Chapter 24

Jules

I'm in a daze.

Everything around me—the glittering gowns, the flash of cameras, the hum of conversation—is distant, muted, like I'm floating outside my body. Her words echo in my head, coiling around my thoughts like a snake. "You think he's untouchable? Fame is fragile, Jules."

I feel sick. I can't let her get away with this. But what the hell can I even do?

And then, like a cruel twist of fate, I see them. Kill John. In the distance, the group stands out like they always do, larger than life. Rye's laughing at something, his head thrown back, while Killian's saying something to Libby, his hand tucked protectively around her waist. I freeze on instinct, a deer caught in headlights. Maybe if I turn around fast enough, I can slip away before—

Too late. Whip's gaze catches mine.

It's like he zeroes in on me through the crowd, his eyes locking onto mine with pinpoint precision. My stomach flips. I can't move, can't duck away. Instead, I watch helplessly as he excuses himself from the group and makes his way toward me. His stride is relaxed, but there's something in the way he holds himself that feels... deliberate.

"Jules," he says, his voice warm and a little breathless, like maybe he hurried to get here. "Hey."

"Whip," I manage, hoping I sound normal. Hoping he doesn't see the absolute chaos swirling behind my eyes.

His smile is crooked, a little sheepish. "Congrats. On your girls, I mean. They killed it this year. You've been doing amazing things with them."

I force a smile, even though my chest feels tight. "Thanks. And congrats to you. You, uh... had a big night."

He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, kinda wild, huh? Still trying to wrap my head around it."

He pauses for a moment, looking at me, his eyes sincere. "Jules, I just... I really want to thank you. For everything. For being there, for believing in me, especially when I didn't even believe in myself. That night you found out about the music... I was scared. But you made it okay. So, thank you."

My heart tightens, a rush of warmth flooding my face. It feels like the world just stopped spinning, like I might collapse from the weight of it. His words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I blink rapidly, trying to push back the flood of emotions that rise up, swallowing hard as I struggle to find the words.

Before I can think of a response, he shifts a little closer, lowering his voice. "Listen, Kill John's not sticking around for the afterparty. We're gonna hit a bar instead, something low-key. You should come. We could... catch up."

My heart lurches. "Oh, I don't think—"

"Jules," he says, cutting me off gently but firmly. His gaze is steady, disarming. "Come on. It's been forever. Just a drink."

"I really can't—"

"Jules!" Rye's voice booms across the space, and suddenly, the rest of them are surrounding us, their energy like a tidal wave.

"Hey, Jules!" Killian grins, clapping me on the shoulder. "You have to come with us. It's non-negotiable."

"I—"

"You're coming," Jax says, his tone so welcoming it's impossible to argue. "It'll be fun."

And just like that, I'm swept up in the current, swept away to a bar I never wanted to go to in the first place.

The bar hums with noise—Kill John's laughter, the clink of glasses, the low thrum of music. It all feels muted, distant. Like I'm underwater, barely able to focus on anything but the storm raging in my head.

I don't even remember agreeing to come here, but somehow I'm wedged into a corner booth with the band. My work phone is in my hand, and I'm scrolling aimlessly through my notes app, pretending to check schedules while my mind spins in a million directions.

I need to find her. That woman. The one who's somehow turned my entire life into a threat with a few sharp words. She said she had power in the industry, but what kind of power? What position does she hold? Is she a producer? A studio exec? A publicist with connections?

I pull up my browser, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I can't exactly search mysterious psycho who hates Whip Dexter. No, I have to be smart about this. Start small. Piece things together.

She said she was the one who tried to sabotage him at the EMA's. Something about the orchestra. I pull up old articles about the event, scanning headlines for any mention of production issues or unexpected changes. There—an article about last-minute drama with the musical arrangement. No names mentioned, but it's a lead.

Next, I switch to social media. It's a long shot, but maybe there's something. Anything. I search for posts tagged with Whip's EMA performance, scrolling through endless fan reactions until I stumble across a behind-the-scenes clip. In it, there's a flash of someone in the background—a woman, tall and poised, directing people with a clipboard in hand. The video's too blurry to confirm it's her, but it's enough to set my nerves on edge.

Who is she?

I feel a surge of determination, my heart pounding as a plan begins to form. I'll dig deeper, figure out her name, her role, her history. If she's made enemies in the past, someone will know. Someone will talk. And when I have enough leverage, enough proof, I'll decide what to do.

But then what?

The question slams into me, stopping my frantic thoughts in their tracks. What happens when I have her name, her dirt, her weaknesses? Do I confront her? Report her? Warn Whip?

No. I can't warn him. Not yet. Not with her threat hanging over me.

My hands tremble as I lock my phone and set it down on the table, facedown, like that'll somehow block out the weight of the notifications. For the first time in my career, I feel like I'm drowning, completely out of my depth.

Then Whip slides into the seat beside me, his presence a quiet anchor cutting through the storm in my head.

"Still working?" he asks, his tone light, teasing, but there's a thread of concern woven into it, subtle but impossible to miss.

I flinch, startled, like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't. "What? No. Just...checking a few things."

His gaze drops to my phone, then back to me. His brow quirks, skeptical. "You sure about that? You look like you're two seconds away from solving world peace."

"Ha, hilarious," I mutter, curling my fingers tighter around the phone as if that'll steady me.

He leans back slightly, tilting his head as he studies me. It's the same way he always does, like he's peeling back layers, trying to see the parts of me I'd rather keep hidden. It's maddening. And, of course, endearing, because it's him.

"You've been quiet all night," he says after a pause, his voice softer now. "More than usual. That's not like you."

I plaster on a smile, the kind I know won't fool him but might buy me a second to breathe. "I'm fine. Just tired, that's all."

"Jules," he says my name like it's a question and a plea all at once, his voice dropping lower, quiet enough that it's meant for me and me alone. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I snap, too fast, the word ricocheting between us like a bullet. Whip's brows shoot up in surprise, and guilt knots in my stomach almost instantly. "I mean..." I stumble, softer now, "nothing's wrong. It's just work. Stressful."

"Work," he echoes. His eyes stay fixed on mine, sharp and steady, seeing too much. "You're always working. You live for this stuff."

"Yeah, well," I say with a shrug that feels too loose, too forced, "sometimes it's a lot. Even for me."

The silence between us stretches, heavy and taut. I can feel his gaze, feel him sorting through my words, weighing them against what he knows. For a second, I brace myself for him to push, to call me out. But instead, he exhales, long and quiet, and leans forward, his elbows resting on the table.

"Alright," he says, his tone lighter now, almost casual, though the worry in his eyes lingers. "If you say so."

I nod quickly, swallowing the tightness in my throat, and then—because I need something to do with my hands—I reach for his whiskey.

"Great. Glad we're clear," I say, grabbing the glass before he can react.

"Wait—"

I tip it back in one go, the burn sliding down my throat and spreading warmth through my chest. The glass hits the table with a solid thunk as I set it down, ignoring the way Whip's staring at me like I've just grown horns.

"What the hell was that?" he says, bewildered, gesturing to the now-empty glass.

"What?" I shoot back, raising a brow. "I can't have a drink?"

"Not my drink," he says, but there's no real heat to it, just confusion.

Before he can say more, I catch the bartender's attention. "Another, please."

"Jules—"

"What?" I cut him off again, sharper this time. "This is a celebration, right? So let's celebrate."

The bartender sets a fresh glass in front of me, and I grab it before Whip has the chance to pull it out of reach. I take a long sip, the warmth dulling the edges of my fear, my doubt, my guilt.

Across the table, Whip's watching me, his expression tight. Worry is etched into every line of his face, but there's something else there too—something that makes my chest ache if I look at it too long.

But I don't care. I can't care. Not right now.

"Jules," he tries again, quieter this time, but I shake my head, forcing a grin that feels brittle enough to shatter.

"Relax," I say, lifting the glass in mock toast. "I'm fine. Really."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't argue either. He just leans back, his hands loosely folded, watching as I take another sip.

And as the whiskey works its way through my system, the tension in my chest begins to ebb. For now, it's enough. I can't fix this mess tonight.

But I can forget it. At least for a little while.