Chapter 1
Figure It Out

 

Liam 

 

“The thunder rolls, the sky turns black,
There’s no going forward, there’s no turning back.
The chaos screams louder, it drowns me out,

 A deafening silence full of doubt.

 I can feel the weight, I can feel the strain,

 But I can’t fix what I can’t explain.”

 

– “Figure It Out”, Revelations, Album No. 6, 2024
 

 

“Liam Teller.”

The voice was smooth. Confident. Not the kind that belonged to a fan.

I turned. She was magazine-perfect, the kind of polished trouble you saw coming a mile away.

“The one and only,” I said, lifting my whiskey.

“Knew it. My girls and I are in town for a modelling gig—we love HGT.”

I leaned against the bar at the Soho Grand Lounge, nursing a whiskey neat—basically a shot dressed in class. But language mattered.

Order high-end whiskey neat, and bartenders treated you like someone who knew what they were doing. Serious. Uncomplicated.

I wasn’t either of those things anymore.

These days, flying under the radar was nearly impossible. 

Overexposed to the ninth degree. 

No wonder fans came in confident. Familiarity bred boldness.

“We saw you in L.A. last year. Heart Lines tour. That show? Deadly.”

She emphasized it like the word itself carried the weight of her whole experience. Eyes lit.

“We’re here all week,” she went on, tucking a dark strand behind her ear. “We were grabbing drinks before dinner when we spotted you. Felt… fated.”

A blush bloomed on her cheekbones. 

“I’ve always wanted to meet you. You’re my number one celebrity obsession.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the honesty.

“Well,” I said, taking another sip. “I’m flattered.”

It felt like slipping into a role—one I’d been rehearsing all night.

The headlines had their version of me:

 The bad-boy heartthrob, 

 The reckless rock star, 

 The tabloid favourite.

“You really are modest, huh?” her smile widening in a way I didn’t think possible.

 Behind her, the clink of glasses echoed through the room. A lounge pianist played a slow, haunting version of “The Way You Look Tonight”, and the chords curled around us like smoke.

The truth? I wasn’t the excess. Or the ego. I held the band together.

 Managed the chaos.

 Took the hits so they didn’t have to. 

I’d hoped for a reprieve tonight—maybe a moment of peace.

 But I knew better.

So I turned on the charm. Put on the show.

 Because I was Liam Teller—lead guitarist, and reluctant figurehead of one of the biggest bands in the world.

 A role I didn’t take lightly.

 A role I shared with Emma Hartgrave.

Emma—the star. The voice. The flame at the centre of everything.

To the world, we were The Hartgrave Tellers.

 Genre-defying. Stadium-filling.

The sound of a generation. 

“The energy you guys have—the artistry, the way you live the lyrics, own the stage…”

 She lifted her hands as if she could catch it, hold it.

 “It’s hard to explain, but it felt like watching legends. Especially you and Emma. The way you two—”

She stopped.

Right there.

A split-second hesitation—I caught it before she did—the flicker in her eyes. 

The way my expression shifted—sharp and unguarded.

I saw it land—.

That realization that she’d just veered into dangerous territory.

They always did. 

They saw the way Emma and I moved, like two halves of the same storm—circling, colliding—until one of us pulled away. 

Fans spun stories, built myths, wrote songs and fanfiction about us. 

But they didn’t know the half of it. 

They didn’t know how close to the edge we lived. 

And tonight?

I felt all of it. 

She shifted, trying to recover.

“I’m hovering,” she gestured to the stool beside me. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Go on, then.”

Sinking into the chair gracefully, she crossed her legs, the picture of effortless confidence. 

“You know,” her voice lifted slightly, “I think Heartbreakers is my favourite album.”

Not surprising. 

It was our third album. 

The one that catapulted us into the stratosphere. 

The fame. The recognition. The adoration. 

It was everything we had dreamed of when we started out.

But in reality, that album was a double-edged sword. For us, it wasn’t just music—it was survival. Barely.

“I love all the tracks on that album,” her eyes locked onto mine. “But ‘Dark Desires’? That track sends me.”

That track sold us. But it nearly broke us.

Produced by the infamous Henry Mac—a menace in a Prada suit—it was a track and an album built for excess and desire. 

And the video?

Henry Mac’s twisted version of us. He used the intimacy between us to sell that song. We were on display for the world to see.

It solidified our allure, cemented our image as both fantasy and untouchable rock stars, and it locked me into a role I could never quite escape. 

I went from the magnetic, obsessively talented guitarist and frontman—rock’s Prince Charming—to Liam Teller, the bad boy of rock and roll.

And Emma?

She went from a fashion it girl, an introspective poet and musician with substance and a past—to a pinup girl.

It was a lot—a lot of attention. A lot of expectation. A lot of scrutiny.

Sometimes, it was too much.

I’d lost count of how many times I’d heard fans reference ‘Dark Desires’, ‘Let the Games Begin’, ‘Queen of All Kings’, or ‘Dangerous Addiction’—usually young women, typically when they were trying to flirt.

It never worked.

Because they didn’t know the truth behind those tracks. Behind that album.

It was bloody torture.

I could feel the move coming now.

It was in the way she leaned against the bar, her confidence sharp and deliberate, like she had nothing to lose. The kind of woman who knew exactly what she wanted—and assumed she could get it. 

Her perfume lingered in the air between us—vanilla, but with something darker underneath.

“Well, you certainly are impressive—live and in person. Especially with that accent,” She bit her bottom lip, gaze flicking over me. 

My eyes met hers, measured, controlled.  

She was beautiful. I didn’t care.

Tonight, I had more important things on my mind. 

I wasn’t about to let anyone—or anything—distract me from being exactly who I wanted to be.

And that was whatever Emma needed me to be. Even if it wasn’t what I needed.

Supportive best friend. Bandmate. Creative partner. Tux-wearing, red-carpet-strutting frontman counterpart to her frontwoman. The polished-up, all-eyes-on-us duo of The Hartgrave Tellers.

Because this? 

This was Emma’s night.

A fashion gala launching her Valois collab—and our new album, Revelations. 

The press frenzy surrounding it had been meticulously orchestrated by our managers and the label, turning this week into a relentless whirlwind of interviews, appearances, and photo ops. 

I was bracing myself for all of it, pacing my energy, knowing I’d need every ounce of focus I had to make it through. 

The woman at the bar leaned in closer, lips curling into a playful smile, tilting her head just enough to send the message loud and clear.

“So,” her voice warm and inviting, “what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

I could handle that.

I raised a hand to summon the bartender, offering her a small nod. 

“Well?” I asked, friendly but detached, tilting my head slightly as I gestured towards the young woman with a questioning look.

“It’s Charlotte,” she said, smiling coyly.

“Charlotte,” I repeated with a faint grin. “Just asking is a good place to start.” Turning to the bartender, I added, “A drink for Charlotte. Put it on my tab.”

Smile widening, and a flicker of mischief sparking in her eyes, she leaned in closer. “Talented, generous, and charming. What kind of bad boy are you?” 

“Not a very good one,” I replied lightly, taking a slow sip of my whiskey. “Don’t tell anyone.” 

“Your secret’s safe with me, Liam Teller. My friends and I would love it if you came over to our table—see where the night takes us.”

She gestured toward a table across the room where three equally stunning women sat, all in their twenties, laughing and casting coy glances in our direction. They looked like they’d stepped straight out of a glossy magazine, radiating the kind of polished perfection that practically screamed trouble.

I smiled politely, glancing down at my drink.

“Big night ahead,” I said, signaling the bartender. “But your drinks? On me.”

Charlotte’s smile widened. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

I chuckled lightly, shaking my head as I took a casual sip of my whiskey.

“It was lovely to meet you and your friends, Charlotte,” I said with a polite wave. “Enjoy the drinks and your evening.”

The table erupted in giggles and whispers as I stepped back, already beginning to distance myself from the exchange.

“Are you sure?” she pressed, brow quirking in a daring arch, voice laced with just the right amount of challenge. “We’re staying here tonight. You could always join us later, meet us at the hotel bar.”

I opened my mouth to respond, already crafting a polite but firm decline. 

“Liam!” Dan called.

My younger brother, our bassist, and one half of the duo we affectionately—and accurately—refer to as the Chaos Brothers. His partner-in-crime, Max, would be right behind him—no doubt. Dan and Max had been best friends since they were kids—our rhythm section. The pulse of the band. Solid. Unshakable. Like an old married couple—if that couple constantly bickered, caused mayhem, and somehow always managed to land on their feet.

The relief that flooded my system was almost laughable as he strolled up, all swagger and mischief, like he’d timed his entrance for maximum dramatic impact.

“Well, well,” Dan grinned, sliding in beside me. “And who is this vision of loveliness? Please—grant me a name, for that which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.”

Bloody hell. I shook my head. Leave it to Dan to turn a simple introduction into a full on Shakespearean monologue.

Charlotte giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly charmed. “Wow. Shakespeare, huh?”

She flashed a coy smile. “It’s Charlotte.”

Dan pressed a hand to his chest like he’d been fatally struck by Cupid’s arrow.

“Charlotte,” he repeated, savouring the name like a fine wine. “A name as exquisite as the woman who bears it. The poets of old would weep.”

“This,” I said with a dry smile, gesturing toward him with a mock flourish, “is my brother—the infamous Dan Teller. More than capable of keeping you and your friends entertained… for a short while.”

Dan’s grin stretched wider as his gaze flicked toward Charlotte’s table, eyes lighting up like a kid who’d just stumbled upon Christmas morning.

Charlotte arched a brow, smirking. “The Dan Teller?” she teased. “I’ve heard stories. A challenge, they say.”

“Oh, I’m a challenge, no doubt about it,” Dan said smoothly, his grin sharp with mischief. “But the real question, Charlotte, is whether you're ready to find out if I've finally met my match.”

With an exaggerated flourish, he took her hand and pressed a lingering, theatrical kiss to it—holding her gaze the entire time.

I fought the urge to snicker. Christ, he was insufferable.

Right on cue, Max strolled over, his easy grin lighting up his face as he took in the scene. His relaxed confidence was infectious, and he played his part flawlessly.

“Liam,” he greeted, clapping me on the shoulder before glancing at the group. “Ladies—how’s the night treating you so far?”

Charlotte turned back to me, amusement sparking in her eyes. “These two seem…entertaining.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I said, relief washing over me. “I’m off.” 

Max, already halfway to the table, spun back on his heel with a wide grin. “Liam’s buying? Excellent! I’ll take it from here.”

I shook my head, letting out a quiet laugh. “Not too long, lads,” I called after them. “We’ve got the gala in two hours.”

“Please,” he said, voice dripping with exaggerated confidence. “It doesn’t take me that long to get ready.”

“Dan, tonight’s important. For Emma. She needs us on our A-game. No chaos. No distractions.”

For a fleeting moment, his playful bravado dimmed. His grin mellowed, and something more sincere flickered across his face. He met my gaze and nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll behave. I promise.”

Satisfied, I turned back to the bar, downing the rest of my whiskey, and savouring the slow burn as I signaled the bartender to close out my tab.

Better them than me, I thought as I slipped out into the hotel lobby, seeking a moment of quiet to clear my head.

The air was cooler out here. Calmer.

I let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the noise, the expectations—everything.

I cut through the lobby toward the elevator, security falling into step beside me. A few stayed behind to keep an eye on Max and Dan—not that it would stop them from finding trouble. But knowing someone was watching them freed up a little headspace—a headspace that was immediately filled with thoughts of Emma.

Emma was in Chelsea.

I knew—without a doubt—she was sitting in a chair, getting done up to perfection.

And the whole time, the weight of the night was settling on her shoulders.

Silently panicking. Overthinking. Overanalyzing.

Trying to convince herself she had everything under control.

I glanced down at my phone, hoping for something—anything—from her. A message. A missed call. Even a pointless text, just to remind me she was still there.

Nothing.

The need to check in with her gnawed at me—not just for her sake, but for mine too.

Lately, I couldn’t shake the pull she had on me. The need to be close to her. Like she was the only thing keeping me breathing.

I needed to remind her that I was here for her. Again. Always.

I exhaled slowly, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

What the hell was I supposed to say?

‘“You good?’” didn’t seem like enough.

And I couldn’t help but think—how many times had I been in this exact position?

Aching to reach out.

Hesitating.

Not knowing how to say what I really meant.

Fuck it.

Before I could overthink it, I stopped in my tracks and turned to security.

“Change of plans,” I said.

Cliff—our head of security, a six-foot-four wall of muscle with a bald head and the patience of a saint—arched a brow and smirked.

“I’ll message Robby,” he said, already shaking his head.

I smirked back.

Moments later, I was in the SUV, headed to Chelsea—the art gallery, the venue, her.

I stopped at the first coffee shop I could find and grabbed us both a tea.

She hadn’t asked for it—but I knew she needed it.

And if nothing else—it gave me a reason to show up.

​

 

 

 

Chapter 2
Gravity’s Pull

 

Emma

 

“It’s like gravity pulling, moth to a flame

The tide to the beach, the stars in the sky

The pull of the moon, the earth’s spinning axis

No matter the distance, it leads me to you

And I’m unglued”

 

– “Gravity’s Pull”, Chaos in Bloom, Album No. 1, 20177

 

The backstage area buzzed with high-strung, electric mayhem—the final-hour frenzy before a show.”

We were in an art gallery in Chelsea, New York. The walls, lined with contemporary installations and bold, avant-garde pieces, created a striking contrast against the polished world of fashion. But tonight, it wasn’t just an art gallery—it was the epicentre of the season’s most anticipated fashion event.

Valois x Emma Hartgrave.

That was me.

Or at least, that was the version the world knew—the enigmatic,

genre-defying lead singer of The Hartgrave Tellers. The girl with the big voice, bigger dreams, and a runaway heart.

I was the girl who had left home at eighteen with nothing but my guitar, a wing and a prayer—riding off on the back of a motorcycle with a guy I barely knew, desperate to outrun my past. Dreaming of the day I’d become exactly who I was now.

The reality was messier.

Being the frontwoman of a world-renowned band wasn’t just about music. It was a fight—a relentless, chaotic, exhilarating battle to stay ahead of the industry machine, to protect the band, to carve out something real amidst the spectacle.

Our rise was meteoric.

My sister Susie and I were discovered by Wade and Andy—managers, mentors, and chaos-wranglers.

They introduced us to Liam, Max, and Dan—gritty, raw-as-hell British boys touring as The Tellers. Salima came next—a classical dark horse who could play anything with strings. She had depth. Layers. History. Just like us.

Wade and Andy weren’t just looking for another band.

They were searching for the band.

The one that could define a generation. Build a legacy.

The kind of band that could stand shoulder to shoulder with the greats of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s—where real chemistry met real artistry.

The kind that had staying power in an industry built on algorithms and attention spans the length of a scroll.

Somehow, we became it.

Our debut, Chaos in Bloom, hit like a detonation—raw, genre-bending, and impossible to ignore. It shattered expectations, topped every chart from rock to country, earned us countless Grammys, world tours, and a slightly unhinged fanbase. Titan Records signed us fast. Curated the brand. Built the myth.

One day we were writing songs in a dingy loft apartment, fuelled by caffeine and heartbreak—the next, selling out stadiums, drowning in flashes and applause.

We weren’t just a band—we were a moment. And we gave everything to keep it alive.

The Valois collab? Another rung on the ladder. A bid for permanence—something they couldn’t erase.

The air crackled with the frantic, barely contained intensity of a launch night. 

I felt the pressure bearing down on me. My breath turned shallow, my pulse an unwavering drumbeat against my ribs. I’d done this a thousand times.

But this was different.

I sat at the mirror, chaos swirling behind the glass version of me. My hair was wrapped in large curlers, so the cascading glossy waves I was known for would be flawless. The hair stylists worked with meticulous precision. Makeup artists hovered, perfecting every detail—every flick of eyeliner, every sweep of highlighter, every smudge of deep, sultry eyeshadow designed to capture the light just right.

The air was thick with the scent of hairspray, perfume, and expensive fabric—a heady mix of luxury, nerves, and adrenaline. It was the kind of night where every movement, every breath, felt heightened—like standing on the edge of something monumental.

The Valois team moved around me like a well-oiled machine—a seamless orchestra of designers, event coordinators, and assistants, all operating in perfect synchronization. Every detail was triple-checked and then rechecked.

Ashley—our PR manager and self-appointed crisis handler—paced nearby, her voice slicing through the whir of blow dryers and conversation as she barked into her phone.

“No, absolutely not. We’re not addressing those rumours tonight,” she snapped, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Stick to the approved talking points or—no, I don’t care—just what’s approved. That’s it.”

The social media team was already in position, capturing behind-the-scenes moments for the inevitable media frenzy. Cameras flashed, content was filmed and uploaded in real-time, and every movement was curated for maximum impact.

Models lined the space, swarmed by stylists adjusting hems, pinning fabric, and checking accessories. Their faces remained impassive, their bodies draped in the couture pieces that bore my name—designs that had taken months of sketches, revisions, and late-night battles to perfect.

It was a big fucking night. One of many big nights ahead. The Hartgrave Tellers sixth album, Revelations, was dropping in six weeks. We poured everything into this one—every heartbreak, every gut-wrenching moment. 

Getting this album to where it needed to be had been a battle—and then some.

But when Valois reached out?

I didn’t hesitate.

Not for a single damn second.

Maybe I should have. The cracks beneath the surface weren’t just showing—tonight, they were splintering.

And I was about to walk onto a stage. 

A stage where every gaze, every camera, every question would be aimed at dismantling me piece by piece.

Could I survive it this time? 

I didn’t know. 

I was exhausted. 

Our sixth album was in post-production. The sessions were hard. The band had barely been holding it together; my Hollywood-fuelled breakup hadn't helped. 

My ex, Rick Bradley—Hollywood’s golden boy and the newly crowned Superman—was a lot of things: charming, ambitious, impossible to ignore. For just under a year, I lived in his world—a blur of red carpets, award shows, after-parties, and relentless scrutiny. It was dazzling. Intoxicating. And completely suffocating.

When we first met, I thought it would be just a fling—something to distract me, something fleeting. Nothing that could consume me. Rick had other plans. He liked being the leading man, and he liked having a leading lady by his side. And slowly—before I even realized it—I had been cast in a role I never auditioned for.

And the worst part? The grand finale?

Rick had gotten down on one knee in public, ambushing me with a proposal. I had already told him no in private. It was a move so calculated, so perfectly executed, that when I turned him down—because of course I did—I was instantly vilified.

I remember the fight as if it were yesterday.

He had dragged me into the green room at New York Comic Con, his grip on my arm too tight as people congratulated us, oblivious to the storm brewing between us. He had spun me inside, shut the door, and tore into me.

“This is what you wanted!” he’d shouted. “So why the fuck are you freezing up like some deer caught in headlights? It was supposed to be a romantic moment, and you fucking ruined it!”

“I told you very clearly in Spain that once we got back to LA, I was done.”

His eyes had flashed. “Oh, you did, did you? That was fucking months ago, Emma. When you were having one of your childish meltdowns.” He scoffed, pacing like a caged animal. “And I told you then—like I’m telling you now—don’t let your emotions ruin things.”

I clenched my fists. “That’s exactly what you said in Spain.”

Rick exploded, slamming his fist into the wall.

“You’re being such a fucking drama queen—again. Like always.” 

He had started hurling more words. They hit like daggers, to tear me down, using every insult he could think to throw. He had thought if he threw enough, one would stick. That he could make me feel small enough, guilty enough, to bend.

To say yes.

To be his wife. To have his kids. To sit at home and wait while he jet-setted off to some movie set, fucking his next co-star.

He had thought he had more control over me than he did—because I had let him believe that. And when he felt as though he was losing it, he had snapped.

But there was nothing he could say or do.

I wasn’t giving up my life, my career, my people—because he wanted me to.

And I was done hurting the people I loved for the sake of my mistakes.

Rick? He’d been the biggest one.

And the headlines?

They painted me as the villain.

The woman who shattered Hollywood’s golden boy.

The heartless, ungrateful, conniving bitch who had never really loved him.

I could still see the posts, the endless social media feeds flooded with outrage:

Emma Hartgrave humiliates Rick Bradley in shocking public breakup. Did she ever love him at all?

Emma Hartgrave chooses career and the band over life with Superman in shocking public statement.

Emma, the Ice Queen of Rock—will she ever find love?

Like I was some cold, calculating mastermind.

Like I had orchestrated the whole thing; used him for clout, then tossed him aside the second he wasn’t useful anymore.

Like I had wanted to humiliate him.

Like I hadn’t spent months suffocating under the weight of his expectations, the polished veneer of our perfect relationship cracking at the seams.

Like I hadn’t warned him I was done.

Over and over.

And yet, there I was. The villain of his story.

And maybe that was fine. Maybe I didn’t give a shit anymore.

Because I had made mistakes—a lot of them.

But staying with Rick any longer would have been the biggest one yet.

The truth? It didn’t matter to him. Or the media. But it mattered to me.

And that truth, as messy and complicated as it was, was the only thing keeping me grounded.

It reminded me of who I was, even when the world tried to rewrite me as someone else.

Because the reality was, I wasn’t some cold-hearted bitch.

I wasn’t a career-obsessed ice queen.

I didn’t love Rick—that part was true.

But not because I was incapable of love.

The truth? I’d been in love with someone else for years.

My phone buzzed in my hand, jolting me out of my spiralling thoughts.

Liam: I’m here. Absolute mayhem out front.

I smirked as my screen lit up with notifications—right on cue.

Headlines were already flooding my feed: 

“Liam Teller spotted arriving backstage at the Valois x Emma Hartgrave collaboration venue ahead of her big night.”

Paparazzi shots rolled in—Liam stepping out of the band’s usual ride, an extended luxury SUV, flanked by security. He looked effortlessly cool—as always—in his signature look. The kind of look that was technically casual but still had a way of making headlines.

His expression was unreadable beneath the glare of flashing cameras, his posture relaxed, exuding that easy, unshakable confidence that had been his trademark since the beginning.

Of course, he was here.

Liam Teller was always there when I needed him.

Lately—more than ever—for the first time in a long time—I was letting him.

Because when it came down to it?

I could never shut that door.

Emma: It’s not much better here, tbh.

Before I could process anything else, Gerry—Valois’ fast-talking, sharp-dressed, high-strung fashion show director—descended upon me like a storm.

“Emma, there’s been a change to the lineup.” His tone was urgent, but not panicked. Not yet. “One of the models had a last-minute emergency—let’s just say it’s a mess. We need you to wear the Winged Victory lingerie piece instead of Roses and Thorns.”

I exhaled sharply, and set my phone down.

The Winged Victory.

Sculpted leather and lace, sheer panels, gold embroidery. Stunning—and a complete fucking nightmare for someone spiralling through a PR disaster

It was the edgiest, sexiest, most unapologetic look in the entire lingerie lineup.

I inhaled slowly, forcing a composed nod. “Yeah, okay. Whatever it takes, right?”

I swallowed. Fuck! 

“Wait—will it fit?” I added quickly. “Maya’s a lot thinner than I am.”

Gerry waved a dismissive hand. “It’ll fit.” His sharp eyes flicked over me, assessing. “You may just be a bit bustier and hippier.” His lips quirked.

The fucking fashion industry, I swear to God.

“Thanks, Gerry,” I said, deadpan.

“But it’s lingerie, babe. It’s fine if the hips and bits put on a show.” He leaned against my chair, smirking. “It’ll just be Feral Femme X Valois—but that’s fine.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it, then.”

My nerves skyrocketed into overdrive.

I was already on edge—really dreading this whole night ahead of me.

This was the last thing I needed after the breakup heard ‘round the world. 

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was walking into some kind of gauntlet—any move I made would lead to execution in the court of public opinion.

Then it hit me—

The itch. The tension. That pressure that built up before high-stakes moment. My chest tightened, my pulse pounded, and my hands curled into fists before I forced them to loosen. I needed something. A shot. A slap. A fucking Ativan. Anything to slow my thoughts. To ground me.

Because suddenly, I wasn’t just a rock star caked in makeup, lashes, and hair product, preparing to strut down a runway in next to nothing.

I was a woman who had just walked away from Hollywood’s leading man. A woman who had just handed the media a brand-new reason to tear her apart.

What if this was a mistake?

What if I was handing them my own destruction on a gold-plated, leather-wrapped platter? 

Yep, I was having a panic attack right now. The worst fucking time to have one. 

It felt like I was 24 again, about to step onto the Grammys stage for the first time—heart pounding, stomach in knots, every nerve in my body wound so tight I threw up in the ladies’ room in my sparkling designer dress.

And back then, the only thing that got me through it was…

Liam.

The thought barely had time to settle before I saw him.

Liam moved through the backstage prep area with that effortless, quiet command he always had—owning the room without ever needing to try. Surrounded by perfectly styled models, he stood out—not because he was polished, but because he wasn’t. There was something raw about him. Unshakable.

His confidence wasn’t curated—it was lived in.

Faded jeans clung in all the right places, paired with boots worn just enough to whisper of tour buses, stages, and sleepless nights chasing something bigger than all of us.

He looked exactly like he had in the pap shots—black button-up open over a white tank, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos in full view. Liam never tried to look like the leading man in a rock-and-roll fantasy.

He just was.

Those dark chestnut waves of hair fell into his eyes like they didn’t mean to, but always did. Eyes—bright green, sharp yet warm—locked on mine. They could pin me in place or pull me under. Tonight, they did both.

God, he looked like trouble.

The good kind.

The kind you knew might ruin you—but still made you want to fall, headfirst, heart open, no brakes.