Page 38 of Love Loathe Devotion (Tightrope #3)

The suite is quiet, except for the low thrum of the city beyond the glass.

London stretches out below me, a blur of lights and movement, the whole skyline humming like a stage waiting to be claimed.

My black stage clothes are hanging by the closet.

Mic checks are done. Sound is dialed in. Everything’s set.

Tonight’s the big one.

The one .

The launch of the Kidney Donation Chain campaign. Weeks of planning. A lifetime of weight behind it.

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.”

A sharp knock hits the door. Muffled voices. Radios.

“They’re here,” I say tightly.

“Then shut the fuck up and wait for me,” Nico replies. “I’m in the elevator.”

The call ends.

Reggie’s pacing, muttering to himself and barking into his phone as he tries to get my lawyer on the line. His panic infects the room like smoke, but I push it out.

I stand tall, shoulders squared, fists clenched at my sides.

Because I’m not afraid of lies.

I’m not afraid of losing this career.

But if this hurts her?

If this drags Laney’s name into something so ugly?

I swear I’ll burn the whole goddamn industry to the ground.

The knock turns into pounding.

Uniforms flood into the suite like I’m a goddamn fugitive, two men in plain clothes at the front, the rest in backup vests and stern faces. Reggie backs up so fast he nearly trips over a coffee table.

“Edward Crowe?” one of the detectives asks, his voice clipped, sharp.

I nod once. “Yeah. I know why you’re here.”

“You’re not under arrest,” the second one says, almost like it’s an afterthought. “But we are here to ask some questions. Miss Tasha Monroe has made a formal statement—”

“I’ve got a lawyer on the way,” Reggie blurts out, wringing his hands. “Please—don’t let this leak. Please. He has a show tonight—”

The detective’s mouth flattens. “Not our concern.”

They motion to the couch. I sit. My jaw’s tight, my heart’s pounding, but my voice stays level. Nico’s words are burning in the back of my skull.

Shut the fuck up. Wait for me.

One wrong sentence, and this whole thing spirals out of control.

I glance at my phone. No notifications. No TMZ alerts. No headlines.

Not public yet. But the fuse is lit.

They ask me to confirm basic details—location, timeline, who I was with in Madrid, where Tasha was during the trip. I give them nothing more than yes or no. Flat answers. Eyes forward.

They want to rattle me.

But I’m already gone inside. Thinking about Laney. About how this would look on her phone screen. Her heart breaking from five thousand miles away.

There’s another knock.

This one is deliberate.

Cool.

And Nico walks in like he owns the building.

Black jacket. Dark slacks. No tie. His presence shifts the air in the room—less like a bodyguard, more like a goddamn war general walking into a fight he already won.

“I’m Nico Mancini. Mr. Crowe’s personal security advisor,” he says calmly, flashing credentials I’ve never seen before but that immediately make both plainclothes detectives straighten. “This interview is over. He won’t be saying another word.”

I smirk at that, security advisor must be the new name for Cosa Nostra Underboss.

One of the cops opens his mouth, but Nico steps between us.

“You can coordinate next steps through his attorney,” he adds, “who is being looped in now. In the meantime, you’re going to want to look into your source.”

He sets a single folder down on the coffee table. The edges are sharp. The contents inside are clearly dense.

“Background. Witness statements. Video evidence. Pattern of behavior. You’ll find Tasha Monroe has made similar allegations before, each time following a rejection. Each time dropped. Each one conveniently forgotten when NDAs and settlements were involved.”

Reggie gapes. “Wait—what?”

Nico doesn’t even look at him. “Run her through Interpol. You’ll find a sealed case in Lisbon. A domestic complaint in Florence. And two in California that never made it to trial. You’ve got her fingerprints all over this.”

The lead detective picks up the folder, flipping it open, scanning the first page. His brow furrows. “You had this ready?”

“Because this was always where it was going,” Nico says. Calm. Brutal. “She was told to back off. She didn’t. And now she’s burned her last bridge.”

“You knew?” Reggie hisses at me, eyes wild.

“I suspected,” I snap. “After Madrid, when she wouldn’t drop it. I told you to keep her away from me. I told you, Reggie.”

“I thought it was just drama. Flirting gone sour!”

“It was delusion gone dangerous,” I growl.

Nico glances at me then, cool and calm. “That’s not all. You wanted the dirt on Gerald Whitmore?”

My jaw clenches. “Yeah.”

Nico slides another, thinner folder from inside his jacket and places it on the table. “There’s enough in there to send him into early retirement. Corporate blackmail. Coercion. And I know exactly which journalists will care.”

My chest rises. I stare at the folder. “Jesus.”

“I told you,” Nico says simply. “Handled.”

The detectives finish scanning what they can. One mutters something into his comm. Another snaps photos of the documents. But the heat is shifting. Away from me. Off my shoulders. Onto hers.

They don’t apologize. But I don’t need them to.

They just leave.

And the door shuts behind them with a quiet click.

I exhale. Drop my head into my hands. My whole body still feels like a live wire.

“That bitch,” Reggie mutters. “That crazy bitch.”

I shoot him a look. “You don’t get to say that. You enabled her. You gave her access. You didn’t listen when I said no.”

Reggie holds up his hands. “We didn’t know—”

“You never asked.”

He backs up. For once, speechless.

Nico’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call Lucas now. He needs to make sure Laney doesn’t hear a thing. Not until we’re ahead of it.”

I reach out and grab his arm before he can dial. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

He looks at me, jaw tight. “You’d do the same for me.”

I nod.

Because I would.

Because we’ve bled for each other before—and this? This is nothing in comparison.

Nico walks toward the window, making the call.

I stay seated on the couch, rubbing a hand over my jaw, pulse still thudding behind my eyes.

The show is in less than two hours.

And all I care about… is making it on stage, speaking my truth, launching that donor campaign.

Because Joey needs it.

Because Laney believes in it.

Because despite everything—they’re still watching.

And I’m going to make damn sure it counts.

The cops are gone. Reggie’s pacing the suite like he’s aged ten years in the last ten minutes, muttering numbers and PR soundbites under his breath. My name is still trending—for the right reasons, thank God—but the taste in my mouth is still bitter as hell.

Nico ends his call by the window and turns to me. “Lucas is handling it. She doesn’t know. Not yet.”

I nod. Relief loosens something in my chest. “Thank you,” I say again, quieter this time. “You don’t know how much that means.”

Nico lifts a brow. “I think I do.”

Reggie keeps talking, but I block him out, nodding for Nico to step with me toward the far end of the suite, away from the buzz, the static, the scrambling.

“I want a meeting,” I say. “With the label. Right after the show.”

Nico folds his arms. “Gerald and the execs?”

“All of them. And Reggie.”

He leans his shoulder against the wall. Calm. Watchful. “What’s the plan?”

I look him square in the eye. “I’m blowing it all up.”

His brow arches slightly.

“I’m done letting them own me,” I say, voice low but firm. “The control, the manipulation, the spin. I want out. I’ll go independent. I’ve got the fan base, the clout. I don’t need their leash around my neck anymore.”

Nico’s face barely shifts—but I catch the glint in his eye. That proud, knowing smirk that only shows when he’s genuinely impressed.

“I’ve got your back,” he says, just like that. No hesitation.

“I know,” I murmur.

We share a long moment in silence, the kind that carries years of history—of battles fought side by side. Of loyalty that doesn’t flinch.

Then I laugh, sharp and sudden. “Just… keep your couch free, yeah? I might be sleeping on it come morning.”

Nico cracks the barest grin. “You try to sleep on my couch, and my nonna will shove a plate of pasta in your lap and insist you move into the guest room. Permanently.”

I smile, for real this time.

And for the first time since the door burst open and Reggie started yelling, I feel like I’m standing on steady ground.

I’m not just reacting anymore.

I’m moving.

Because if I’m going to fight for anything—

It’s going to be freedom.

For Joey. For the campaign. For Laney.

And for me.