Page 82 of Unleashed By Eden

Voices erupt around me.

“Carter, over here!”

“Carter—this way!”

“Look left!”

“Give us a smile!”

I plant myself in front of the media wall, hands in my pockets, chin up. Give them the stillness they need to capture the shot that’s worth selling. A pose I’ve held a thousand times. My muscles twitch with the urge to find Vi, to see where she’s positioned, whether she’s catching any of this. But I still can’t see shit.

Chris’s hand brushes my arm, the signal to move, and I follow him toward the first cluster of reporters, each one lined like dominoes with their mics raised, cameras ready, and their smiles wide and hungry.

He steers me to the first interview pod. A woman with a glittery gold mic leans forward and fires her first question.

“Carter, how does it feel to have written the soundtrack to one of the biggest action franchises in the world?”

I slide into autopilot. “Wild. We grew up watching these films, so getting to score them—yeah, it’s an honor.”

I move on to the next outlet.

“Did you know straight away that you wanted to do the soundtrack when you read the script?”

“Soon as I saw the opening scene on the page, I heard the riff in my head.”

Truth: I skimmed half the script, hungover, and only signed on when they promised full creative control.

Chris ushers me forward.

“What does tonight mean to you and the band?”

It means nothing compared to Vi’s silence. I talk about gratitude and fans and the power of film and music together. My eyes keep skimming the edge of the chaos, hunting for dark hair and red lips behind a camera lens.

I’d trade all of this if it meant she’d look at me the way she did yesterday—when Paris shrank down to four walls and a bed, and I hadn’t put my foot in my mouth yet.

***

The movie plays on the massive theater screen, and it’s an impressive visual display of explosions and fight scenes perfectly synced to the tracks we sweated over in a studio months ago.

People around me cheer at the big hits, laugh in the right spots. I hear our riffs rumble out of the speakers and instead of pride, I feel this weird emptiness float in my chest.

Violet’s somewhere behind me with the crew. Every time the score swells exactly where we meant it to, I want to know if she heard it. If any part of her chest lifts with it.

The credits roll and applause thunders around the theater. I stand with the rest of the band, the director, and the actors, and shuffle out with everyone else toward the foyer. I catch one quick glimpse of her in the crowd, then she’s swallowed up again by too many bodies.

Security peels us off with the “talent” flow, down a carpeted corridor that connects the cinema wing to the hotel’s private event space. Through one last set of doors, and we’re in the after-party at the Hôtel Costes.

The space has been transformed into a scene straight out of the film. There are velvet drapes, mood lighting, and props throughout the room.

I’ve already done the whole red-carpet routine with questions and inane small talk. All I want now is out. Or a dark room with Vi’s thighs wrapped around my head.

Instead, I’m parked on the sidelines of the room, still as a trophy, so people can stop to congratulate me, all while I watch her.

She eventually coasts over to the bar and ends up talking to Lucien Armand.

The alt-rock king of Paris. The guy whose first album made ten-year-old me want to pick up a guitar.

He’s leaning in and grinning, the charming bastard he is. He says something close to her ear, and she laughs—a real one.