Page 143

“So maybe we both screwed up,” I say. “Trying to protect each other by not saying the hard things.”

He swallows, nods slowly. “I would’ve killed him, Laney. If Nico hadn’t pulled me back….”

“I know.” My voice is quiet but steady. “And I love you for that. But I need you to live for me, not burn yourself out trying to carry every guilt alone.”

He leans in, forehead resting against mine. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“No more secrets.”

He nods. “No more.”

I cup his face in both hands. “We talk. Even when it’s ugly. Even when we’re scared.”

He kisses me, soft and deep and real. “Deal.”

We stay that way for a long moment—tangled in each other, the silence not empty now, but full of all the words we’ve finally spoken.

I rest my head against his chest and let myself listen to the sound of his heart beating.

Strong.

Steady.

Here.

And I know—we’re going to be okay.

The house is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the low hum of some old country record spinning in the background. I’m curled up on the couch in Eddie’s hoodie—still bruised, still tender—but warm and wrapped in the kind of comfort that doesn’t come from blankets or tea.

Eddie sits beside me, one arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers tracing slow circles against my shoulder. His other hand’s wrapped around mine, thumb brushing softly over my knuckles like he’s reminding himself I’m really here. Safe.

We haven’t spoken much in the last hour. Just enjoyed the stillness. But now, I can feel him turning something over in his mind.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask softly, tilting my chin up to look at him.

He exhales, then smiles—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I owe you another truth.”

I sit up a little straighter, turning toward him.

He nods once, like he’s made the decision, then leans in, voice low. “After everything with Tasha went down, and after the police cleared me… Nico and I made good on something we’d started digging into weeks ago.”

I’d been processing what that bitch did to him since he told me and I still wanted to rip her face off. I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Gerald Whitmore. Reggie. The label. We had a feeling things weren’t clean, and we were right.” His voice hardens. “They were covering up financial fraud, taking illegal cuts off artist royalties, and—worst of all—manipulating contracts to trap artists in long-term deals they couldn’t afford to break.”

I blink. “You knew?”

“Nico had his people watching. He gathered everything. We were going to confront them after London… then all of this happened.” He pauses. “But I did it anyway. After the show. I walked into that boardroom and handed them the evidence.”

My heart races. “What happened?”

“They panicked. Tried to settle. Tried to silence me.” He shakes his head. “Didn’t work. I had my lawyer there, I had Nico, and I had the leverage. I told them I was done. That I wanted out—everything, clean. Every master, every song, every goddamn file with my name on it.”

“Did they agree?”