Page 115 of Unleashed By Eden

Financial penalties.

Legal proceedings.

Reputational harm.

I’ve spent years clawing my way up from shooting drunk celebrities outside clubs for rent money. Years chasing boring jobs no one else wanted, fixing terrible lighting on bad shoots, turning garbage into something publishable. Every unpaid gig and sleepless night editing for clients who “forgot” to pay on time. Every tiny break that led to a slightly bigger one.

All of it funneled into this tour. This documentary. A job I was proud to put my name to.

And with one leak I didn’t cause, and an email I can’t argue with, the whole thing is dangling over a shredder.

I’m watching the scaffolding of my whole career collapse, and I have no idea why—or how. Cold dread slices through me at the thought, and a series of images flash in my mind: Megan’s disappointed face when she asked me about Carter; her shrewd gaze following us in VIP areas, airport lounges, and hotel conference rooms; her declaration that she would sleep with him one way or another. Was this . . . revenge? Sabotage to ensure she got her chance on the last stop of the tour? But how . . . Did I accidentally send her the wrong image link on our last day in Milan?

I flop back on the bed, head sinking into the mattress. It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is what comes next. The familiar cracks in the ceiling paint blur. I’ve survived shitty kids at school, years of feeling like the unwanted extra in my own life. I’ve survived worse than this, technically. But this time, it’s different.

Somewhere between Singapore and Como, I finally started to like the person I was becoming. I let myself want things and stopped hiding behind anger long enough to feel something else. I became someone who didn’t flinch every time happiness got too close.

Carter helped pull that version of me to the surface.

Lying here, staring at nothing, I can’t help but feel her slipping away. The old reflexes—shut down, armor up, don’t need anyone—scratch at the boundaries, begging to be let back in.

I’m not just at risk of losing my career and watching my reputation go up in flames. Or losing the future Carter and I were working toward.

What really guts me is the slow, sick awareness that this new version of me is sliding out of my grip, one finger at a time.

Chapter thirty-two

Carter

Chris is standing in the aisle, my phone in his hand, when we taxi into JFK airport.

“What do you want me to tell Violet?” he asks.

I shrug and stare out the tiny oval window. Rain streaks sideways as we pull into the hangar.

“Tell that bitch not to contact me again.”

Silence drops around us. Even over the engine whine, it’s noticeable. It lands exactly how I knew it would.

It’s fucking harsh, and a piece of my heart shrivels, but it’s necessary. I deserve the quiet “oh fuck” from Kai three rows back. But it has to be done.

I can’t trust anyone.

I know Vi didn’t leak those photos. I might be a fuck-up, but I’m not a moron. There is no way she would sell me out to a tabloid and ruin her career at the same time. Someone else did it. Someone close and on this tour. Could be Mika or Dave. Both of them have that stupid kicked-puppy look around her sometimes. Megan, maybe? She’s made it pretty damn clear she’d like a turn at me.

Right now, though, my money’s on Chris. He’s been weird about Violet this whole tour.

But fuck, it could be anyone.

So, yeah, I lie straight to Chris’s face and let him think I’m done with her. That I’m pissed and want distance. If I’m the only one on this jet who knows I don’t blame her, I’m the only one who can’t accidentally give it away.

There’s exactly one person I trust right now.

Liam.

He wasn’t with us on tour. Plus, he would throw himself in front of a train for her.

As would I. Always have. Always will.