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My phone keeps pinging with notifications—my name trending, other artists jumping on the cause, fans sharing their donor registrations, parents of sick kids tagging me in photos with hashtags like #BeTheMatch and #JoeyStrong.

And through it all, one steady thought anchors me.

Laney.

She’s back home. Probably curled up with Merlyn, maybe watching tonight’s stream with Lucas and Sam, with Joey on her lap. Maybe wearing one of my shirts. Maybe humming one of my songs under her breath.

I’m just about to text her when the suite door slams open.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Reggie storms in like a lunatic, suit jacket flapping, face blotchy red and already sweating through his collar. His phone is clutched in one hand like a lifeline, and he’s breathing like he just sprinted up twelve flights of stairs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, standing.

He throws a paper down on the coffee table—a printed email or report, I don’t even know. “Tasha Monroe. She just filed a formal allegation against you. Assault, Eddie. Fucking assault. She says you cornered her in Madrid. That it wasn’t the first time.”

My heart slams against my ribs. “What the fuck?” I whisper, stunned for a split second. “That’s a lie. That’s a goddamn lie and she knows it.”

“She’s saying it publicly,” Reggie says. “The cops are on their way up right now. Someone leaked it to the press. We’re getting hammered. The label is already scrambling. They’re this close to dropping your tour support—”

“She’s doing this because I told her to stay the fuck away from me,” I snarl. “Because I rejected her again. She’s been trying to play this twisted fantasy bullshit for months and I told her I wanted nothing to do with her.”

Reggie looks like he’s about to vomit. “Well, now she’s trying to bury you. And we’re going to get eaten alive unless—”

I don’t hear the rest.

Because I’m already dialing Nico.

One ring.

Two.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice calm. Too calm. It grounds me.

“She did it,” I bite out. “She filed something. Some assault story. Said I grabbed her in Madrid. Cops are on their way up.”

“I know.”

My breath catches. “You what?”

“I know,” Nico repeats, his voice like steel. “I’m already in London. I’m on my way up to your suite now. I’ve got what you asked for. Everything on her.”

The relief is so sharp it almost knocks me off my feet. “You have proof?”

“I have enough to take her apart. Surveillance, background, statements from two of her exes she tried this same shit on. This is her pattern. She gets close, gets rejected, burns it all down.”

“She’s gonna destroy Laney with this,” I whisper, rubbing my hand over my face. My heart is pounding like a war drum. “I can’t let her find out like this, Nico. Not tonight. Not when…”

“Stop,” he says sharply. “I already called someone I trust at the Met. The second the uniforms get up there, keep your mouth shut. Don’t argue. Don’t explain. Let your lawyer do the talking.”

“I’m not worried about me,” I growl. “I’m worried about her. And about the event tonight. If this leaks, people will stop listening.”

“They won’t,” Nico says firmly. “You’re clean. I’ll make sure of it. Just hang tight. And I’ll call Lucas. I’ll make sure Laney doesn’t hear a goddamn thing until I say so. She’s not going to carry this.”

I exhale, jaw locked so tight it aches. “Thank you.”

He pauses. “We’ve been through worse, brother. This? This we can handle.”