Chapter 18

Jules

The EMAs in Dusseldorf are nothing short of spectacular. The arena pulses with energy, the kind only a global stage can summon. Glittering lights dance off the walls, and every corner is filled with the hum of voices in dozens of languages. Kill John is here as musical guests, of course—because what's an event like this without a band that can bring the house down? But the twist tonight isn't Kill John's set. It's Whip.

When the invitation for him to perform a solo came through, it was a no-brainer. And now, here we are. Whip's name on the marquee. His chance to step into the spotlight alone, on one of the most prestigious stages in the world.

The guys made sure Scottie and I were here, front and center, even though managers don't usually sit with the talent at award shows. But this wasn't just any night. It was the first time Whip would be performing solo, and nobody was going to miss it.

Kill John kicks off the night with their usual brilliance. Killian owns the stage, his voice a force of nature, while Jax, Rye, and Whip make the music soar. The crowd eats it up, the energy electric, and for a moment, it feels like nothing could top this. Between performances, we laugh at the hosts' banter, cheer for the artists winning their awards, and enjoy the other musical acts. It's shaping up to be a perfect night.

And then it's Whip's turn.

Setting up for his performance doesn't take much. All he needs is a piano accompaniment, which the EMA team already has in place. I watch him backstage as they announce his name, the applause swelling. Whip steps into the light, the pianist following close behind, and my heart swells with pride. He looks calm, confident, ready.

The piano player settles in, and Whip stands beside him, waiting for his cue. But before a single note plays, something overhead starts rumbling. It's faint at first, like the sound of an orchestra warming up, but it grows louder, more distinct. Confusion ripples through, and I'm not the only one. The guys exchange bewildered looks. "Was this planned?" Jax mutters, low and sharp.

"Nope," Rye replies, leaning forward. "The hell's going on?"

I glance at Scottie, but he looks as clueless as the rest of us. On stage, Whip's cool façade barely falters, though his eyes scan the crowd—until they land on me. His expression asks the question I don't have an answer for.

Then the lights dim. Dramatically. The murmuring orchestra crescendos, their instruments crashing into a grand, sweeping sound. I sit up straighter, my pulse quickening. What is happening?

The pianist starts playing, his fingers gliding over the keys, seamlessly matching the orchestra's tempo. The opening notes are unmistakable—this is still Whip's song, but not as we know it. Not as he knows it. Whip misses the intro, too blindsided to start, but somehow, impossibly, he catches up. His voice comes in, steady and sure, and I feel the tension in my chest release—only for it to tighten again when the orchestra nearly drowns him out.

Whip is a pro, even though he's primarily a drummer for most of the performances he's done. Even as he throws uncertain glances toward the conductor, he doesn't falter. He adjusts on the fly, shaping his voice to fit the unexpected arrangement. But this isn't the soft, airy ballad he wrote. This is something else entirely. Louder—wrong.

The first chorus builds, and so does the orchestra, their sound swelling to a near deafening level. Whip meets them head-on, his voice climbing to match theirs. It's a technical feat, his control flawless even as he navigates a melody that's been completely upended. I can tell he's improvising, adapting line by line, his instincts carrying him through. And when the second chorus comes, the orchestra crescendos again, bigger this time, and so does he.

Whip belts the lyrics, his voice remarkably effortless, controlled and resonant, projecting with precision and clarity, slicing through the music with a force that feels both calculated and effortless. The richness of his tone, the clarity—it's breathtaking. The audience is mesmerized. I'm mesmerized. He hits a high note in the bridge, clear and piercing, holding it just long enough to send a chill down my spine.

The guys—Killian, Jax, Rye and even Scottie—are all visibly stunned, their eyes wide, mouths slightly agape. Killian leans toward Rye, his brows shooting up in disbelief. "Did you know he could do that?"

Rye shakes his head, his eyes glued to Whip. "Nope. And now I'm questioning everything I thought I knew about the guy."

By the final verse, the orchestra quiets, retreating into the background as Whip brings the song back to what it was always meant to be. Soft. Intimate. Emotional. His voice carries the last note, tender, before it fades into silence.

The crowd erupts into a standing ovation. The conductor bows, the pianist bows, and Whip gestures a polite thank you. But I see it—the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. The smile he offers the crowd doesn't reach his eyes. He exits the stage, composed but stiff, his eyes dark with restrained fury.

What was supposed to be his most personal performance had been turned into something theatrical, almost Broadway-like. I'm out of my seat before I realize it, weaving through the rows to find him. The rest of the band follows close behind, their expressions grim.

Backstage is chaos, showrunners bustling about, but Scottie's glare alone is enough to part the sea. He barrels through, with me and the guys right behind him. The conductor appears, looking entirely too pleased with himself, and I step forward, my tone sharp. "What the hell was that? No one told us there'd be an orchestra accompanying Whip."

The conductor shrugs, nonchalant. "We were scheduled for a different performance, but last-minute changes were made. It was a surprise."

"A surprise?" Scottie growls, his voice low and menacing. "Who in their right mind authorized that?"

The conductor raises his hands, defensive. "I don't know. We just do what we're told." He brushes past us, leaving me standing there, my frustration boiling over.

We move further into the backstage chaos, determined to find Whip. My chest tightens with every step, dread mixing with anger. Whip had just survived something impossible, and now I need to make sure he's okay. Or as okay as he can be.

We find him in one of the dressing rooms, the door half-open, the soft glow of a vanity light spilling into the hallway. Whip's sitting on the edge of a chair, his forearms braced on his knees, his head bowed low. His hands are clasped, his knuckles pale with strain. The sight guts me.

"Whip," I call softly, stepping inside. He doesn't look up, doesn't move, his shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on him. The others hang back at the door, unsure, but Scottie steps in beside me. His concern is masked in his usual composed demeanor.

"Mate," Scottie says, his voice low but gentle, the worry clear beneath the surface. "What the fuck happened out there?"

Whip raises his head then, and the raw emotion in his eyes stops me in my tracks. He doesn't look angry—not just angry, anyway. He looks betrayed.

"I don't know," he says, his voice rough. "I wasn't told. Nobody told me."

Jax crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "They ambushed you with a goddamn orchestra? During your first solo? Who does that shit?"

"They wanted a show." Whip's laugh is bitter, humorless. He scrubs a hand over his face, his hair sticking up in wild tufts. "And they got one."

"You crushed it," Rye says, stepping inside. "Whatever the hell that was, you owned it, man."

But Whip shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "It wasn't mine. That wasn't the song I wrote. It wasn't the way it was meant to feel." His voice is barely there on the last word, and I'm in front of him before I realize I've moved.

I crouch down, my hands finding his, and his gaze finally locks on mine. "You were brilliant," I tell him, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. "You turned a disaster into something incredible. No one else could've done that, Whip."

His throat bobs as he swallows, and for a moment, I think he might believe me. But then his jaw tightens, and he looks away.

"They made me look like a fucking clown, Jules," he says, his words low and raw. "That song... it was supposed to mean something. It was supposed to be real. Instead, they turned it into a goddamn spectacle."

"It was real," I insist, my grip on his hands tightening. "Every note, every word—you poured yourself into it, and everyone felt that. I felt that."

He closes his eyes, exhaling a shuddering breath, and I can see the war he's waging with himself. The frustration, the disappointment, the vulnerability he rarely lets anyone see.

"Who do we need to tear apart?" Killian asks, his voice hard.

Whip lets out another bitter laugh, but it's softer this time. He looks at Killian, then back at me, his lips quirking in a humorless smile. "Not much to tear apart when you don't even know who to blame."

Scottie speaks up then. "We'll find out," he says, his voice cold as ice. "This isn't over."

Whip glances at him, something like gratitude flickering in his eyes before he looks back at me. "I'm just tired," he murmurs, his voice breaking. "I'm so fucking tired."

Rye approaches, crouching down next to me in front of Whip and gripping his shoulder. "Man, whatever that was out there, it wasn't your fault. You crushed it. Hell, I'm still trying to wrap my head around how you pulled it off."

Jax, standing with his arms crossed, nods. "I've never seen anyone recover like that."

Killian chimes in, "Dude, I don't know how you didn't lose it. That wasn't just a curveball. That was pure sabotage."

"It won't happen again," Scottie says darkly, his glare promising retribution. "I'll make damn sure of it."

The room is heavy with their words—truths wrapped in support—but Whip barely responds. He just sits there, staring at the ground, his jaw tight and his hands gripping his knees. My chest aches seeing him like this, and I can't stay silent any longer.

"Guys," I say softly. "Can you give us a moment?"

Scottie narrows his eyes at me but nods, his lips pressing into a tight line. He turns to the others, jerking his head toward the door. "Out."

Rye gives Whip's shoulder a firm squeeze before following Scottie, muttering under his breath about finding someone to blame. Killian lingers, his expression torn, but Jax nudges him along, the door shutting behind them with another deliberate click.

And then it's just us.

For a moment, I don't move, don't speak. I just watch him, his broad shoulders slumped forward, his head hanging low like the weight of it all is pressing him down. "Whip," I say gently, caressing his hands with my fingers.

He doesn't answer immediately, but when he finally lifts his head, his blue eyes meet mine. There's a storm brewing in them—anger mixed with an ache he's trying to keep buried.

"You didn't have to clear the room," he mutters, his voice rough.

"Yes, I did." I squeeze his hands gently. "You deserve to feel this, all of it. Without an audience."

His lips twitch, like he wants to argue, but instead, his fingers tighten around mine, gripping like I'm the one thing tethering him.

"They blindsided you," I say, my voice calm but firm. "No one could've seen that coming. But you didn't just pull through—you created a moment that's going to live with people forever."

His laugh is quiet, sharp at the edges. "It wasn't my song, Jules. Not my arrangement. They handed me a mess, and I just... survived it."

"Is that what you think you did?" I counter, my eyes locking with his. "Survived? Because what I saw wasn't survival. What I saw was someone stepping up, taking control, and turning it into something only you could pull off."

He exhales hard, looking past me like he's searching for something to focus on. "It feels wrong. And now everyone else is celebrating a performance that doesn't even feel like my own. I don't even know what's left of it."

I reach up, my fingers curling around his jaw, tilting his face back toward mine. "Look at me," I say softly, waiting until those stormy blue eyes lock onto mine. "That performance? It wasn't theirs. No matter how much they tried to shape it into something else, you were the one who stood there and made them feel every note. You turned their mess into something unforgettable. That's what they'll remember. You. Not the arrangement, not the orchestra—you."

I hold his gaze, willing him to believe it, to see what everyone else saw. "They tried to take it from you, but they couldn't. Because the moment you sang, it became yours again."

His throat bobs as he swallows, and his grip on my hand tightens, the fight in his expression softening just enough. I press on, my voice dropping to a softer tone. "They can try to take credit for the applause, but the truth is, without you, there wouldn't have been one."

For a moment, he just stares at me, the storm in his eyes beginning to calm. Then, with a shaky exhale, he pulls me into his lap, his arms wrapping around me like I'm the only thing keeping him steady. His face buries in my neck, and I feel the tension in his body unravel slightly.

"You always know what to say," he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin.

I run my fingers through his hair, holding him closer. "You make it easy," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion.

We stay like that for a long moment, the world outside forgotten. Eventually, there will be questions, fallout, things to sort out. But right now, it's just us. And I won't let him go through this without knowing how much he's loved. How much he matters. How much he is enough.