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“News on that’s comin’ soon. Y’all’ll be the first to know,” I toss back, keeping the tone light, though I’m already counting the minutes until we can be inside and away from all this.

“What about the lady? Is she someone special?”

I glance at Laney, feel the way her body stills beside me. Her breath catches, just for a second. And I know this moment’s bigger than both of us.

“She’s my stunning girlfriend,” I say clearly, letting the pride—and something deeper—show in my voice. “She put the light back in my life.”

I don’t give them her name. I don’t need them digging any faster than they already will. They’ll find her soon enough. But this moment? It’s ours.

I don’t look back at the cameras. I just steer Laney toward the entrance, ignoring the chorus of follow-up questions. The noise dulls behind us as we step inside the venue, into cool air and elegant lighting, and I finally feel her start to breathe again.

She looks up at me, eyes wide but steady.

“You did good,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her hip. “They didn’t deserve you out there, but you were perfect.”

She smiles—soft and brave—and it guts me.

Because, yeah, I can play the part of the polished country star all night. I can flash the smile, shake the hands, sip the drinks.

But all I really want to do is get through this fast, get her home, and remind her that none of this circus matters. Only us.

Only her.

Inside the venue, everything is polished and expensive—glass chandeliers glittering overhead, golden lighting casting everything in a soft glow. The string quartet in the corner is playing something fancy I don’t recognize, and the hum of conversation fills the air like a low drone.

I spot a few familiar faces—industry folks I’ve crossed paths with at award shows or studio sessions—but before we dive in, I snag us a couple glasses of champagne from a passing tray.

I hand one to Laney. “You good?”

She nods and smiles, her hand brushing mine as she takes the glass. “Better now.”

We start to mingle. People recognize me, of course—they always do. Smiles, back pats, polite laughter. The industry schmooze. Laney stays close to my side, and I keep my arm loosely around her waist. Every time I introduce her as my girlfriend, something in me tightens, warms. It feels right. More real than anything else in this room.

Then one of the producers I know—Jason—comes over. He’s already a few drinks in, face flushed, tie crooked. He leans in tosay hello to Laney, and his hand brushes her bare shoulder just a little too long.

She stiffens.

I move fast, stepping between them and sliding my hand around her back possessively. “This is Laney,” I say, voice flat. “My girlfriend.”

Jason gives me a lazy smirk. “Lucky man.”

I don’t answer. Just steer us away, out of the tight knot of people, over to a quieter corner.

I lean in, brushing my fingers along her lower back. “You okay?”

She gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, gentle and brief. “Tell me if it’s ever not.”

She nods, leaning slightly into me. And I swear, I’m about to suggest we leave early, skip the rest of this parade—but then he shows up.

Gerald fucking Whitmore. One of the execs from the label. The one who made the most noise after I played that engagement set at the gay bar. The same man behind the ‘image rehabilitation’ campaign, who pushed for me to get a ‘wholesome’ girlfriend. The one who cheated on his wife with a cocktail waitress at last year’s CMA afterparty and has the nerve to act like he’s the moral compass of country music.

I school my face into something polite as he approaches, but I pull Laney even closer into my side.

“Eddie,” he greets with a shark’s smile. “You clean up well.”

“Mr. Whitmore,” I say evenly. “Glad you could make it.”