7

Anya’s pov

Ethan's voice cuts through the door: "It doesn't matter what you want, Kai! The sponsors are breathing down my neck. If you don't finish this tour, the breach of contract lawsuits will bury you. You’ll be in a courtroom for the next ten years, and they’ll take every cent you have left!"

Kai's gravelly reply: "Let them take it. I can't play, Ethan. I'm a circus act now. And you brought a vulture on board to narrate my funeral."

Ethan: "Anya Sharma is your insurance policy. Without her 'authorized' story, the police are going to keep digging into that night. You want the truth of that crash to stay buried? Then you make her believe you're a victim of fate, not a liability."

Anya’s heart hammers. What truth? She presses closer to the wood, her journalistic instincts screaming. This is the "dirt" she needs.

Suddenly, the door handle turns.

The door didn’t just open; it was yanked back with such violence that I stumbled forward, my hands flying out to catch myself against the doorframe.

Ethan stood there, his face a mask of cold, corporate disappointment. He didn't look surprised; he looked like he’d caught a bug he was deciding whether to crush or study. Behind him, the room was a wreckage of shadows. Kai was standing now, swaying slightly, his bare chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat that caught the purple light.

"The help usually waits for a summons, Anya," Ethan said, his voice a smooth, dangerous silk. "Not a front-row seat to a private conversation."

I scrambled to find my footing, my face burning. "I was bringing the tray. I heard shouting. I thought... I thought someone was hurt."

"Someone is hurt, you pathetic parasite," Kai growled. He took a step toward me, his movements jagged and uncoordinated. The heavy white bandage on his left hand looked like a club in the dim light. He stopped just inches from me, his height and the raw, masculine heat radiating off his body making the hallway feel like an oven. "You’re already digging, aren't you? Trying to find the 'truth' Ethan mentioned? Searching for the blood on the pavement?"

"I’m doing my job," I snapped, my voice trembling but holding its ground. "You want to talk about truth? The truth is you’re a liability, Kai. Ethan just said it. If the police are still digging, it means you’re hiding something. What was it? Were you high? Was there someone else in the car?"

The air in the room vanished. Kai’s good hand shot out, not to strike, but to slam against the wall right next to my head. The sound was like a gunshot. He leaned in, his face so close I could smell the sharp tang of the amber liquor and the deep, dark scent of expensive tobacco and skin.

"You want to know what I’m hiding?" he whispered, his stormy eyes boring into mine with a hatred so concentrated it felt electric. "I’m hiding the fact that I’d rather go to prison than spend another thirty days breathing the same air as a Sharma. You want your story? Write this: I am a man with nothing left to lose, which makes me the most dangerous person you’ve ever met."

"That’s enough," Ethan interrupted, stepping between us with the practiced ease of a lion tamer. He didn't look at Kai; he looked at me. "Anya, go to your bunk. Now. We’ll be at the first tour stop by morning. You have a schedule to memorize."

I didn't wait for a second invitation. I turned and fled down the corridor, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. Prison. Police. The truth of that night. The words looped in my brain like a broken record. My journalistic instinct—The Critic was screaming that there was a body buried in this narrative, and I was the only one with the shovel.

I reached my bunk, a cramped, high-tech cubby with a heavy curtain. I crawled inside, pulling the fabric shut and hugging my messenger bag to my chest. The North Star documents crinkled under my touch. Thirty days, I reminded myself. Just thirty days for the money.

But as the bus began to move, the low hum of the engine vibrating through my mattress, a new thought took hold. If I found the evidence of his negligence—if I found what the police were looking for—I wouldn’t just have a story. I would have total leverage. I could ruin him and Ethan both.

I must have drifted into a fitful sleep, haunted by images of twisted metal and green eyes filled with fire.

I was jolted awake by a sound that didn't belong on a luxury tour bus. It wasn't the engine or the wind. It was a low, muffled cry. A sound of absolute, unmitigated agony.

I checked my phone. 3:14 AM.

The sound came again, coming from the back of the bus. From the master suite. It wasn't the angry roar of a rock star; it was the whimpering of a wounded animal.

Against every instinct of self-preservation, I slid out of my bunk. The bus was silent, the rest of the crew seemingly dead to the world. I crept down the dark hallway, my bare feet silent on the carpet. As I approached the door to the suite, I saw it was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out onto the floor.

I peered through the crack.

Kai was on the floor, slumped against the base of the chaise lounge. His good hand was clawing at the thick bandages on his left hand, his teeth gritted so hard I could hear them grinding. He was shivering, his skin pale and clammy in the moonlight streaming through the window.

"Please," he gasped, a broken, breathless sound. "Not again. Not the fire."

He wasn't just in pain; he was in the middle of a night terror so violent his whole body was convulsing. His bandaged hand struck the edge of the metal frame, and he let out a choked scream of pure, visceral torture.

I should have walked away. I should have gone to find Ethan or Ben. But as I watched him… this man I had spent years tearing down—I saw something that wasn't in any of my articles. I saw a man who wasn't just losing his career, but his mind and sanity.

I pushed the door open an inch further, intending to call out his name, but my eyes caught something on the bedside table.

Lying next to an empty pill bottle was a small, crumpled photograph. It was old, the edges yellowed. In the dim light, I could just make out the figures: a much younger Kai, smiling—actually smiling—standing next to a woman who looked exactly like my mother.

My bloodimmediately turned to ice. My mother had never mentioned knowing the Rhodes family before the marriage.

Before I could process the image, Kai’s head snapped toward the door. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely glazed over. He didn't see Anya the PA. He didn't see the Critic.

He lunged toward me with a desperate, terrifying strength, his good hand catching my throat and pinning me against the doorframe before I could even scream.

"Why did you leave us?" he choked out, his grip tightening as he stared through me at a ghost. "Why did you let him take you?"

The bus hit a sharp turn, and the door slammed shut behind us, locking with an electronic click that echoed like a death sound in the silent room.