Page 30

“Debatable.”

“Get some rest, Mya.” His voice drops into something warmer, softer, reverent. “For you and the babies.”

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and nod even though he can’t see it. “Good luck tonight.”

“Already got it,” he says, “talking to you.”

And then the line clicks off.

I stare at the phone, the silence swallowing the room again—but this time it’s gentler. Softer. Like Kingston left a piece of himself behind just to keep me steady.

Chapter Seven

MYA

It’s ridiculous how just hearing his voice—low and gruff and laced with barely veiled affection—can reassemble the parts of me that felt scattered an hour ago on the kitchen floor. Like he’s a glue stick and I’m kindergarten-level fragile.

But I can’t let myself unravel again. Not tonight. Not when there’s still work to do and unread emails stacked like skyscrapers in my inbox, all flagged red. Urgent. Overdue. Important.

So I do what I’ve always done when emotions threaten to tip the balance⁠—

I bury them beneath productivity.

Laptop open. Planner flipped. Pen twirling between my fingers.

I spend the next two hours knee-deep in mood boards and launch mock-ups for Reese’s maternity line, replying to DMs on the band’s account, fielding tour dates and locations from Penelope, and updating the Eighteendust socials. It’s an organized chaos of hashtags, merch drops, and late-night aesthetic posts to hit overseas markets.

By the time I finally crawl into bed, my spine is aching and my eyes are dry from staring at too much backlight. I grab my iPad, tap open FaceTime, and hit Reese .

She answers on the second ring.

And I see it immediately.

The strain in her shoulders.

The tension in her jaw.

The forced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Reese always glows—like California sunshine and caffeine-fueled charisma—but tonight?

She looks dimmed.

“Hey, babe,” I say softly, propping the iPad on my bent knees. “You look like you’ve had a day.”

She exhales a humorless laugh, running a hand through her loose ponytail. “You could say that. Or you could say I’m one emotional hiccup away from staging a dramatic walkout in the middle of the studio. Either one works.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“What’s going on?” I ask gently.

She hesitates. Which immediately puts me on edge, because Reese doesn’t hesitate. Reese rants. She raves. She drops f-bombs and makes to-do lists at the same time. Hesitation is not her love language.

Her mouth opens, then closes. Finally, she huffs out a sigh. “It’s Fletch.”

I blink. “What about him?”

“The studio sessions have been a disaster,” she says, rubbing the spot between her brows like the words themselves give her a headache. “He’s all over the place—missing cues, forgetting lyrics he wrote, snapping at Carson during playback. It’s like emotional whiplash every five minutes. He’s either a total ghost or a category-five hurricane.”