Page 47 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

The morning after the concert, I should be focused on the meeting taking place in Dorian’s home office, not glued to my phone, drowning in the digital disaster unfolding online.

But everything is in disarray today: the universe, the internet, my life.

Even the room feels like a contradiction.

Someone has decorated the French windows with stick-on faux snowflakes, which I find hilarious against the backdrop of the sunny garden and towering palms beyond.

The world can’t decide what season it is, and I can’t make up my mind whether to panic or pretend this isn’t happening.

Instead of paying attention to the meeting, my eyes are locked on the unending feed of headlines and photos of Dorian and me on stage last night.

Every single media outlet, gossip site, and blogger is fixated on one thing: the mystery woman Rian Phoenix kissed in front of thousands of screaming fans.

I shouldn’t have been so reckless, so entirely without brain function.

I know better. I berate myself as I keep scrolling the pictures.

There are enough screenshots of us to wallpaper all of LA and I still can’t tell if it’s possible to identify me.

Panic bubbles in my gut as I zoom in on one of the pictures with a better resolution, trying to pick out the details of my face.

Dorian’s arms cover me, but I see a temple, the bottom part of my jaw, my hair.

Has Nadine seen this? Could she recognize me from these photos? The only person who knows for sure is Grant, and Dorian has sworn him to secrecy.

I reassure myself that my boss is away at a conference, too busy with meetings and presentations to be scouring tabloid headings.

And even if she saw the news, Nadine’s never been the type to micromanage.

But this isn’t a minor PR hiccup—it’s a full-blown media frenzy.

If Nadine recognizes me, will I still have a job when she comes back next week?

I push the thought of impending unemployment from my mind and keep torturing myself with new headlines.

Who Is the Woman Who Stole Rian Phoenix’s Heart? one article proclaims in bold, accusatory letters.

Rockstar’s Secret Romance—Exclusive Insights Inside! promises another.

The sheer volume of speculation is overwhelming.

Some theories are so outlandish that I want to laugh.

One story claims I’m a European model Dorian was linked to seven years ago.

A different tabloid swears I’m an old flame from his pre-fame days, resurfacing at the perfect moment to reignite our passion.

I chuckle inwardly, thinking that Dorian’s high-school girlfriend, Sandy Parker, and her mom, who still sends Dorian Christmas cards, must be really pumped about that last wild guess.

Victor’s voice cuts through my haze. “Dorian, you can’t let the press control the story. It’ll only grow bigger if we don’t get ahead of it,” his agent insists, his tone all business. “You need to go public with her identity before the gossip sites decide for you.”

Dorian leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Then be prepared for a media circus.” Victor’s eyes narrow. “They won’t stop until they uncover who she is. It’s better if it comes from you.”

As they discuss, the million images and videos create a vortex in my mind—part longing, part regret, part I don’t even fucking know.

Each pixelated image, each slowed-down video clip, feels like a ticking bomb waiting to go off.

How long until someone sharpens the resolution enough to make me recognizable?

Dorian’s gaze meets mine across the table, his eyes concerned but also determined as he turns to his agent. “I’ll handle it. But on my terms. Not theirs.”

Victor pleads to the room next. “Do you all agree with this?”

As no one replies, I realize he must be the only one in this office who doesn’t know it’s me.

I’m sure Bailey knows. She keeps glancing between Victor and me, her eyes widening each time they land on my face. Tessa’s gaze is more assessing and narrowed as she studies me. But she must know, too. I can’t tell if she approves or not. She just makes me nervous, as usual.

Grant, of course, knows everything. He was backstage when it happened and saw us together under the stage.

But this morning, he seems less incensed than he was last night.

As he chimes in with his thoughts, I get the sense that he’s relieved the “mystery woman” storyline has overshadowed the falling-fixture incident.

It means he can deal with the equipment security issue more privately, without it becoming the headline that could ruin his production company and put the technicians who worked on the tour so tirelessly out of a job.

He informed us earlier that they’re still investigating what caused the light to fall.

My suspicions that everyone knows are confirmed when another minute passes and none of them reply to Victor. We’re all tight-lipped and avoiding eye contact, but I can still feel their eyes on me as I struggle to keep my expression neutral, not wanting to give myself away.

Dorian clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “Like I said, I’ll handle it,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But we’ll do it my way, on my timeline. Understood?”

Everyone nods. And maybe that’s it. I’m safe. I won’t lose my job over this. Nadine won’t recognize me as the mystery woman locking lips with her star client. Victor didn’t.

The positive attitude lasts all of five minutes before the negativity pushes back in, reminding me that my entire career is hanging by a thread. Dizziness hits me, and I stand abruptly. “I need to use the bathroom.”

I don’t wait for a response before stepping out of the room, barely making it to the hallway before my breath starts coming too fast. I brace one palm on the wall to steady myself as footsteps sound behind me.

It’s Dorian. He leans on the opposite side of the hall, watching me with those piercing eyes that see right through me. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I just needed a moment.”

He tilts his head, his presence both comforting and unnerving. “Right, we haven’t had a moment… uh… since last night.”

Heat rises in my cheeks as I remember the feel of his lips on mine, the way his hands gripped my waist, and how he ground against me.

At the end of the concert, I changed into unrecognizable clothes and hightailed it home.

The last time we’ve been alone we were kissing.

And now Dorian looks like he wants a repeat show.

He pushes away from the wall, closing the distance between us.

“I never got to tell you, but I really loved kissing you.” His breath tickles my ear, and my skin prickles with awareness, with recognition, as he grabs my hand, bringing it to his lips.

Dorian plants a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist, his eyes never leaving mine.

“I’d like to do it again soon.” His voice is thick with something that feels too big for this narrow hallway.

I scoff, overwhelmed. “I don’t know, Dorian, it almost feels like if we kiss again, the world will explode. The Big One will come and split LA in half or something.”

Dorian raises his eyebrows. “So dramatic.”

He’s about to add more when Tessa clears her throat behind us. We jump apart like criminals hearing sirens approaching.

“There’s something both of you need to see,” his assistant says, her tone serious.

We follow her back into the office, where she pulls up Billie’s latest Instagram post on the projector. It’s a moody image of Dorian’s ex-wife standing under a rainstorm, her blue-blonde hair wet and sticking to her face, eyes downcast. The caption reads:

SAD & MAD

Damn it. This is what we don’t need piled on top of the already massive shitstorm we’re in. Dorian is stone-faced, grinding his teeth.

That SAD part of the description is a clear dig at Dorian, but the MAD half also implies he’s been shady, like she’s accusing him of cheating. I want to snort. After knowing she’s the one who’s been unfaithful. That woman has no shame.

But what she has is millions of fans. And they eat up the drama, believing her without question.

Bailey delivers her analysis of the responses to the post on the fly.

“Thousands of comments flooding in—showing support for Billie, people branding Dorian a dirtbag. Fans professing their love for her, telling her he doesn’t deserve her.

” Bailey huffs as she scowls at Dorian. “You should have told us you were seeing someone so that we could’ve had a strategy ready. ”

“Fair enough, Bailey Boo.” He smirks at her. “You can put me on your naughty list for Christmas.”

I glance at Dorian to gauge his real emotions under the sarcasm, but he’s keeping himself in check. I can’t get a read. As for me, I’m seething. How dare Billie play the victim after everything she put him through? The cheating, the lies, the pain?

I shouldn’t be getting indignant. I should run point on the situation. Damage control is my literal job.

I should be working the media to shift the narrative before it spirals beyond repair. Instead, I’m sitting here, useless, watching the headlines and the comments stack up. Standing by, powerless, as Dorian gets dragged in the mud. The story slipping through our fingers.

Missy would’ve never let something like this fester if she were handling it. But I can’t draft a strategy when I am the crisis.

I’m failing. At my job. At keeping Dorian out of the storm. And at keeping our secret.

Dorian’s eyes are on me. He knows I’m spiraling, that the pressure is crushing me from all sides. But I don’t know how to contain it.

And if Nadine figures it out before I have a plan—then it’s over. Career gone, future wrecked.

But how do we spin this?

Dirtbag. Cheater. Liar.