Page 88 of Vengeful Melodies

He leans in, that empty socket glinting with grotesque glee.

“She’s ours.”

I say nothing. Because part of me wants that. Wants her terrified, shaken,desperate. I want her to run into my arms again because it’s safer than the fire behind her.

But another part?

I want to burn it all down.

The band. The safety. Theliesthey’ve wrapped her in.

Alix. Bash. Takoa. Kaiser. That smiling fucker Wren, too, if he gets in the way.

I’ll kill every one of them if it means she looks at me like she used to.

David thinks he’s pulling the strings. Vivian thinks she’s doing this to get back at Alix.

But they’rebothloose strings.

And if I have to cut them, I will.

I flip through the folder again and see her face in a blurry photo. She’s smiling at someone off-camera, unaware of the demons closing in around her.

She looks happy.

She doesn’t get to be happy without me.

She was supposed to be mine.

She still is.She just doesn’t know it yet. But she will. Even if I have to carve the truth into her bones.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Dreya

San Francisco is never quiet. Even now, late into the night, the city buzzes with honking cars, the soft hum of neon, and the warm, wet echo of recent rain rising from the pavement.

We decided to grab dinner to celebrate the band’s successful show—and, apparently, me. For thriving in my position. For staying on top of my schoolwork. For not completely unraveling under the weight of everything.

They said it was a celebration. But I know them. Know their eyes. The way they watch me like I’m something sacred and breakable all at once.

Like they’re proud of me.

Like they’re trying to make up for all the time I spend naked between them with the quiet, gentle moments in between.

The city blurs behind glass, neon lights bleeding into the black of night. We step out of the restaurant together—Takoa, Bash,Alix, Kaiser, and me. Laughter still lingers between us, sticky with wine and stolen glances. It was meant to be a rare break. A quiet dinner. No disguises, no fake smiles, just the five of us pretending the world doesn't watch us breathe.

But then the hum of conversation halts.

Inside, one of the televisions above the bar flickers with breaking news, and I feel it before I see it. A gut twist. A prickle down my spine. Bash notices first, head tilting just enough to catch the screen. His smile drops.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

I turn. A news anchor with over-polished teeth and a voice like static announces a special segment.

“Heaven’s Guilt rocked by internal scandal. Sources claim the band is on the verge of collapse. Leaked footage shows a woman—name unknown—exiting their tour bus late at night in a robe. Fans speculate romantic entanglement. What else is Heaven’s Guilt hiding?”

Our phones blow up like landmines. Notifications explode—group chats, management, even family.