Chapter 17

Jules

We're seated at a private table in one of Seoul's finest restaurants, tucked away from the world, where the food is decadent, the wine flows freely, and the soft hum of a string quartet plays in the background. The glow of candlelight flickers over everyone's faces, illuminating the kind of happiness that only comes from knowing you've done something incredible.

Kill John isn't just celebrating a good show—they're celebrating the show. The one that blew away every expectation, even their own. It wasn't just their most successful performance in Asia; it was a moment that reminded them why they do this in the first place.

The table is buzzing with conversation, the kind of banter that flows easy and unfiltered after a night like this. Jax leans back, his hand wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey, his expression satisfied in that quiet way he has. Rye's already two glasses of soju in, his grin lopsided, while Killian and Scottie are in the middle of some animated debate about god-knows-what. Brenna is leaning behind Stella's seat, their laughter ringing out like a clear bell.

But it's Whip who's the star tonight.

The guys have been sneaking glances at him all evening, their smiles a little prouder, their laughs a little louder when he's involved. Even now, he's cracking jokes, his hands gesturing wildly as he reenacts some moment from the show that had Rye nearly choking on his drink earlier.

And then Killian rises, glass in hand, and the table quiets immediately. Because when Killian James stands, it means something.

"Alright, everyone," he starts, his voice low and commanding, but there's a warmth in it tonight, the kind that wraps around you and pulls you in. "Glasses up."

We all lift our glasses, the clinking sound ringing like a bell.

"To Kill John," Killian says, his gaze sweeping over the table, over his family. "To the music, the madness, and everything in between. And to every single person here—for being the best damn band in the world."

A chorus of cheers erupts, glasses clinking harder, laughter spilling over. But Killian doesn't sit down. Instead, his attention zeroes in on Whip.

"And," Killian continues, his grin turning wicked, "to William Dexter."

The room erupts, louder this time, with whistles and applause, the kind that makes the walls seem to shake. Whip's eyes widen, his cheeks flushing a deep pink as he waves them off.

"Aw, come on," he says, his voice light but betraying just a hint of embarrassment. "Let's not make me blush. I'm fragile, you know."

"The drummer who stole the damn show," Killian counters, his smile softening. "Tonight, you weren't just Whip—you were a beast, a fucking rock star. And we're all grateful to have experienced it."

The cheers rise again, and Rye, always the instigator, starts chanting, "Speech, speech, speech!"

The chant catches on, and soon everyone's pounding on the table like school kids in a cafeteria. Whip rolls his eyes, muttering something about how he's surrounded by lunatics, but he stands anyway, lifting his glass with exaggerated solemnity.

"Alright, alright, keep your panties on," he says, his tone mock serious. "First, I'd like to thank my parents for this moment—oh wait, they're not here."

The table bursts into laughter, and Whip grins, his charm effortless. "Seriously, though. I'd like to thank my drumsticks for not snapping in half tonight. MVPs, truly."

The laughter is immediate, shaking the table as everyone claps again. Rye, never missing a beat, points his glass at Whip. "I'm thankful for you suddenly busting out perfect Korean on stage, which by the way— where the hell did that come from?"

"Just wait till you hear my Japanese."

"Motherfuck—Japanese too?!"

Whip shrugs, his grin widening. "What can I say? I like to keep you guys on your toes."

More chatter ripples through the table, but then Whip's expression changes, something quieter, deeper, taking over. His gaze drifts across the table until it lands on me, and suddenly, the air feels different. Heavy. Charged.

"But seriously," he says, his voice softening, "there's one person I need to thank tonight. Jules."

My breath catches, my heart lurching in my chest.

"For reminding me that there's more to this world than what I already know. For pushing me to step out of my comfort zone and dream bigger than I ever thought I could. You gave me a chance to be something more than the drummer. You gave me the chance to find myself, and I'll never stop being grateful for that."

My throat tightens, but I force a smile, lifting my glass in return. "To the man who's more than just the heartbeat of Kill John, but a musician without limits—a true artist in his own right," I declare, the emotions swelling inside me. "To William."

"To William," the table echoes, their voices warm and full of affection.

The night stretches on after that, filled with more laughter, more stories, more memories being made. But Whip's words stick with me, threading through my thoughts like a melody I can't shake.

The night air is crisp and quiet, a stark contrast to the lively buzz of the restaurant behind me. I step into the small, private patio area to take a breath, the hum of the city faint in the background. My phone feels cool in my hand as I unlock it, needing a moment to ground myself after the whirlwind of dinner.

My inbox is overflowing. Emails from industry insiders, managers, producers—all of them asking for Whip. Requests for collaborations, offers to book him for solo gigs. It's overwhelming in the best way. I scroll past, barely skimming the headlines before shifting to the news apps. Article after article about tonight's concert fills my screen, their titles glowing with praise: Kill John Stuns in Seoul with a Groundbreaking Performance. Whip Emerges as the Unexpected Star of the Night.

And then there are the photos. Sophie's been busy, posting the pictures sent to her to every band member's account from the comfort of her and Scottie's home—including Whip's. Since Villain was released, his follower count has skyrocketed to seventy-six million, making him the second most followed member of the band—just five million shy of Killian's. It's the kind of meteoric rise that only happens when something truly earth-shattering sends shockwaves through the world.

I can't help but click on his account, my thumb instinctively swiping through the carousel of photos. One catches my eye—a shot of Whip under the crimson stage lights, his face half-shadowed, his hair damp with sweat. This time, he's holding the microphone, his posture relaxed yet somehow still demanding attention.

There's a playful tilt to his head, like he's teasing the crowd, daring them to keep up with whatever he's about to do next. His piercing blue eyes are half-lidded, mischievous, like he knows exactly the effect he's having on everyone but isn't quite letting them in on the secret. The subtle smirk on his lips says it all—he's in control, but he's having fun with it. There's no effort here, just pure, effortless confidence. It's like he's taunting the audience with every little movement, and they can't help but fall for it.

The comments are flooded with praise, not just from fans but from celebrities, A-listers, and other musicians.

Phenomenal!!!

Unreal performance

This is the start of something huge!

I don't even notice the warmth behind me until familiar arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back against a solid chest.

"Checking me out, are you?" Whip's voice is low, teasing, the words brushing against the shell of my ear.

I jolt, nearly dropping my phone, but his laugh rumbles softly against my back. "Didn't mean to scare you, Jules."

"You didn't," I lie, but my racing heart betrays me.

His chin rests on my shoulder, and I can feel the heat of his breath as he looks at the screen. "Ah, the camera's handiwork," he jokes. "It really does know my best angles."

I snort. "It's not hard when you look like this."

"Oh? Compliments now?" he teases, but his grip around me tightens, and there's something unspoken in the way he holds me. "You're proud of me, aren't you?"

I glance at him over my shoulder, meeting those wicked, knowing eyes. "You already know the answer to that."

He turns me in his arms, and suddenly, the teasing is gone. His gaze is steady, searching mine, and the air between us thickens.

"This year has been insane," he says quietly. "But tonight... tonight was something else. And I couldn't have done it without you, Jules."

My throat tightens, a pulse of heat unfurling in my chest, but before I can even think to respond, his lips are on mine. It starts slow, a soft meeting of mouths, warm and tender—his lips brushing against mine as if testing the waters, as if savoring every second. The world fades away in an instant. The low hum of the city, the distant clink of glasses from the restaurant, the faint chatter of people around us—all of it becomes a distant echo. It's just us now, tangled in this moment.

His hands slip to the side of my face, fingers grazing the delicate curve of my jaw, his thumb brushing the skin beneath my chin. The touch is gentle at first, almost reverent, and it makes something inside me stir. Then, suddenly, it evolves. The kiss deepens, slow but with an unmistakable urgency behind it. His lips press harder, his tongue teasing mine, pulling me in. The soft and gentle turns into something rawer, hungrier, as if he can't wait any longer. His grip on my face tightens, his other hand moving to my back, pulling me closer, until there's no space between us at all.

Before I can even process it, he's pressing me back against the table, the edge of it digging into my hips. His body crowds mine, a wall of heat as he kisses me with a new, desperate intensity, his hands gripping my waist, holding me against him like he can't get enough. The kiss turns almost feverish, the gentle moments gone, replaced by something urgent, something primal. My heart races, matching the frantic rhythm of his lips, his breath hot against my skin.

Then, with a surprising ease, he lifts me off the table, his arms slipping around my waist as he hoists me effortlessly into his arms. I gasp, the shift from the table to his chest sudden, yet it feels natural, like he's always known exactly where to place me. His body presses into mine, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and for a moment, it's like we're the only two people in the world. My fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer as the kiss continues, both of us losing ourselves in the intensity of it, the hunger between us growing until there's nothing left but the heat and the pull of his body against mine.

When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed. "Do you remember when I asked you about the inevitable end of Kill John?"

I nod, my mind flashing back to that night. I remember it vividly.

"I meant it when I said you gave me a vision for the future," he murmurs, his voice low, almost a whisper. The words curl around my heart, making it beat faster in my chest. "Beyond Kill John. I want to create more, Jules. I want to find new inspiration, travel, meet people, collaborate with Korean producers, even try my hand at scoring movies—animation, especially." He pauses, and I can hear the distant edge of excitement in his voice, the same kind of fire that burns in him when he's on stage, lost in the music. It's contagious, a spark that flares inside me, making my pulse quicken.

He leans into me closer, his hand brushing against mine in a subtle gesture, but it's enough to make me feel the charge between us. His fingers lightly graze the back of my hand, a quiet promise in that touch. "I have so many ideas, Jules," he continues, "And I want you to be there with me for all of it."

His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, wrapping around me like a promise I'm not sure I'm ready to make. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can't breathe. I want to say something, anything, to fill the silence, but the truth is, I don't know what to say. His eyes are intense, waiting for me to speak, and it feels like the weight of everything—of this tour, of us, of the future—rests on my next words.

But before I can respond, Scottie's words flood my mind, cutting through the quiet like a sharp knife. They shouldn't feel so heavy, but they do. It's the path Scottie's carved for me, one that would take me far away from everything I know, from everything I've built here.

"There's an opportunity in America," I confess, my voice barely above a whisper, the words slipping out like a quiet confession. My fingers trace the edge of his shirt collar, a nervous movement I can't seem to stop. "Scottie thinks I should take it. It's for a new girl group, and he thinks it'd be a good move for me."

Whip goes still, his hands slowing at my sides, a subtle tension building as his gaze hardens, his expression unreadable. He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his gaze searching, as if he's looking for something I haven't said yet. Something that makes sense of this.

"And what do you plan to do?" His voice is low.

The words catch in my throat. I want to have an answer for him, something definitive, but all I can do is shake my head slightly. "I don't know." The admission is almost a relief, the truth of it ringing clear in the space between us. "But... I'm grateful for you, Whip. For trusting me even when I didn't know what I was doing. For letting me figure it out."

The tension between us seems to loosen just a fraction as his hands slide back to my waist, pulling me closer again. His lips find mine in a kiss that's softer than any we've shared before, a gentle pressure that feels like he's trying to hold the moment together, to keep us suspended in this fragile thing we've created.

I cup his face, brushing my thumb over the curve of his cheek. "I still have time to figure it out," I say, my voice firm. "For now, I'm here. With you. With Kill John."

His smile is faint, a bittersweet tilt of his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You're going to be amazing, no matter what you choose," he murmurs, his voice thick and edged with something unspoken, something that lingers in the air between us. The weight of his words presses against me, filling the silence with all the things we aren't saying, all the things I'm still too scared to face.

Somehow, I manage to speak, my voice unsteady as I grasp at anything to distract us from the uncertain future. "There's something else."

"Hmm?" His lips skim along my jaw, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

"The EMAs," I murmur. "They've got an opening."

His head tilts lazily, like he couldn't care less. "And?"

"They want you to perform a ballad."

That gets his attention. Whip's brows shoot up, a flicker of surprise lighting his eyes. "Well, that's a twist. What do you think I should do?"

I hesitate, caught in the weight of his gaze, searching for the right words. "I think... I think you should do whatever feels right. But..." my voice softens, almost a whisper, "I'd love to see you perform the one from tonight again."

For a beat, he just looks at me, his expression unreadable. And then, the corner of his mouth quirks, that mischief, knowing grin that makes my pulse race. "Do I Have a Purpose?"

I nod, my throat suddenly dry. "Yeah. That one."

"Then that's the one I'll do."

"You're sure?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "You haven't even released it yet."

He shrugs, his confidence unwavering. "I'll release it now if I have to. I can do whatever I want. And if they want a ballad, they're getting that one."

And just like that, the decision is made, and I can't help but smile against his mouth as he kisses me again, his arms pulling me tighter. For this moment, there's nothing else—just us and the undeniable pull of what's to come.