Chapter 26

Jules

I've never been one to sit back and do nothing. It's not in my nature. But as I stare at the endless stream of emails on my laptop, my chest feels like it's in a vice. Each click of the keyboard brings me closer to a truth I don't want to face but need to. That woman—her cold voice, her calculating words—has haunted me every damn second since the Grammys.

You're with William, right? The question echoes in my mind, laced with venom. Every time I think about her threat, my stomach twists. I didn't know one person could wield so much power. And now, she's made him her target. Whip. Sweet, innocent Whip, who wouldn't see this coming if it smacked him upside the head.

I scroll through another article, barely processing the words. Her face is burned into my memory, but there's no name to attach to it. Not yet. All I know is that she has ties to production teams—and enough pull to sabotage Whip's career with the snap of her fingers.

My phone buzzes, a notification flashing across the screen. It's a reply from a contact I reached out to last night, a producer I met years ago at a music festival. "Sounds familiar. Could be Madison Vaughn. Used to run a high-profile music consultancy, but now she's one of the most powerful producers in the business. She's been involved in shaping the industry's biggest collaborations. Check recent AMA collabs."

Madison Vaughn. The name sends a chill down my spine. I quickly open a new tab, searching for her. Pictures flood the screen: her standing with Grammy winners, her name in headlines alongside top-tier artists. Of course, she's everywhere. She's one of those people who operates just under the radar until you start looking.

I skim through her history, piecing together her rise in the industry. She started small, managing classical musicians, but made a name for herself by branching into pop and rock crossovers. She's known for being ruthless, a perfectionist who doesn't take no for an answer. And apparently, she holds grudges.

This isn't just about Whip's music. It's about control. She's pissed that he didn't crumble under her sabotage at the EMAs. And now she's out for blood.

"Dammit," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. I close my laptop and lean back, staring at the ceiling. How the hell am I supposed to stop someone like her?

The only thing I can do is stay ahead of her. If I can figure out her next move, I might be able to block it before it happens. But that means keeping Whip—and the rest of Kill John—in the dark. If they find out, they'll go after her, and that'll only make things worse.

The days blur together, an endless loop of stress and unanswered questions. My mornings are spent fielding emails for my job, pouring over scheduling conflicts, brand negotiations, and other managerial crap I could do in my sleep. But my nights are mine. That's when I pull up my laptop, sit in my tiny apartment, and dig.

Every lead I get is a dead end. Every connection I chase turns into a maze. Madison Vaughn has her professional life polished to perfection and her personal life locked up tight. The deeper I dig, the more paranoid I become. She has resources, power, people in her pocket. How the hell am I supposed to go up against someone like her?

My desk is covered in sticky notes—scribbled names, meeting times, a web of connections I've taped together like some conspiracy theorist losing their grip on reality.

I slam my laptop shut, the sound echoing in the quiet of my apartment. My hands press over my face, fingers digging into my temples. Sleep hasn't been an option for days now. Not with this gnawing sense of urgency, this constant weight pressing on my chest. Not when there's a woman out there—someone with resources, connections, and malicious intent—threatening Whip. His career. His life.

Three days later, I'm at my desk, hunched over a list of Madison Vaughn's business contacts, when the buzzing of my phone cuts through the heavy silence, snapping me out of my spiral. I glance at the screen. Whip.

The text is simple, unassuming.

Whip: What are you doing?

I stare at the words, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. If I answer too quickly, he'll know I've been staring at my phone, waiting for him to reach out. But if I take too long, he'll think I'm avoiding him—which, let's be real, I kind of am.

I finally type.

Me: Working.

Whip: When are you not working? Come hang out.

It's so casual, so Whip, and it sends a pang straight through me. I don't answer.

Two hours later, another text lights up the screen.

Whip: You ghosting me? Don't tell me you've gone all Hollywood now that you're running an award-winning girl band. Too cool for your old friends, huh?

My chest tightens. I hate this. Hate the way guilt worms its way into my gut, threatening to undo the walls I've built around myself.

Still, I don't reply.

Another hour passes.

Whip: Okay, so either you're ignoring me, or you've been kidnapped by aliens. If it's the aliens, blink twice.

Then, almost immediately after:

Whip: Wait. How would I see you blink if you're with aliens? This plan has flaws.

I should respond. I should. But I don't.

The next text comes later in the evening.

Whip: Jules. Seriously. Are you okay?

The humor is gone now. It's just him, direct and unguarded. Concerned. And it's worse this way. So much worse.

I stare at the screen, my chest tightening until it feels like I might burst. I want to tell him I'm fine, that everything's okay, but the words won't come. Because it's not okay. None of it is okay.

I shove the phone aside and bury myself in work again. It's the only way I know how to keep the cracks from widening. The only way I can stop myself from falling apart.

The calls start the next day.

At first, I let them go to voicemail, staring at his name lighting up my screen until the vibration fades into silence. Whip doesn't give up easily, though. That's the thing about him. He pushes. Not with force, but with this relentless, unyielding kind of patience.

But today, my phone feels like a loaded gun.

Because just an hour before his first call, an email slid into my inbox, and it's been gnawing at the edges of my composure ever since.

The subject line was blank. The sender was untraceable. But the attachment? That's what's keeping me glued to my desk, my stomach twisted in knots.

I clicked on it hesitantly, my breath held tight in my lungs. And there it was: a grainy, zoomed-in photo of Whip carrying me out of the bar last week. His arms wrapped securely around me, his expression shadowed but unmistakably worried.

The message that accompanied it was short and razor-sharp:

Tread carefully, or you'll regret it.

My hands trembled as I printed out the email, but it didn't matter. The image and its implications are seared into my mind. There's no room for denial anymore. The threat is real.

So when Whip's name lights up my phone for the fifth time that day, I finally cave. My voice is clipped, my tone sharp enough to keep him at a distance.

"What's up?"

There's a beat of silence, then his voice—low, rough, and far too perceptive—spills through the line. "What's up?" he repeats, incredulity and frustration woven into every word. "Where are you, Jules?"

"Why?"

"Because I haven't heard from you in days, and you sound like you're barely holding it together."

"I'm busy."

"Bullshit."

The single word punches through my defenses, sharp and unforgiving. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. "I'm fine, Whip. You know how tough the industry is."

"No," he snaps, the sharp edge in his tone cutting deep. "I don't know how it is because you won't talk to me. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Liar."

The accusation lands like a blow to the chest, knocking the air out of me. My fingers tighten around the phone, knuckles white. The photo flashes in my mind again—Whip's worried face, my limp body—and guilt claws at my throat.

"I can't do this right now," I manage, my voice under the strain.

"Jules." His voice softens, and somehow, that's worse. It's a warmth I can't let myself feel, not now. Not when everything is hanging by a thread. "I'm not trying to push you. I just—" He exhales, the sound heavy, frustrated, desperate. "I just want to help."

And there it is. That simple, earnest offer. It makes my throat tighten, my resolve weaken. Because I want to let him help. I want to hand over this suffocating weight and let someone else carry it for a while.

But I can't.

There's too much at stake.

Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating.

"Please," he says softly, the word wrapping around me like a plea and a demand all at once.

I press my hand to my chest, as if I can physically hold myself together, keep from unraveling completely.

"I have to go," I whisper, cutting the call before I can hear his response.

The silence that follows is deafening, and I let it drown me. Because it's easier this way. It has to be.

But as I turn back to my laptop, that photo feels burned into my vision. It's not just a reminder of the stakes—it's fuel.

Whip's voice, soft and full of concern, echoes in my mind, but instead of haunting me, it hardens something deep in my chest. I can't crumble now. I won't. If someone's out there trying to hurt him, then they're going to have to go through me first.

Fear might be there, creeping in the corners of my mind, but it doesn't rule me. No, this is something else entirely. This is fire.

I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as the email address mocks me—a dead end. A no-reply message. Smart.

But that's not enough to stop me. Whoever sent this thinks they've covered their tracks, but I've been doing this long enough to know that no one's invisible. Not really.

I pull up a fresh tab and start a new search. The address itself doesn't give me anything, but if there's one thing Scottie taught me, it's that there's always more than one way to dig deeper. Metadata, routing data—there's always a trail, and I know exactly how to follow it.

The clock ticks past midnight, but I'm in no mood to sleep. I can feel my pulse picking up pace, the adrenaline finally kicking in.

This is how it's going to go. I won't chase the dead ends. I won't waste time. I'll follow the smallest leads—find out who handles the server hosting this no-reply address, track it back to the source. They'll make a mistake. They always do.

I'm starting to put together a plan. I send out an email to a few trusted contacts in the tech world—people who can help me track this. Not just the basic things like IP addresses, but the less obvious connections—who else has access to this kind of data, who might have sent the message, and who stands to gain from the chaos they're trying to cause.

I don't know if I'll get anything useful back tonight. I don't even care. What matters is that I'm moving. I'm no longer just reacting to threats. I'm becoming the one they should be scared of.

I can feel the tension in my muscles as I scroll through the data again, refreshing pages, checking results. One of my contacts pings me back, asking for some more specifics. I send the details, as calm and collected as I can manage, though inside I'm an explosive mess.

Then, as if the universe is listening, a little ping pops up. A response from another contact—a tech analyst I'd worked with a while ago, someone who owed me a favor.

"Found something. It's a shadow account, hidden deep. But there's an IP. Send me the timestamp for the email, and I'll dig further."

I sit up straighter, heart pounding in my chest. This is it.

I shoot back the details, fingers flying over the keys, and then lean back in my chair, waiting.

I'm closer than I've been all week.

This woman thinks she's playing a game, but I'm done being the pawn. I'm taking control. I won't stop until I've uncovered her, every last detail, and until Whip is safe from whatever she's plotting.

And if I have to bring the whole world down to do it, then so be it.

The clock ticks again, the silence in my apartment deafening as I wait for the next piece of information. Every minute that passes feels like a second closer to the truth.

There's no turning back now.

This bitch is going down.