Page 40 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

stripping away

Seren

Dad’s been knocking on my door for the better part of two hours. I can hear him pacing the hallway above, his footsteps heavy and restless.

“Seren, love, you can’t hide down there forever.”

Watch me.

I’ve got enough crisps to last three days, a bottle of wine I was saving for a special occasion—ha—and absolutely no desire to face the world.

Sleep hasn’t happened. Jet lag and heartbreak have made it a luxury of the past, leaving me wired and hollow-eyed, staring at white walls until dawn crept through the basement windows.

“I’ve made tea.” He tries again. “Your mum used to say?—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended, bouncing off the basement walls. “Don’t you dare bring Mum into this.”

Silence from upstairs. Then the creak of floorboards retreating.

Good.

I stare at my phone, which has been buzzing since I got home. Seventeen missed calls from Dad. Forty-three texts I haven’t read. Two voicemails from numbers I don’t recognise.

The only text I do read is from Flick: Coffee shop. 8am. Bring tissues and your fuck-off face.

I almost smile. Almost.

The red double-decker appears just as I’m trying to convince myself that stepping outside won’t kill me.

Harrison’s face dominates the entire side of the bus—twenty feet tall, all cheekbones and that devastating smile that I now know he’s been perfecting on Rogers women for years.

The advert is for some cologne, and the tagline reads: “Irresistible.”

I actually laugh. The sound cracks in my throat.

A woman waiting at the bus stop follows my gaze and then looks back at me. Her mouth forms a small ‘o’ and she fumbles for her phone.

Brilliant. Exactly what I need.

I pull my hood up and walk faster, but the damage is done. Three more phones appear. By the time I reach Grind, there’s a cluster of photographers outside, cameras at the ready.

“Seren! Where’s Harrison?”

“Is it over between you two already?”

“Can you comment on reports you’ve left the tour?”

I want to tell them all to sod off, but Dad’s voice echoes in my head: Never give them anything that can be twisted. So I keep my mouth shut and my head down, ducking into Grind.

The bell jingles my arrival, and Flick appears from behind the espresso machine, all righteous indignation in an apron.

“Right.” She pulls me into a hug that smells of coffee beans and fury. “Hailey, really? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yep.” I sink into our usual booth. “Looks like I wasn’t the first Rogers to go there. Hell, maybe Felix has been there too. Probably has, knowing Harrison’s track record. ”

Flick’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Want me to poison his latte if he shows up?”

“He won’t show up. Pretty sure Tokyo is far enough away to avoid awkward coffee encounters.”

“Shame. I’ve been practising my milk foam art. Was going to give him a lovely penis pattern.”

Despite everything, I snort into my coffee.

Simon slides through the café door, moving carefully, which isn’t far from the truth given the paparazzi situation. His hair is even more dishevelled than usual, and he’s wearing what appears to be three different cardigans layered on top of each other.

“Crisis management fashion?” I ask as he joins us.

“Disguise. Thought if I looked homeless enough, they’d ignore me.” He signals Flick for his usual oat milk nightmare. “Didn’t work. One of them asked if I was your stylist.”

“Clearly they haven’t seen my wardrobe.”

Simon settles beside me, moving carefully. “So. Harrison Carter.”

“So indeed.”

“And your sister.”

“Half-sister.” I correct automatically, then immediately hate myself for caring about the distinction.

“Right.” He pauses. “Did you actually find out the details, though? When this happened? Whether it was?—”

“Simon.” My voice could freeze helium. “Are you seriously asking me to give Harrison the benefit of the doubt right now?”

“I’m asking if you got the full story before you set fire to everything.”

The words sit between us. Because he’s not wrong, is he?

I saw Henry’s smug face, heard him say those words, watched Harrison’s expression crumble into guilt, and I ran.

I didn’t ask when. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t ask if Henry might have been playing a longer game than just offering me representation.

But some truths don’t need details to cut deep.

“His face told me everything I needed to know.”

Simon nods, but I can see the doubt in his eyes. My stomach twists. What if Henry timed that revelation perfectly? What if Harrison’s guilt was about the omission, not the act itself?

What if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life?

A camera flash illuminates the café window, followed by the distinct sound of photographers clustering outside.

“Christ.” Flick mutters, pulling the blinds down. “They’re multiplying.”

I peer through a gap in the slats and count at least eight different cameras pointed at Grind’s front door. “I hope they’ll all sod off once they realise Harrison won’t be attending the shop any time soon.”

Simon’s laugh has zero humour in it. “Seren, love, they’re not here for Harrison.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestures toward the window, where I can just make out a photographer adjusting his telephoto lens. “They’re here for you. You’re the story now. Damon Rogers’ daughter, the unsigned artist who stole Harrison Carter’s heart and then had it broken by family drama. You’re tabloid gold.”

My chest goes tight. My breathing becomes shallow.

The café door bursts open, and Uncle Vinny battles his way through the crowd of photographers. Except Moses probably didn’t swear quite as creatively or threaten to shove cameras where the sun doesn’t shine.

“Seren, babe!” He collapses into the booth across from me, slightly out of breath but grinning. “Time to get your shit in order.”

“Going to be my manager, Vinny?”

“Well, actually, yes.” He straightens his leather jacket—the same one he’s been wearing since 1987—and attempts to look professional. “Vocal cords aren’t what they used to be. Probably need a new career anyway.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t need pitying.”

“Course you don’t, love. I do. Now, tell your Uncle Vinny all about it.”

And somehow, in the chaos of Flick bringing him coffee and Simon frantically checking the window for photographers, I do. I tell him about Henry’s calculated reveal, about Harrison’s guilty face, about how I can’t stop replaying every moment and wondering what was real.

Vinny listens without interrupting, which might be a first in recorded history. When I finish, he leans back and studies me.

“Right. Here’s what you need to know about being in the spotlight, because whether you like it or not, you’re in it now.

First—everyone’s going to have an opinion about your life.

Most of them will be wrong, but they’ll be loud about it.

Second—the press will twist everything you say, so say as little as possible until you’ve got something worth saying. ”

He pauses to light a cigarette, ignoring Flick’s pointed cough. “Third, and this is important—if I know Hailey, and let’s be honest, the whole world knows a little bit too much about Hailey Rogers, Harrison probably didn’t stand a chance against whatever game she was playing.”

I want to argue, to say it doesn’t matter, but the words stick in my throat.

“Look, love,” Vinny continues, his voice gentler. “I’m not saying forgive him. I’m not saying run back. But remember who Harrison was before he met you. Miserable. Going through the motions. That song you wrote together? That was real, whatever else happened.”

My chest tightens. Because underneath all the hurt and humiliation, part of me knows he’s right. But knowing something was real doesn’t make the betrayal hurt less .

“So,” Vinny continues, stubbing out his cigarette on Flick’s saucer whilst she glares at him, “when you’re ready—and only when you’re ready—I know a little recording studio.”

Simon perks up. “Really? Where?”

“Yeah?” I ask, though I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever scheme he’s hatching.

“Abbey Road Studios. Studio Two, specifically. Where the Beatles recorded. Where your mum recorded her only album, actually, though she probably never told you that.” He pauses. “And I’ve arranged to fly Mark in from LA. I know you trust him.”

The café falls silent except for the hiss of the espresso machine and the distant chatter of photographers outside. Abbey Road. Where legends are made. And Mark, who helped me find my voice in that first session with Elementary.

My throat goes tight. “Vinny, I can’t. Not yet. I can’t even think about music right now without...”

“Without thinking about him,” he finishes gently. “I know, love. But Mark’s not him. Mark’s yours. And when you’re ready to take back what’s yours—your voice, your songs, your story—we’ll be waiting.”

He slides a business card across the table. “Studio’s booked for next month. No pressure. But Seren? Don’t let Harrison Carter or anyone else make you forget who you are. You’re Faith Jones’ daughter, and you’ve got music in your blood that has nothing to do with any man.”

I stare at the card, my hands shaking slightly. Abbey Road. Where Mum recorded. Where I could maybe find my voice again, separate from everything that’s happened.

“Define ready,” I say quietly.

His grin becomes gentle, understanding. “Ready is when you can sing without crying. Ready is when you’re making music for you, not against anyone else.”

I’m not there yet. Not even close.