Page 5

Fuck.

Xar finally turns his gaze toward me, eyes burning with a mix of anger and disappointment. “We had a responsibility to our fans, to each other. You walking off stage…” He trails off, shaking his head as if he’ll say something he’ll regret if he continues. The weight of his unspoken words hangs heavy in the air.

I open my mouth to defend myself, to explain, but the excuses die on my lips. What justification is there for letting down the people who believed in us? The only three people that actually give a fuck about me, who have stood by me through everything, are in this room right now, and I’m out of excuses.How do I apologise for jeopardising everything we’ve worked so hard to build? For what, a woman who was using me all along? She more than proved I mean absolutely nothing to her, and yet I almost threw it all away for her.

I’m a fucking idiot.

The silence stretches, oppressive and suffocating.

Liv breaks the silence, her tone softer but no less firm. “We need to issue a public apology, address the fans directly. Blaise, you were struck down with a sickness bug and had to seek medical attention immediately. That is the official story and you better hope to hell that no-one comes forward with evidence to refute that claim. You are incredibly sorry for letting down the fans but glad you followed the correct protocol to ensure no one else got sick, especially with the meet and greets scheduled after the gig… It also goes without saying that internally, you three need to get your act together. This can’t happen again.” Her gaze pierces through me, the weight of her expectations clear.

I nod, the enormity of my mistake crashing over me, but still unable to find the words needed to apologise. Why does it feel like a lump of lead is stuck in my throat? Why does getting high feel so fucking tempting right now? I’ve been clean for years but the weight of their crushing disappointment is making my skin crawl with the need to escape and forget.

I won’t though. I made a promise. And whilst I’m a lot of shitty things, I’m not about to add ‘relapser’ to that list.

Liv’s gaze hardens, her voice unwavering. “The label has proposed a solution,” she announces, each word deliberate. “But I assure you, it’s not one you’re going to like.” The room falls into a tense silence, the weight of her statement hanging heavily in the air.

XAR

The sterile, fluorescent-lit conference room feels suffocating as Liv’s words hang in the air. Before any of us can respond, the door swings open, and a group of label executives files in, their expressions a mix of frustration and disappointment. They don’t waste time with pleasantries or introducing themselves. We know who they are, and beyond the initial signing meeting with them, we’ve barely had any interactions. Liv always handles everything.

Being in front of them now is like being called before the headmaster. Nothing good is going to come from their presence here today.

“Blaise,” one of them begins staring right at him, “we’ve tolerated your antics for weeks now. The late nights, skippingrehearsals and sound checks, the erratic behavior, the onstage disruptions. Last night’s stunt was the final straw.”

Blaise shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t meet their gaze. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, though the sincerity is questionable.

Dickhead.

Another executive leans forward, steepling their fingers. “Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore. Your actions are jeopardising not just your reputation but the band’s future, as well as this label’s image. If this continues, we won’t have a choice but to drop you.”

The weight of their words settles over us, heavy and unrelenting. Blaise’s face pales, but he remains silent.

Liv clears her throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “The label has come up with a solution,” she announces, her tone measured. “It’s not ideal, and frankly, it’s not something any of you will like, like I said, but it is what it is and youwillhear me out because the alternative is even worse.”

The executives nod in agreement, and one continues, “Effective immediately, all upcoming appearances are cancelled, except for the charity gig in the new year. We’re sending you to a remote location to sort out your differences and work on the new album.”

A sputter of protest rises from Blaise, but they’re not finished. “If the album doesn’t meet approval standards by the new year,” another executive adds, “we’ll have no choice but to drop you. No second chances.”

Blaise opens his mouth to argue, but the executive raises a hand, silencing him. “You can either take this opportunity to fix things, or we can send you to rehab, given the recent revelations about your ‘addictions’.”

Blaise’s face flushes with indignation. “I don’t need rehab,” he snaps, his voice tinged with defiance.

He better be telling the fucking truth abut that. He swore when he got clean it was for good this time, and we trusted him.Itrusted him. I can’t be in a band, apack, with a junkie.

“Good,” the executive responds coldly. “Then you’ll accept our terms.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, the slight quiver in my voice betraying my apprehension.

“Silver Sands,” Liv replies, her gaze unwavering. “It’s a small seaside village in North Devon. Remote, quiet, and perfect for what you need. We’ve rented a cottage with a studio for you. You’ll have everything you need but it’s remote and out of the public eye.”

We all pull out our phones, typing in the location. The images that appear are of a desolate stretch of coastline, far removed from the bustling cities we’re accustomed to. The realisation sets in – this is happening, and there’s no escaping it.

“When do we leave?” Blaise asks, his tone resigned.

“Now,” Liv answers, standing up. “Pack your things. You’re leaving in an hour. We had the bulk of the equipment sent to the cottage after last night’s show.”

So this ‘intervention’ – aka punishment stunt – was probably already planned and in place then.