Page 109 of Unleashed By Eden

I grab a charger off the peg. At the counter, I fish my card out.

And then I see it. Down by my knee, crammed into a metal rack beside a stack of gum—Carter on a magazine cover.

My fucking photo.

He’s sprawled on my hotel bed in Singapore, shirtless and skin washed out by flash. Eyes closed. Face slack. The crop makes him look almost . . . dead.

The headline in huge bold letters is stamped across his body:

EXCLUSIVE!

DOWN AND OUT: CARTER ASHFORD OVERDOSES

And in smaller text near the bottom:

Vega Wolfe tells all with behind-the-scenes tour pics.

For a second, my brain refuses to compute. Thousands of thoughts compete at once before one eventually wins out. Then the floor drops out from under me.

“No,” I whisper. It comes out cracked. “No, no, no . . .”

I snatch the magazine, fingers fumbling the glossy paper, and start flipping. Pages slap over one by one.

“We just got that in, arrived thirty minutes ago,” the cashier tells me, completely oblivious to my internal meltdown.

The final page flips over and there they are—raw, private moments of Carter, unedited and unfiltered.

Carter, half asleep in a hotel room, eyes bruised with fatigue.

Post-show, collapsed on a couch, head tipped back, throat exposed.

In swim shorts in Como, skin glistening from the sun.

Every unguarded moment I’d shot for us, without lighting or editing, and without permission.

My vision tunnels.

The words on the page smear. My hands shake so hard, the magazine rattles.

The photos weren’t meant for PrimeTime+ or for the band. They weren’t for anyone. They were mine. His. Ours.

I drop the magazine on the counter like it burns.

“Miss? Your charger.” The cashier holds it up, brow creased.

I’m already backing away.

“Miss, are you—”

I don’t hear the rest. I’m out of the store, air cutting in and out of my lungs. My feet move on autopilot. I make it three storefronts before my stomach gives up.

I lurch toward the nearest trash can and barely get my hands on the rim before everything comes up. Acid scorches my throat. My whole body shakes like I’m trying to eject my organs along with my lunch.

People stare. A woman veers away, dragging her kid with her. Someone whispers something about “drunk already.”

I gag again, spit dangling from my lower lip, tears blurring my vision.

Flashes of the pages flip through my brain.