rougher than it’s been in a while. “It’s everywhere.”
Blake’s phone dings, and he jerks like it’s a cattle prod. “Fuck, they already found my family,” he mutters. He shoves the phone away, knuckles white. “My mom’s in tears. She thinks I’ve joined a sex cult.”
Nash stops pacing just long enough to look at me, his rage dissolving into something raw. “Are you okay?” he asks, and it’s almost a whisper.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Tris doesn’t look away from his phone. “It’s not only the tabloids. Some of the posts are from local accounts. People who know where we live.” He holds up the phone, thumb flicking between screenshots: our back terrace, the fire pit, the studio entrance. “This is pro work. Either a drone or someone with a lens across the valley.”
Keaton speaks up, the first words I’ve heard from him this morning. “So we’re compromised,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s something cold and flat behind it. “They know which rooms you use, Raina.”
“They know a lot more than that.” Darius types furiously. “It’s not just window photos. There’s stuff in here you’d have to be inside the house to get. Well, the tour bus at least. Look.” Heswivels his laptop to face me. The screen shows a blurred photo of me and Nash at the kitchen counter, arms wrapped, faces inches apart. The angle is unmistakable: someone was in the room.
My stomach pitches. I clamp a hand over my mouth.
“What the fuck,” I choke.
“Delivery guys, management, even fans,” Blake says bitterly. “Remember the weird pizza that showed up last week?”
Nash growls. “It’s always a goddamn pizza. Next time I see one, I’m throwing it out the window.”
Darius’ face is set, determined, but his eyes are scared. “It has to be someone close. Maybe one of the new roadies, or—“
“Stop,” I say, a little louder than I mean to. The room goes silent, the air thick with fear and accusation. “It doesn’t matter who did it. What matters is what we do now.”
No one moves for a long, suffocating moment.
Then Tris speaks. “Izzy is on her way up. She wants a meeting in thirty.”
“She’s not coming here, is she?” Nash says, darting to the window. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds a bold photographer who jumped our fence out there. I’d bet money they are camped by the gate.
“She’s going to call in.” Tris’ voice is a blade. “She told us not to post anything, lock the doors, and for fuck’s sake—‘don’t talk to the press.’ Her words.”
Keaton pushes off the wall. “I’ll check the perimeter.”
“No one’s coming for us,” Nash snaps, but Keaton’s already gone.
I sink into a chair. My bones feel full of static. “They’re going to rip us to shreds, aren’t they?”
Darius sits beside me. “Only if we let them.”
Blake shudders. “Fuck what anyone else thinks. We’ll get through this together.”
“They always do,” I say, voice hoarse. “First it’s the slut jokes, then it’s the rehab rumors. Next week it’ll be I’m a danger to myself and others.”
