Page 7 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

September—Present Time

A wave of heat rushes through me, and I quickly avert my eyes, pushing the top of my pencil to get more lead.

I push too hard and get too much out. As I tap some of it back in, Tessa’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.

“Marcia, the financial side is sorted, right? We’re not expecting a legal battle? ”

“The prenup covers almost everything,” the lawyer says crisply, flipping through her tablet. “Except for the album they co-wrote.”

My eyebrows shoot up as I finally get the right length of lead.

Of course, that album. The one I’ve grown to loathe after meeting Dorian, despite how beautiful and timeless it is.

Every track is a love letter, a reminder of their perfect, untouchable romance.

It was an audio scrapbook of why I would never have a chance.

Romantic. Brilliant. Forever. They not-so-subtly titled it Coming Home To You .

Except now, the needle has scratched the record—literally and figuratively.

I risk another glance at Dorian to reconcile the man in front of me with the devoted husband from the tabloids.

His expression is unreadable, his jaw tense.

Is he devastated about the end of his marriage?

Would he have winked at me if he was? And when did their union fall apart? Who dumped who? Why?

I’m still asking questions in my head when Dorian’s agent takes over, waving a hand like this is manageable. “We’re already in talks with the label. They’re working out what percentages everyone gets from future royalties.”

The amount mustn’t be insignificant. I don’t have a clue how much money we’re talking about. I speak burn rates, not music rights.

Tessa steps in again. “What we need to prioritize is controlling the narrative. The public will care less about who owns the album and more about what the split looks like. Whose fault it is. We have to make sure Dorian comes out of this clean.”

I nod, even as something inside me recoils. The PR strategist in me knows she’s right. Image is everything in this industry, and a messy divorce could tank Dorian’s career faster than a bad album. But the hopeless romantic? She’s screaming that this is wrong. Too cold. Too impersonal.

My gaze flicks back to Dorian, searching for any sign of emotion, but his face remains frustratingly impassive. Does he even care that we’re dissecting his failed marriage like it’s any other business deal?

Tessa turns to the social media manager. “Bailey, what should we do for the official announcement, a press release or a simple post?”

“I’d suggest something clean on Instagram,” the young woman in the hoodie replies, her focus on her phone.

“Everyone’s doing the same thing these days.

” She continues scrolling like she’s already crafting hashtags in her mind.

“A black-and-white photo, some poetic caption about growing apart but still loving each other. It’s bullshit, but it works.

I just need the final statement from PR. ”

All eyes land on me, and I stiffen as I realize it’s my turn to speak and I have jack shit to say.

I attempt a shy smile, hoping it hides my panic.

“Hi, um, hello everyone, I’m Josie. I was put on this account today, so I’ll need to get a few more details to craft a proper press release.

” I keep my tone level, even if the words scrape like sandpaper against my throat.

“Is the divorce amicable? Will the statement be a joint one? Should I coordinate with Billie Rae’s team? ”

I pause, realizing how much I sound like an amateur. I’m used to presenting million-dollar deals, not million-dollar break-ups. I don’t deal with hard feelings. Series A fundings are easier to navigate than a series of events that led to marital collapse.

As if to confirm my inadequacy, the room bursts into subtle laughter at my na?ve questions. The sound prickles across my skin, making me feel even more like a fish out of water. Victor mutters, “Amicable, that’s cute,” while the others shake their head.

“No, Josie,” Tessa explains, her tone firm but not unkind. “It’s anything but civil. And her team? They’ll be working against us, spreading lies we’ll have to shut down. Don’t expect help.”

I clench the pencil in my hand as I write:

No help, hostile divorce.

Why is it hostile? She didn’t want it to end?

Did he cheat? No, he wouldn’t do that. I feel ashamed just for having had the thought.

My personal feelings are too tangled up in this.

And while my professional armor hasn’t cracked yet, it’s been dented.

It’s as if someone repeatedly struck me with a morning star mace spiked in messy emotions that I’m not qualified to deal with or strong enough to repel. Where do I get a bigger shield?

This isn’t just another job challenge, it’s a war, and I’m on the front lines without a weapon or a plan.

Dorian speaks up. “Missy and I had drafted a statement, but it needs work. It’s not polished yet.”

I force myself to meet his gaze. His blue irises churn with so much I can’t decipher, and it feels intrusive to pry.

“I should have the draft in your file, then,” I say quickly, tearing my eyes away. “I’ll refine it and give you a few options.”

But Dorian shakes his head, surprising me. “Nah. Missy and I used to work through this shit together. Stay for lunch, and I’ll bring you up to speed on everything.”

Can I even say no? Nadine made it clear I’m at his complete disposal. So apparently, now I’m having meals with Dorian like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The meeting wraps up while I’m still processing. As the team filters out, I gather my things, convincing myself that it’s just a business lunch.

Dorian waits for me by the door, guiding me toward the kitchen with an easy stride. “I know the last meal we shared will be hard to top,” he says, smirking as he gestures to my bag.

“Are you mocking my vending-machine purse?” I retort, my tone automatically familiar.

“I’d never… but my chef should have something ready soon.”

I study him for a beat, a suspicion growing that this lunch wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment invitation. Dorian leads me to a table by the pool under the shade of a giant umbrella. He pulls a chair out for me, and I sit, feeling like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

As our plates are served, Dorian leans forward, his eyes locking with mine. “Tell me what you need to know.”

I dry my palms against my thighs. He’s giving me full access, and I won’t be able to keep my interest 100 percent professional—not even 5 percent, I fear.

I want to learn everything about him. I can finally explore his relationship without feeling like a stake is being driven through my heart. Even if I shouldn’t.

My head is caught between two sledgehammers, cobbling me with opposite messages: Dorian is single. And: Dorian is a client.

Finally available. But more forbidden than ever.

I’m still going to ask everything, because how can I not when he’s sitting across from me like an open book that dares me to turn a new page?