Page 41 of Love Loathe Devotion (Tightrope #3)

The roar is still in my bones.

My shirt clings to my back, soaked with sweat. My hands are buzzing from the strings, the mic, the adrenaline—and my voice? Raw as hell. But god, it was worth it.

The lights are still cooling overhead, the air thick with the pulse of thousands of voices that sang with me, screamed for change, and meant it. The energy backstage is electric—techs moving gear, radios crackling, the dull thump of music echoing from the far corners of the arena.

I glance to my left and see her—Helen, the transplant coordinator we worked with on the campaign—waving me over.

“Eddie,” she breathes, her eyes glassy but glowing. “We’ve never seen numbers like this. Not even close. We’re still tallying but—” she laughs, overwhelmed, “—we’re going to need more staff just to sort the matches.”

I grin, wiping the sweat from my brow with the edge of my T-shirt. “That’s the best thing you could’ve said to me.”

“You made them care,” she says. “They listened. And they’re signing up in record numbers. We could save so many lives.”

That’s the win. That’s the only one that ever mattered.

I thank her, hug her tight, then turn—and there’s Nico.

Black jacket. Stone face. One nod.

“They’re downstairs,” he says. “Conference room just off the executive wing. Reggie’s already there with Gerald and two of the VPs. Others are dialed in from New York and L.A.”

I nod, jaw tight. “You got the files?”

He taps his chest. “Everything.”

“And the lawyer?”

“Waiting outside the room.”

I suck in a slow breath, the heat of the show still burning beneath my skin, adrenaline surging in my blood—but this is a different kind of fire now.

Controlled. Cold. Focused.

Nico steps back, motioning toward the hallway. “You ready?”

I wipe my face one last time and toss the towel over a chair. My voice comes out like gravel laced with steel. “It’s about time.”

We walk through the underground corridor, the echo of the arena behind us—crew voices, metal cases rolling, gear clattering like swords being sheathed after a war.

This isn’t a dressing room debrief.

This is battle.

We reach the lower level, where the lighting is softer and the air-conditioned chill hits my damp skin. The hallway narrows, all sterile white and brushed steel, ending at a tall set of double doors with tinted glass.

My lawyer, Ellis, waits outside. Sharp navy suit, sleeves rolled at the cuff, tablet tucked under his arm. He’s got the calm of a man who eats corporate executives for breakfast.

“You good?” he asks, eyes sharp behind wire-frame glasses.

“I’m ready,” I tell him.

And then we step in.

The doors sweep open.

All heads turn.

Inside, the room is sleek and cold, a long glass table surrounded by executives in expensive suits.

Gerald Whitmore is at the far end, red-faced and stiff, flanked by two execs with too-slick hair and nervous expressions.

Reggie sits closer to the front, fidgeting like a man who knows he’s about to get gutted.

On the screen at the end of the room, five faces join via video call. L.A. and New York offices. PR heads. Legal. Someone from A&R I’ve never spoken to.

Every single one of them turns to me like I’ve walked in with a flamethrower.

They’re not wrong.

“Gentlemen,” Ellis says smoothly, taking a seat. Nico stands behind him like a stone wall. I drop into the chair at the head of the table, across from Whitmore.

I lean back.

Elbows on the armrests.

Calm.

Controlled.

“Let’s make this quick,” I say. “You tried to bury me. You failed. So now we’re going to talk about how I walk out of this building tonight free from your leash. Or we can do this the hard way.”

Whitmore huffs. “You think this circus you pulled tonight earns you the right to dictate—”

I cut him off. “No. What I pulled tonight saved lives. What you pulled was backing a lying, obsessive staffer who fabricated an assault claim to punish me for rejecting her.”

His jaw twitches.

Ellis slides a folder across the table. “We have the evidence. Statements, surveillance, prior incidents, international complaints—enough to make your HR team sweat for the next five years.”

Another folder follows. “And this?” Ellis continues. “Proof of coercion, creative suppression, and contract violations by your executive team. Including blackmail, misallocation of tour funds, and manipulation of artist royalties.”

Whitmore’s face turns to stone.

I look him straight in the eye. “I’m walking,” I say. “You’re going to release me from my contract, all claims dropped, ownership of my master recordings restored, and the statement you’re going to issue will thank me for pioneering a new era of artist-led social responsibility.”

“This is blackmail,” one of the L.A. execs snaps through the speaker.

I smirk. “No. This is me finally waking the hell up. And if you try to fight me… I’ll bury you in court and the press.”

Ellis lifts his brow, calm as ever. “Your move.”

The room falls into silence, the tension so thick it hums in the walls.

And I sit there, still in my sweat-soaked shirt, heart pounding like a war drum—but for the first time in years, I feel clear.

Because I’m done being owned.

And I’ve got people worth fighting for now.

“Fine,” Gerald Whitmore finally growls, his face ashen, sweat dampening the collar of his thousand-dollar shirt. “You want out? You’re out. Clean break. But if this goes public—”

“It won’t,” I cut in, my voice cold. Final. “As long as you hold up your end.”

Ellis nods, already tapping out notes on his tablet. “We’ll need paperwork drawn up by morning. I’ll send the terms to your legal department. If you fail to deliver, the full documentation—including the internal memos—will be forwarded to the press.”

“Jesus Christ,” one of the New York suits mutters. “You really came loaded for war.”

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the glass. “No. I came ready to survive. There’s a difference.”

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating.

I let it hang there. Let them feel it.

Then I turn to Reggie.

He’s been quiet since I dropped the first folder. Sweating through his dress shirt. Picking at his cuticles like it might save him. “Reggie,” I say, my voice quiet. “You’re fired.”

His head jerks up. “What?”

“You were supposed to have my back,” I continue, calm and steady. “But you let that woman into my space, ignored my warnings, and chose the label over me every single time.”

“Eddie, come on,” he stammers, standing. “I didn’t know—”

“No,” I say flatly. “You didn’t want to. Because doing the right thing might’ve cost you leverage. Or status. Or whatever the hell it is you tell yourself that justifies screwing over your clients. So this is me, officially cutting ties. I want nothing to do with you. We’re done.”

His jaw works, like he’s scrambling for something smart to say.

But I don’t give him the chance.

I turn back to Ellis. “You’ll finish this?”

Ellis nods once, cool and composed. “I’ve got it. Walk out clean. We’ll handle the bloodbath.”

That’s when I see Nico still as stone by the door. His phone is pressed to his ear. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. His entire posture goes from watchful to ice-cold.

My stomach twists. “Nic?” I ask.

He holds up one finger, then slowly lowers the phone and meets my gaze.

His voice is low. Sharp. Final.

“We have to go. Now.”

I’m already on my feet, adrenaline slamming back into my bloodstream like a fist.

“What is it?” I demand. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Joey,” Nico says. “Laney called. They’re at the hospital. He’s swelling. Not responsive. They’re trying to stabilize him.”

Everything drops out from under me. “Fuck.” My chair scrapes loudly against the tile as I surge forward. “Let’s go.”

Reggie makes the mistake of trying to follow. “Eddie, we should—”

Nico steps in front of him, solid and unshakable. His voice is calm. That’s what makes it deadly. “Back the fuck off,” he says, quiet enough to chill the room, “if you want to keep breathing.”

Reggie stumbles back, hands raised, eyes wide.

He believes him.

Everyone does.

I’m already out the door, heart thundering in my chest, barely hearing the sound of my boots slamming down the hallway floor as Nico dials.

“Get the plane ready,” he barks into his phone. “Wheels up in thirty. File the urgent clearance.”

He slides the phone back into his pocket, moving at my side in long, purposeful strides.

“Is he—” I choke on the question. “Is Joey going to be okay?”

“Laney said they’re doing everything,” Nico says. “Lucas is with him. Sam too. Laney stayed to wait for us.”

“Jesus,” I whisper, pushing harder toward the exit. “She was supposed to be watching the show.”

“She probably was,” Nico says, glancing at me. “Then her world cracked open.”

The doors burst open ahead, night air hitting me like ice as we tear down the back hallway and out the emergency side entrance where the SUV is waiting, Nico’s driver already in the seat, engine running.

I climb in, my muscles shaking and my eyes burning.

And in the silence between Nico’s calm orders and the roar of the city around us, all I can think is—

I was out there saving the world.

And the people I love most were falling apart.

The roar of the jet’s engines hum beneath my feet as we board. The interior is all muted luxury—cream leather, low lights, polished wood—but none of it registers. I toss my jacket onto the bench seat and pace while Nico gives instructions to the pilot, already strapping in across from me.

We’re cleared. The wheels will be off the ground in under ten.

But that’s ten too long.

I pull out my phone. My hands are shaking as I scroll to her name. My throat’s dry. Every breath feels shallow, like my chest won’t expand the whole way.

I hit call.

It rings once.

Twice.

She picks up.

“Eddie?” Her voice is thin. Cracked. Raw with everything she’s holding back.

“Hey, baby,” I whisper, sinking into the seat, heart shattering at how small she sounds. “I’m here. I’m on the plane. We’re taking off now.”

There’s silence. A few uneven breaths. Then— “I was supposed to be watching you on stage,” she says, the words trembling. “And instead I’m here and I didn’t know what to do and he looked so sick and—”

“Laney,” I cut in gently. “Listen to me. Close your eyes if you have to, but listen to my voice.”

Her breathing hitches again.

“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m right here. And it’s gonna be okay. We’re coming to you. Joey’s with the best doctors. Lucas and Sam are there. And you—you’ve done everything right.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says, voice cracking on the words. “I just—I panicked. I forgot everything. And Merlyn’s at their house and I shouldn’t have left her and—”

“Laney,” I say, firm but soft. “Stop. Breathe.”

She goes quiet.

“Merlyn is safe. I promise. I’ll have someone go get her. Or I’ll get her myself when I land. You don’t have to worry about that right now.”

Her breath comes shaky. “Okay.”

“You’re doing so good, baby,” I say, lowering my voice more. “You were there when they needed you. You stayed. You’re stronger than you think.”

There’s a soft, broken sound on the other end—half-sob, half-exhale.

“I just—he looked so little, Eddie,” she whispers. “And Lucas looked like the world was ending and I couldn’t fix anything.”

“You’re not supposed to fix it,” I say, heart thudding. “You just have to hold on. And you are. You’re holding all of them up without even seeing it.”

She sniffles. “I feel better now. Talking to you.”

I close my eyes, gripping the armrest until my knuckles ache. “Good. That’s all I want. You’re not alone, okay? You’ve got me. Always.”

A quiet moment passes. The pilot’s voice filters through the cabin—five minutes to takeoff.

“I think I’m gonna step outside for a second,” she says softly. “Just get some air.”

“Good idea,” I say, my voice still gentle. “Let the air clear your head. Just keep your phone on you.”

“I will.”

“I love you,” I whisper. “So damn much.”

“I love you too,” she breathes. “Be safe.”

“I’ll be with you soon. Hang in there for me, baby.”

She doesn’t say anything, but I hear the quiet click as she ends the call.

I press the phone to my chest and stare out the window as the engines rumble louder.

We’re racing down the runway before I realize I haven’t taken another breath.