Page 173 of Fame & Chaos

I’ll give her space as she asked. I know she doesn’t want to see me or hear from me right now, even though staying away from her feels like someone’s ripping my fucking organs out one by one. Rolling onto my back, I glance at the clock—nearly ten in the morning. I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Indi crying. Saw the way her face crumpled when I admitted I’d slept with Sasha. Saw the betrayal in her eyes.

I miss her already.

Her smell.

Her smile.

That cute little giggle she does when she’s trying not to laugh.

The way she curls into me on the couch like she was made to fit there.

I miss everything about her, and it’s only been one night.

How the hell am I supposed to survive if this turns into another six goddamn years in purgatory?

Or worse… forever?

Dragging my hands down my face, I try rubbing away the exhaustion and guilt coating me like grime, but it doesn’t help. Nothing fucking helps. I sit up slowly and glance around my room, memories of the last time Indi was here hitting me like punches to the chest. I swear I can still smell her flowery perfume lingering in the sheets. It’s driving me insane.

Needing a distraction before I do something stupid like drive to her house and beg on my knees, I head into the living room and grab my laptop.

Dropping naked onto the couch, I open Instagram first and immediately regret it. My notifications are flooded with fan messages. Ever since Staked started gaining traction, my social media has become a fucking circus. Maybe I need to make everything private. Maybe we need an official band page so these people stop invading my personal life.

Too late for that, apparently.

Ignoring the messages, I click onto a music news site to check chart updates. But as I scroll, an image of Indi’s house catches my eye, and my stomach drops.

Frowning, I scroll back up and click the article.

Within seconds, all the air leaves my lungs.

The article goes into detail about Indi and me, our history, and even her parents’ deaths. There are photographs of her standing at her front door in pajamas, looking like she’s been crying for hours while paparazzi swarm her fucking house.

My chest heaves violently as rage and panic explode through me.

What the fuck is this?

How do they know any of this?

I click another link and find the original story painting Indi as the villain who broke my heart to fuel my music career. Apparently, I’m some tragic, tortured artist now, and heartbreak is going to make Staked even more successful.

The comments underneath are worse.

Fans saying they’ll ‘support me no matter what.’ Saying they ‘hope I don’t quit singing because of her,’ saying ‘Indi ruined me.’

What the fuck does ‘support me’ even mean?

My heart races faster the more I read. There’s another article from only an hour ago claiming Indi dumped me because she’s apparently in a lesbian relationship now, complete with photographs of her standing beside some dark-haired woman I’ve never seen before.

This is fucking insane.

I know I promised I’d give her space, but fuck that. I need to know she’s okay. I can’t sit around doing nothing while people stalk her house and plaster her trauma all over the internet.

And worst of all… she probably thinks I did this.

I race into my bedroom, grab my cell, and call her immediately. I already know she won’t answer, but maybe she’ll at least listen to a voicemail. The phone rings endlessly before her voicemail finally clicks on.

“Indi, please don’t hang up before you hear all of this,” I rush out desperately. “I swear to God I didn’t leak the story. I would never do that to you. Please let me help fix this. Come over, and we’ll figure something out together. Please, baby, I’m begging you. I love you. I always have, and I always will. Just… please call me or text me something so I know you’re okay. Anything. I just need to know you’re safe.”