Page 135 of The Jaded Notes

Who is he? Some fashion billionaire? A movie producer? Another musician who can give her the stability and success I never could?

The questions claw at me like wild animals, each one drawing blood I can’t afford to lose.

My phone rings. Bren’s name flashes across the screen. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, but something in me needs to hear a familiar voice even if I can’t tell him where I am or what I’ve seen.

“Where the fuck are you, Cash?” His voice cuts through the speaker the moment I answer.

“Driving around.”

“Where? You missed the meeting with the tour directors and now they’re questioning whether you’re reliable enough for the dates. They think you’re using hard drugs again.”

“It won’t be an issue, Guns.”

There’s a pause and I can practically hear him processing the tension in my voice. “This is about Livianna, isn’t it?”

Everything’s about her. Every song I write and every deal I make. Every breath I take that doesn’t include her feels like I’m slowly suffocating on my own mistakes.

“Guns, she’s with someone.” I light another cigarette. “I don’t know who, but she’s with someone and she looks...fucking happy.”

There’s a drawn-out silence.

“Maybe that’s what she needs.” The way he says it is gentle, and that makes my chest tighten.

“I thought you said you’d help me get her back.” My focus stays on the house that hides the life she’s building without me. “I'm not done fighting for what’s mine.”

“Cash—”

“She’s mine, Guns. She’s always been mine. And I don’t give a fuck who thinks they can take her away from me. We’re soulmates… We’re meant to have what was stolen from us.”

“Just…” The line goes quiet for a long moment before Bren speaks again, his voice careful. “Don’t do anything that’s gonna get you arrested or worse. We need you.”

“The band needs me. She doesn’t, and that’s the fuckingproblem.” I hang up before he can respond, shoving the phone back into my jacket pocket as I glare at the mansion that’s become the center of my obsession.

I don’t know who owns this place. I don’t know who’s making her laugh like the world is full of possibilities instead of the broken promises I left scattered in my wake.

But I have resources now. Connections that even Leon doesn’t know about. Ways of finding information that would make the bastard who tried to own me proud if I were only using them for his benefit.

The difference is, I’m using them to get back what’s mine instead of destroying someone else. I slide back into my Porsche and fire up the engine. The growl echoes my internal fury as I pull away from the curb.

In my rearview mirror, the beach house grows smaller, but the image burns itself into my memory like a photograph I’ll never be able to forget. I’m too close to losing her forever, and my bones know it.

Tomorrow, I’ll make some calls. Use the network that Jaxon helped me build to find out who owns that property, who’s making her smile, and who thinks he can have what belongs to me.

And when I know who he is, I’ll remind him that some men don’t give up what they love without a fight. Even if the fight shatters everything we touch.

One Week Later

“Nothing.” I slam my phone down on a side table hard enough to make Hawke’s cymbal shake. “Seven damn days and I’ve got nothing.”

Bren peeks up from his guitar, fingers still working throughthe chord progression we’ve been refining for the past hour. “Maybe that’s telling you something.”

“It’s telling me whoever owns that mansion knows how to cover his tracks.” I pace the length of the recording studio, my restless energy making the small space feel like a cage. “LLCs within LLCs, offshore holding companies, and shell corporations that lead nowhere. This bastard doesn’t wanna be found.”

Cooper adjusts his bass strap and shoots me a look that’s equal parts concern and annoyance. “Or maybe you should stop stalking your ex-girlfriend and focus on the fact that we’re headlining Coachella in April. It’s one of our biggest fucking gigs to date, asshole.”

The mention of Coachella stops me cold. It’ll be the largest festival performance of our careers, and all I can think about is the way she looked spinning in that driveway like she’d found everything she’d ever wanted.

“I’m not stalking her,” I mutter, but the words taste like lies even to me.