Page 24 of The Jaded Notes

I shift in my seat, steering the conversation hard left. “Anyway, I’m sure your fashion designs are a far better legacy than land battles.”

“I’d like to believe so.” Livianna narrows her gaze on me. “What about your family, Jaxon? Tell us more about yourself.”

Another topic I need to stay far away from. Nothing tonight is going as I hoped it would when I ran into her.

I envisioned drinks, laughter, and getting to know her better while relaxing after walking away from a major investment without chaos ensuing. It appears my luck has taken a turn for the worse.

“Let’s just say I inherited more than real estate.” I grow a disarming smile. “Crowne Ventures is involved in a lot of sectors. I tend to focus more on building what’s next, not what’s already standing. Think startups, deep tech, clean energy, high technology healing modalities, and adaptive fashion… anything with teeth and trajectory.”

Trent whistles. “Damn. You don’t sleep, do you?”

“I delegate sleep.” I take a slow drink of wine as Livianna and Trent snicker at my response.

This evening started well and good, but it’s swinging in the wrong direction. Like everything else we’ve discussed tonight, my work is not something I talk about with those who don’t have massive security clearance.

And now I have another worry to consider about Livianna. Is she in any kind of danger? What if there’s more than meets the eye going on between these two?

It’s the last question that cuts deep. They think meeting one another was fate. But fate doesn’t leave black boxes buried in the snow and survivors with blood on their hands.

Chapter Six

CALLUM/CASH

Then

Mic Feedback & Shattered Souls

There’s a shift tonight…like I’ve finally decided what kind of monster I need to become.

Brace yourself, Cash.

I show up to soundcheck forty minutes late, high as hell, and ready to burn the fucking stage down.

Production has their eyes on me, but it’s just another screw up on my part. I’m sure the consequences will come soon enough.

There’s a hum in my chest, not from the coke or the joint or the pills but from the goddamn implosion Amanda triggered with one well-aimed question.

The second I march into the arena, heads turn. Stagehands pause, the lighting tech pretends to fidget with a console, and the crew suddenly finds a reason to be very interested in the floor.

Nobody acknowledges me. Not even a nod.

Everything around me is too bright, too sharp, and waytoo fake. The lights. The crew. The fucking smiles that shrink when I stumble in.

One of the techs trips over a cable when he notices me, then pretends it didn’t happen. I’m the walking aftermath of a mistake nobody knows how to fix. I’m radioactive.

Hawke’s seated at the edge of the stage, flipping through notes, and Cooper tunes his bass, his stare trained on his frets like he’s afraid eye contact might kill him.

But Bren?

Bren stands dead center with his guitar strapped across his chest and hatred barely hidden beneath his skin. The second our glares connect, his jaw tightens.

I stomp to my mic stand, but it isn’t set up. No one fucking bothered. That’s new.

“Let’s get this over with,” I grumble, grab my mic from the crate like it owes me answers, and plug it in myself.

“This is such bullshit.” My voice comes out hoarse and raw, like I swallowed broken glass and decided to scream anyway.

Bren doesn’t say a word. He turns his back and starts noodling with his strings.