Chapter 10

Jules

The last day in Manchester is gray and damp, but it fits the mood. Four sold-out shows in the city, and we're headed to Dublin tomorrow. The band's on fire. Electrified. Except there's this shadow hanging over everything—or at least over me.

Three more songs from Whip's secret album, when no one's listening, hit the Top 50 charts this morning. Villain is sitting pretty at number seven. Seven. And it's officially surpassed Angelic Singer, Kill John's most iconic ballad. That song sat in the top ten for over half the year. Whip didn't just surpass it—he obliterated it.

And nobody knows it's him.

I stand outside Killian and Libby's home, clutching the flash drive in my hand like it's a loaded weapon. It kind of is. Inside, everyone's waiting—except Whip.

Now inside, I'm wondering how the hell I'm going to pull this off. The band's gathered in the home studio. Killian's just put the baby down, his face uncharacteristically tired. Libby sits next to him with his arm draped protectively around her shoulders. Jax is sprawled on the couch with Stella. Rye and Brenna share a loveseat, Scottie's leaning against the wall, and Sophie perches on a stool near him.

Rye's the first to notice. Of course he does. "Uh, where's Whip?" he asks, waving a hand in the air like he's in school.

My throat tightens, but I manage to say, "You'll understand in a minute."

Killian frowns, his head tilting. "Why not now?"

Scottie's sharp tone cuts through. "If this isn't worth my time—"

"It is," I snap, sharper than I intend. I square my shoulders and try to channel some of Whip's unshakable calm. "Just... trust me."

The flash drive in my hand feels heavier than it should. A simple black stick, unassuming, and yet it contains the kind of art that can crack the foundation of the world we've all built together. I take a deep breath and set it on the table.

"Have any of you heard the song Villain?" I ask, forcing the words out.

Sophie's the first to respond, lips curling into a half-smile. "Of course, it's all over social media. There's even a dance. People are obsessed." She then starts hollering the lyrics like she's already heard them a hundred times:

Took your man, fed him lies, now he's willin'

She's practically shouting it, the beat already in her bones.

Stella, never one to be outdone, jumps right in.

Told your mom, now she's cryin' in the kitchen, ooh ooh ooh!

Her voice is louder than the rest, all hype and attitude.

Libby's already in on the action, tossing in her own spin, with Rye smiling across from her, giving a theatrical air to the chaos.

Shook your dad's hand, now he's callin' me different

But you made me this way, ain't that twisted?

The room practically vibrates with their enthusiasm.

And then, as if on cue, they all belt it out in unison, their voices tangled together with no restraint.

Villain, villain,

Sike, I'm the villain,

Watch you lose your mind,

Now you're runnin' out of time,

'Cause you made me this way, ain't that sick?

Right. Of course, they know the lyrics by heart. Just like I knew they would. They've already turned it into a damn anthem.

"Well," I say, my pulse racing, "you're about to hear the rest of the album it came from."

Jax leans forward, his frown deepening. "Why?"

"Because it's important." I meet his gaze, unflinching. "You'll understand when you hear it."

I plug in the flash drive and hit play. The first notes of Villain pulse through the speakers, sharp and rhythmic. Whip's voice is unmistakable to me, curling around the beat like smoke.

But the others? They don't recognize it. Heads are nodding—first Rye, then Jax, then even Scottie, though he tries to hide it.

When Tombstone and Figment play, they're all leaning in. Benzodiazepine follows, its distorted vocals and café sounds cutting through the room. It's raw and strange, and they're hooked. Kingdom Come slams into them next, all metallic clashes and relentless energy. Killian's foot taps against the floor, and Jax bobs his head in time with the beat.

By the time Goodie Two Shoes plays, Brenna mutters, "Blasphemous. I love it."

But when Curtain Call starts, the mood shifts. Whip's voice floats through, soft and haunting, but the lyrics? They're gut-wrenching.

A whisper caught between your truth

Empty hands that never held,

The pieces of a voice I never chose

Libby wipes at her eyes, sniffling quietly. Jax's expression tightens, and Rye stares at the speakers like they've betrayed him.

The album gets darker from there. Heartstrings is haunting, laced with the sound of airplanes flying in the distance. And Denouement? It's devastating. Jax visibly flinches. Killian shifts uncomfortably, staring at the floor.

Finally, the last track, Bye Bye, fades into silence, its distorted echoes of the lyrics of the prior songs on the album lingering in the room. No one speaks. The air feels thick, oppressive.

Scottie is the first to break the silence, his face set in a hard line. "What's the point of this?"

Instead of answering, I pull out my phone and hand it to Rye, open to the artist profile. The picture was blank with only the artist name as the identifier. But as Rye stares at it and makes the connection, his face drains of color.

"It's Whip," Rye whispers, his voice barely audible, but it cuts through the room like a shout.

The silence shatters.

Killian lurches to his feet. His brows knit together, eyes flashing with disbelief. "What?"

"It's Whip," I repeat, louder now. My voice cracks a little, but I don't care. "Or... William, technically. He wrote this. Produced it. All of it. He's been doing it for five years."

Stella lets out a low whistle, leaning back in her seat as if the revelation physically pushes her. She shakes her head, her expression unreadable. "Unbelievable."

Killian stares at me like I've just spoken in tongues. "Why didn't he tell us?" His voice is tight, raw, carrying the look of betrayal and hurt all at once.

My heart aches with the truth of it. "He loves you all. He loves Kill John. And he feels... wrong for doing his own thing. Like his voice doesn't belong with yours."

The room stills, heavy with the truth of what I've just said.

Jax shifts where he's sprawled, his jaw tightening as his gaze drops to his hands. He doesn't speak at first, but I can see the fight building in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl into loose fists. When he finally looks up, his expression is unguarded in a way that makes my chest tighten.

"Is he okay?" he asks, his voice low and rough, like the words cost him something.

The question hangs in the air, thick and loaded. Jax rarely speaks up unless he's got something real to say, and it's clear this isn't just about Whip. This is Jax reliving his own past—the times he pulled away, shut everyone out, and let the darkness swallow him whole. The understanding in his voice, the edge of desperation, cuts me deep.

I hesitate, trying to find the right words. "He's been... keeping to himself," I say carefully, my hands twisting tighter. "Working on this in private. Not because he doesn't trust you, but because he didn't want to burden you. He thought he should do it alone."

Jax jerks, like I've struck a nerve. He rakes a hand through his hair, the movement jerky. "Goddammit," he mutters, his head falling back against the couch.

No one answers him.

"He's been pulling away," Jax continues, his voice rising with frustration. "I thought he was just... I don't know, busy, goofing off—normal shit. But this—" He gestures sharply toward the flash drive. "He was shutting us out, wasn't he?"

The room feels smaller now, suffocating under his words.

"He didn't mean it like that," I say quickly, my voice trembling. "He didn't want to hurt you."

"Yeah, well, it fucking hurts anyway." Jax's laugh is bitter, his expression a mix of anger and pain. "I've been where he is, Jules. I've done the whole 'I'm fine, I can handle this alone' bullshit. And it's a goddamn lie."

His voice cracks, and he slams a hand down on the arm of the couch. "I know what it's like to feel like you don't belong, like you're dragging everyone else down. But it's a fucking lie. We're a band. We're supposed to have each other's backs. And he—he's out there thinking he's on his own?"

"John..." Stella's voice is quiet, breaking through the tension, but he shakes his head.

"No," he snaps, his eyes bright. "I know it's not his fault. I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at me. I should've seen it. We should've been there."

Jax's words hang heavy in the room, his frustration and guilt palpable. His head dips, fingers threading through his hair as if trying to hold himself together. The sight makes my chest ache.

"I get it," I say softly, taking a tentative step closer. "I really do. When I first found out, I had my doubts too."

His head jerks up, hazel eyes pinning me with a mix of hope and worry.

"But," I continue, my voice steady even though my heart is racing, "it doesn't seem like he's doing what you might think he is. Whip's not... spiraling. He's not isolating himself like that."

Jax's frown deepens, his mouth opening to protest, but I cut him off. "Just listen to his song Benzodiazepine." That makes him pause.

"You heard the lyrics," I explain, my hands twisting at my sides. "It's his way of dissing drug and alcohol abuse. Calling it out for what it really is—a crutch, a lie. The whole song is sarcastic, biting, and furious in a way that makes it clear he's not going down that road."

Jax's jaw clenches tight, his hands fisting on his thighs. "Denouement doesn't have a happy ending, Jules," he says, his voice raw, like it's scraping his throat. "It ends with a thud. That's not fighting back. That's... surrender."

His words settle heavy in the room, a sharp crack against the silence. And damn if I don't feel the weight of them, dragging down my chest. Because I know what this means to him—how that song is a mirror he doesn't want to look into, the memories dredging up things he's tried to leave behind. My heart twists because Whip's music is hitting too close to home.

I don't flinch, though the significance of the song's meaning presses against me. "I know," I admit softly. My throat tightens as I think of the lyrics, the production—so stark, so devastating, they linger long after the music ends.

Jax's jaw clenches, his voice breaking. "That's not just a song about feeling sad. That's a song about drowning. About not seeing a way out."

My stomach twists, but I hold my ground. "It is," I say quietly. "But listen to it again, Jax. Really listen. That's not the end of the story."

Jax lifts his gaze, his green eyes glinting with something fragile and furious all at once. "How can you be so sure?"

I don't flinch, even though his pain is lashing out at me, cutting deep. "Because this album isn't about giving up. It's about acknowledging the darkness, Jax. Whip's not running from it. He's not hiding it. He's saying, 'This exists. I've felt it. But I'm still standing.' That's not surrender. That's strength."

Jax shakes his head, a bitter sound slipping past his lips. "You don't know how easy it is to fake that. To make people think you're fine when you're anything but. I did it for years. Years."

"I do know," I say, a thread of steel slipping into my tone. "And I'm telling you, he's not faking. I've seen him, Jax. Really seen him. He's not in that place."

He looks at me then, something vulnerable and bleeding through his usual armor. "But what if this is him asking for help?"

"Then he's already taken the first step," I reply. "By putting this out there. You of all people know how terrifying that is. To show the world your cracks and let them see how deep they run? This album isn't him screaming into the void. It's him saying, 'I've been there. But I'm still here.'"

Jax's throat works as he swallows, his fists loosening slightly. "And you really believe that?"

"I do," I tell him, holding his gaze. "This album isn't just a confession. It's a triumph. It's him saying he made it out, Jax. And he's not alone. He's got us. He's got you."

Jax blinks, his eyes suspiciously bright. His voice comes out rough but softer than before. "Yeah. He does."

Libby's voice cuts through the tense silence, soft but trembling with emotion. Perched beside Killian, she swipes at her eyes in quick, frustrated motions, as though annoyed by the tears. "I understand that," she says, her words quivering under the moment. "Feeling like you're not good enough. Like you don't belong." Her breath catches, and she pauses, her gaze sweeping over the room, lingering on each of us before she continues, her voice thick with conviction. "God, do I understand that."

She takes a steadying breath, her fingers curling tightly around Killian's hand, like she's drawing strength from him. "We have to give him grace."

Killian doesn't hesitate. His jaw tightens, and he clenches his fists like he's preparing for battle. "Of course we do. How could he think we wouldn't be proud of him? This—" he takes his hand through his hair, his voice rising with passion "—this is a fucking masterpiece."

The energy in the room shifts, yet Rye stays uncharacteristically subdued. He stares at his hands, his shoulders hunched, like he's trying to make sense of it all. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than I've ever heard it. "I thought I knew him," he murmurs. "But I didn't know this."

"I mean..." Stella's voice cuts through the tension. Her arms crosses, her expression thoughtful. "Listen to his voice. It's not Kill John's sound. Not even close. But that's the point." She uncrosses her arms, her eyes darting around the group. "It's amazing. Like, truly amazing on its own."

"And the people obviously love him," Sophie adds, her voice carrying the kind of self-assured certainty that only she can pull off. She gestures broadly, like the proof is right in front of us. "You've seen the charts. The streams. The reaction online. He's not just good—he's a phenomenon. They love him for who he is. Just him."

I swallow the lump rising in my throat, my chest tight. "He's afraid," I admit, my words thick with emotion. "He doesn't see his own potential. Not as William. Not outside of Kill John."

Libby turns her gaze to me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. There's a determined set to her mouth now, though, a fire lighting within her. "Then we'll show him."

Killian's nod is sharp, final. His eyes burn with the kind of fierce loyalty that has always made him the band's heart. "Damn right we will," he says, his voice low and resolute.

The tension in the room shifts, the unspoken promise lingering in the air as everyone begins to collect themselves. Slowly, the band filters out, leaving me standing near the table, my pulse still thrumming from everything that's just unfolded.

I don't make it far. Scottie's presence looms behind me, his voice cutting through the haze of my thoughts. "Jules, a word."

No surprise there. He doesn't do raised voices or dramatic gestures, but the weight of his stare could pin a damn rhino to the ground.

"Jules," he begins, voice clipped. "What you did here was the exact opposite of what I've taught you."

I fold my arms and square my shoulders. "Whip isn't a client. He's my friend."

"Ah, yes. Because friends need to be thrust into the spotlight without so much as a by-your-leave?" His brow arches in that superior way of his, the one that makes me want to knock the tea out of his hand.

My cheeks heat. "It's not like that. I didn't thrust him anywhere. We didn't think anyone would hear it—not without an ounce of promotion. It was a fluke."

Scottie's scoff is sharp, humorless. "Yes, it's a fluke. A massive, worldwide fluke. And now there are consequences."

I press my lips together, my stomach twisting. Consequences. Of course, there are.

"The public," Scottie continues, "is a sneaky, relentless beast. They will figure it out, sooner rather than later. William and Whip? They're one and the same. It's inevitable. The question is whether he comes forward on his terms or theirs."

I go quiet, my mind racing.

"And that's not the only problem," he adds, his tone turning darker. "The record label is going to have... thoughts about one of their contracted artists releasing an entire album without their knowledge."

I bristle. "He's not doing it for profit. This is personal."

Scottie leans back against the wall, his expression unreadable, which makes it all the more infuriating. "It doesn't matter what his intent was. Now that there's the potential for profit—and let's not kid ourselves, Jules, there is massive potential here—they won't stop until they get answers."

I swallow hard. My throat feels tight, like I've swallowed a fistful of sand. "What do we do?"

Scottie tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in that way that makes me feel like I'm a chess piece and he's already planned my next move. "No, Jules. What do you think you should do?"

"I'm not his manager," I snap, more defensive than I mean to.

Scottie's expression doesn't shift. His gaze sharpens, as if he knows something I don't. "But you're the one he trusts most."

The words hit me like a gut punch. Because he's right. Whip does trust me—more than anyone else. I've been his sounding board, his co-conspirator, the person he knows won't judge him. The weight of that realization feels heavier than the entire meeting we just had.

I blow out a breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay," I say, thinking out loud. "Okay. First, we talk to Whip. He needs to decide what he wants. Does he want this out in the open, or does he want to pull back entirely? We can't make that choice for him."

Scottie nods once, a flicker of approval in his sharp eyes.

"And if he does want to come forward," I continue, "then we control the narrative. No reactionary moves. No scrambling to put out fires. We frame it as his decision, his artistry. If the label has a problem, we remind them of his loyalty to the band and how this only boosts their reputation. Whip isn't competing with Kill John. He's expanding its influence."

Scottie's lips twitch. He's trying not to smile, I realize. Bastard.

I pace, the momentum of the plan building. "We'll need to work with a PR team—maybe not the band's usual one. Someone smaller, more personal, who understands that this isn't just a press release. It's about protecting Whip while giving him the freedom to claim this part of himself."

Scottie pushes off the wall, his hands sliding into his pockets. "And who, pray tell, will lead this little operation?"

I stop pacing and glare at him. "Don't even."

"Jules," he says smoothly, as if it's obvious, "you're the one who got him here. You've been managing this situation, like it or not. You might as well see it through."

My stomach flips. I want to argue, but the truth is, I don't hate the idea. Not entirely. "Fine," I mutter. "But if this blows up in my face, I'm blaming you."

Scottie's smirk is infuriating. "Of course you would."