Chapter 23

Jules

The Grammys are the kind of chaos that can't be tamed. Flashbulbs popping, celebrities glittering in million-dollar fits, assistants scurrying like worker ants. It's a circus, and I'm smack in the middle of it—not as a performer but as the puppet master.

The girls are radiant tonight, their smiles bright and confident, their gowns stunning enough to stop traffic. They deserve it all—the recognition, the nominations, the buzz. Three years ago, they were just a group with talent and raw ambition. Now, they're a national phenomenon, and I've had the privilege of steering the ship for a year.

Not to brag, but I've been killing it. Securing them brand deals that have reshaped their public image, overseeing album releases that broke records, landing them a tour that sold out in hours. The industry might've underestimated me once, but they don't anymore. Not after this.

"Jules, you're a magician," one of the producers had said a few months back. "They're stars because of you."

Wrong. They're stars because of them. I just made sure the world paid attention.

But tonight isn't about me. It's about the girls, and I'm focused on them, keeping their energy up, fixing last-minute wardrobe issues, and managing the flood of reporters vying for their attention. I'm all smiles and calm confidence on the outside, but inside? My nerves are a tangled mess.

Because I know he's here.

The last time I saw Whip face-to-face was when he left L.A. for London. And I let him go. I told myself it was the right thing, that I needed to see where my career could take me. He saw it before I did—how I was holding myself back, how I was scared to step away from the safety of Kill John, of him. And maybe he was right. Maybe I wasn't being fair. Not to myself. Not to Whip.

But that didn't stop me from missing him.

It's been a year, and I should be over it by now. Over him. I should be too busy, too focused, too consumed by everything I've built to still feel this way. And yet, the moment I knew he'd be here, everything in me went taut, anticipation buzzing under my skin.

Because it was never just friendship with Whip. Not really. I just never let myself admit how much he mattered, how much I needed him—until he wasn't there anymore.

And now he is. And I have no idea what to do with that.

I pretend I'm too busy to care, but my eyes keep drifting across the room, searching. It doesn't take long to find him.

Whip Dexter.

He's a force of nature, commanding attention without even trying. That black suit clings to him in all the right ways, and the way his hair's a deliberate mess? It's not fair. He's not fair. And the worst part is, he doesn't even realize it.

"Jules, you okay?" one of the girls asks, pulling me back to reality.

"Fine," I say, plastering on a smile. "Just making sure everything's running smoothly."

But it's a lie. Nothing feels smooth when Whip is in the room.

I don't see him again until later, when the crowd shifts and suddenly, there he is, standing a few feet away. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his head tilted as he spots me.

"Jules."

It's just my name, but it hits like a punch to the chest.

"Whip," I manage, my voice steady even though my heart's doing somersaults.

He grins, and it's the kind of grin that makes you want to both slap him and kiss him. "You look good. Beautiful as always."

"So do you." Understatement of the year.

There's a beat of silence, charged and heavy. The noise around us fades, the crowd disappearing. It's just us, standing in the middle of the chaos, too much unsaid between us.

"I..." he starts, then shakes his head, like he's not sure what to say.

"Jules, we need you!" one of the girls calls out, breaking the spell.

I nod, forcing myself to step away. "I have to—"

"Yeah," he says, his voice quieter now. "Later."

"Later," I echo, even though I know it's a lie.

And then we're pulled apart, swallowed up by the chaos, and I'm left with this hollow ache in my chest.

The energy in the arena is glamorous, to say the least, with a constant buzz of anticipation that thrums through the air like a live wire. Cameras sweep across the crowd, catching flashes of designer gowns, practiced smiles, and the kind of effortless cool that only the biggest names in the industry can pull off. Expensive wine, champagne, and an array of elegant finger foods are artfully arranged on the decorated tables. The night has already been a whirlwind of performances, speeches, and upsets, but this—this is the moment that has my pulse hammering against my ribs.

I was seated far enough back to catch it all on the giant screen—the flawless graphics, the close-ups of the nominees' faces. I shift in my seat, fingers curled around the program in my lap as the next category flashes across the massive screen. Best Pop Solo Performance. My stomach tightens. The announcer clears their throat, the room collectively stilling. And then—

When Whip's name is called among the nominees for Best Pop Solo Performance, I swear the room tilts. The announcer's voice is calm, deliberate, listing off the category, then rolling through the nominations.

The camera pans to him sitting with the rest of Kill John, sprawled casually in his seat, looking entirely unbothered. He's laughing at something Rye said, head tilted back, that signature grin lighting up his face. It's like he's at a bar with friends, not seated in the middle of the goddamn Grammy Awards.

I can't take my eyes off him.

"...and the Grammy goes to..." The announcer drags it out, the suspense thick enough to choke on.

The screen cuts to an envelope being opened, and then the voice booms: "William!"

The crowd erupts. A mix of shock and applause. Even the guys looks floored. The camera zooms in on the band, and they're full-on losing it now—Killian laughing, Rye whooping loud enough to wake the dead, Jax shoving Whip like he can't believe it's real.

And Whip? He's sitting there, wide-eyed, pointing to himself like, Me? The guys don't even let him process it. They're practically manhandling him out of his seat, shoving him toward the aisle like it's some kind of group effort to get him on stage.

He stumbles his way up, adjusting his suit jacket, rubbing the back of his neck as he approaches the mic.

"Wow," he starts, his voice echoing in the massive hall. "This...was unexpected." He laughs, the sound nervous but warm, and the crowd eats it up.

"I don't have much of a speech, obviously," he admits, looking out over the audience. "But, uh, thank you. Seriously. To everyone who listened, to the fans...you guys are everything. I wouldn't be here without you."

He hesitates, glancing down at the Grammy in his hand like he can't quite believe it's real. "This means a lot. Thank you."

He's off the stage in minutes, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. But it's not over.

Not by a long shot.

Minutes later, the next category rolls up. "Best Pop Album." Whip's name is among the nominees again. The screen shows his face, and this time, he looks like he's bracing for Rye's commentary.

"And the Grammy goes to..."

"William!"

The crowd explodes again, louder this time. He's shaking his head as he stands. Killian leans over to whisper something in his ear, and whatever it is makes Whip shove him back, grinning as he strides to the stage.

When he reaches the mic, he looks out over the crowd, scratching the back of his head. "You guys are probably sick of me by now," he says, earning a wave of laughter.

The excitement still hangs in the air when the Producer of the Year category is called. And then Whip's name echoes through the room in triumph.

The room falls silent for a beat. Then, the applause begins—hesitant at first, before swelling into a deafening roar. Whip has already secured massive wins tonight, but this? This makes fucking history. Winning Best Producer is a rarity for any rock musician, but taking home Best Pop Solo, Best Pop Album, and Best Producer in one night? It's an achievement no artist in the Academy's history has ever pulled off.

His expression when they announce it is pure disbelief, his wide eyes filled with a mixture of awe and utter confusion. The camera pans to the rest of the guys, and I see the same stunned look on every face. Killian's jaw is practically on the floor, Rye's eyes wide as saucers, Jax sitting frozen with his mouth slightly open.

No one expected it, but there it is. William—Producer of the Year.

Whip stands there on stage, completely still for a beat, eyes scanning the room like he's waiting for someone to tell him this is all a mistake. His lips part, and all he can manage is one word, loudly:

"What?!"

The room bursts into laughter, the sound warm and familiar, but Whip's expression doesn't shift. He blinks, then runs a hand through his dark hair, his shock still written across his face like he's waiting for it to sink in. But the applause starts then, rolling in like a wave, and he finally lets out a breath, a laugh slipping out along with it.

By the time the Artist of the Year category rolls around, the room feels electric. His name is called again, and now it's not shock anymore—it's utter respect.

Whip sits there for a moment, like he's genuinely considering not going up. But the cheers push him forward, and he takes the stage for the fourth time, his expression a mix of disbelief and gratitude.

"This one..." He pauses, swallowing hard. "This one means everything to me. I don't even know what to say, except...thank you. To everyone who's believed in me, even when I didn't." He then takes a shuttering breath before continuing, "To the fans. To my family—my brothers, Kill John—you guys are my backbone."

There's another pause, a long beat of silence that feels heavier than the last. Whip looks down for a moment, almost as if gathering himself, before he lifts his head, "To the special woman who taught me to stand on my own. Jules, this one's for you. Thank you so much, love," he says, his voice softer now, but just as full of emotion.

At that moment, the people around me turn to look, but I barely notice. My heart tightens so painfully it feels like I can't breathe for a second. All the weight of the journey we've shared—the struggles, the growth, everything—is captured in that simple, quiet dedication.

The final category comes up: Album of the Year. It's the big one, the one everyone's holding their breath for.

"...and the Grammy goes to: William!"

The crowd loses it. Even the nominees cheer. The camera pans to an artist across the room, clapping wildly.

When Whip takes the stage, he shakes his head, hands gripping the edges of the podium. "I genuinely don't deserve this. Any of this," he says, his voice rough, unfiltered. The crowd erupts, cheering like mad, but he raises a hand to calm them, his thoughts already spilling out.

"If anything, Unbreakable should've won." He gestures to the artist in the crowd, his grin crooked but sincere. "That album? A godsend. Got me through some real shit." He winces, then laughs as his hand shoots up to cover his mouth despite already letting the curse word slip. "Oops! Can't say that here." The audience roars, eating up his self-deprecating charm, and Whip just shakes his head again, clearly overwhelmed.

"I'm inspired by all of you," he says, his voice steady now. "Every single one of you in this room. You make me want to keep going, to keep creating, to keep finding ways to connect. And I hope you'll all stick around for the ride, because I'm just getting started."

He raises the Grammy one last time, his face a mix of gratitude and triumph, before walking off stage to thunderous applause.

And me?

I'm sitting there, my heart lodged in my throat, watching the man I've always believed in prove to the world what I already knew. Whip Dexter is unstoppable. But somewhere in the middle of all that pride and awe is a sharp ache, because I know, deep down, that he's so much farther away from me than ever before.

As the night goes on, I can't shake the weight in my chest. I'm proud of him, so proud it hurts. But there's an ache too, a longing I can't ignore. Because no matter how far we've come, no matter how much we've both achieved, there's still a chasm between us.

The after-party is already underway, but I'm still rooted to my seat. The girls I manage are on cloud nine after the night's wins, and rightly so—they've made history in their own right. But my thoughts are stuck elsewhere, on a certain drummer who's just swept the awards like it was nothing.

I shake the thoughts away, plastering on a smile for the girls as they head off to celebrate, promising to behave. I stand to leave, weaving through the crowd. The glitz, the noise—it's all a bit much. I need air, a moment to ground myself.

But before I can make it to the exit, someone steps into my path.

"Jules."

The woman's voice is smooth, low, and instantly commanding. She's tall, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that screams money and power. Her dark hair is pulled into a severe bun, and her sharp red lipstick contrasts against her pale skin. There's something about her face—familiar, but I can't place it.

"Yes?" I say, keeping my tone polite but guarded.

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You're with William, aren't you?"

My stomach tightens at the way she says his name, like it's a slur. "I used to work for Kill John," I clarify. "I'm not with them anymore."

The woman's expression doesn't change, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe. "Interesting," she murmurs. "But I'm sure you still keep tabs. After all, who wouldn't?"

"Can I help you with something?" I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the unease crawling up my spine.

She steps closer, invading my space in a way that makes my instincts scream to back away. "I was at Tommy's show," she says, her tone conversational, but there's venom laced beneath the surface.

I blink, thrown by the sudden shift. "Tommy's show?"

"You know," she says, tilting her head. "The one where your golden boy decided to get clever during the Q&A. I was the woman who asked those questions."

My blood runs cold as the memory clicks into place. The woman at Tommy O'Donnell's evening talkshow Whip had put in her place.

"I don't see what that has to do with me," I say carefully.

Her smile widens, but it's all teeth. "It has everything to do with you. You know William. You care about him."

I don't respond, and she takes that as confirmation.

"I'll cut to the chase," she says, her voice dropping. "He pissed me off. Pissed off the wrong person. And now, I have every intention of making sure he knows it."

"What do you mean?" I ask, my pulse quickening.

​​The woman's gaze sharpens, her lips twisting into a humorless smile as she watches me absorb her words. "You're wondering why I care. Why I'd waste my time on a drummer, of all things." She clicks her tongue, almost like she pities me. "Let me spell it out for you."

I don't say anything, but my silence is invitation enough.

"People like William Dexter disrupt the status quo," she says, her voice low and deliberate. "This industry thrives on predictability. Stars rise and fall according to plan—our plan. We prop them up, build them, tear them down when the market needs fresh blood. But William? He's rogue. He doesn't play by the rules. He didn't schmooze the right people, didn't follow the golden path laid out for Kill John. Instead, he disappears, builds a damn empire in secret, and then drops a masterpiece that shatters expectations. And now everyone's looking at him, wondering why the rest of us couldn't see it sooner."

She steps closer, her perfume sharp and cloying, her voice a needle in my ear. "People are questioning the system. My system. They're asking if there are others like him, if the machine we've built is flawed. Do you understand how dangerous that is? How much money, power, and control is at stake here?"

The anger in her voice is measured, but it's there—simmering beneath the surface. She's not just irritated; she's threatened. And that realization sends a shiver down my spine.

"This isn't about bruised ego," she continues, her eyes narrowing. "It's about survival. He's a reminder to every artist out there that they don't need us. That they can break away, do their own thing, and win. That kind of idea spreads, Jules. And if it does, it'll be the end of everything we've built."

I swallow hard, my pulse racing. "So what do you want from me?"

Her smile returns, icy and triumphant. "Simple. Keep your mouth shut. Don't tell Kill John. Don't warn William. Don't get involved."

"And if I do?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Her expression hardens. "Then I'll make sure you're the one who pays."

I blink, thrown off. "Me?"

"You think you're untouchable just because you're not with Kill John anymore?" she sneers. "Don't kid yourself, Jules. You've made a name for yourself in this business, sure—but names can be erased. I know people. I can have your clients blacklisted in a heartbeat. You'll be a pariah. No one will hire you. No one will touch you. Your career, your reputation, everything you've built—it'll be gone. And don't think for a second I can't do it."

Her words hit like a slap, each one landing harder than the last. She's not bluffing. I can see it in the calculated way she watches me, the confidence in her stance.

But then, she leans in closer, her voice dropping even lower. "And as for William? He's not untouchable either. You think he's safe just because the world's in love with him right now? Fame is fragile, Jules. All it takes is one well-placed rumor, one 'leak,' and his career is in free fall. I could have every tabloid in this world printing dirt on him by morning. Real or not, it doesn't matter—perception is everything. He's already got eyes on him for being a solo act breaking out of a band. It wouldn't take much to plant the seed that he's difficult, unstable, maybe even dangerous to work with. Studios will drop him. Collaborators will distance themselves. He'll be untouchable in all the ways that count."

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. "Why? Why go this far? What did he do to deserve this?"

She tilts her head, her expression a cruel mix of pity and disdain. "He made me look weak," she snaps, the first crack in her icy composure. "He pulled off something I tried to sabotage—twice. That orchestra at the EMA's? That was me. I was supposed to tank him, make him falter in front of the world. But somehow, he pulled it off. Made me look like an idiot. And I don't let that slide."

Her words hang in the air like a death sentence, her voice dripping with venom.

"I don't care how talented he is," she continues. "He pissed off the wrong person, and now he's going to learn what happens when you cross me. But you? You've got a choice. Keep quiet, and you'll stay out of this mess. Speak up, and I'll ruin you both."

I can barely breathe. My mind is spinning, torn between the urge to run straight to Whip and the crushing fear of what she's capable of.

She straightens, smoothing down the front of her dress. "Think about it, Jules," she says lightly, as though we've just been discussing the weather. "But not too long. You wouldn't want to lose what you've worked so hard to build."

And with that, she walks away, leaving me standing there, heart pounding and mind racing.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?