Page 118 of Unleashed By Eden

I salute him with my middle finger. He rolls his eyes, but I see the twitch on his mouth.

He steps in close again, drops his voice for my ears only.

“I’m not letting Vi take the fall for this,” he says. “I don’t know who sold those photos, but as soon as we’re through the next seventy-two hours, I’m coming for them. She didn’t do this.”

“I know,” I whisper back. That was never a question. “But no one else can know I know. Right now, everyone needs to think I blame her. If whoever did this thinks they got what they wanted, maybe they’ll relax. Maybe they’ll fuck up.”

His eyes harden. “Fine.”

“When you find them,” I bite out. “I want their head on a fucking platter.”

“Done.”

He straightens, raises his voice again. “Let’s move. Roll out.”

The whole machine lurches back into motion. Security forms a moving wall. Crew grab cases. The guys fall in around us, talking about levels and set lists like we didn’t just do round one of Fight Club in the middle of the private terminal.

My cheek throbs, but that’s nothing compared to the real pain sitting lower, lodged beneath my ribs.

Violet is on the other side of the world, alone, completely blind to everything happening. She’ll be assuming the worst, carrying the blame that was never hers to bear. Because Chris is going to feed her the line that I planted.

“I want to talk to Vi,” I tell Liam as we walk.

“You can’t,” he says quietly. “Not right now. You need to focus on the show and the press. No distractions. I’ll call her.”

“Tell her—”

“I’ll tell her,” he cuts in. He holds my gaze, and there’s a rough understanding there, something that looks too close to pity.

I nod, but it does fuck all for the fact I’m already unraveling without her.

Three more days, and I’m on a plane.

If she wants out, she can look me in the eye and say it.

Until then, she’s still mine.

Chapter thirty-three

Carter

“Thank you, New York!”

The words ignite Madison Square Garden. The sound that comes back is a detonation—a roar from twenty thousand people that could level the surrounding buildings.

“And to my brothers—Kai, Theo, Xander—” I jerk my chin down the line where they’re standing, soaked in sweat and high on the energy. “To my manager, Liam, and our tour manager, Chris. To the entire crew who haven’t slept properly in ten months. And to the PrimeTime+ team who’ve been with us every step of the way . . . We’re excited to officially announce that a documentary of the tour will be dropping on your screens soon!”

The place erupts. Stomping. Screaming.

I soak it in, letting the sound fill every cell in my body. This is it. The last show. The final moment. The end of a ten-month sprint that’s nearly broken me—and somehow saved me at the exact same time.

Tonight, every riff was for her. Every line I spat into the mic and bend of the strings. I shoved the ache of missing her into it all until my fingers burned. The crowd thought we were putting on a show. But I was bleeding out onstage.

I give the arena one last salute and imagine she’s out there—where she should be—down in the pit with her camera glued to her face, locked on me.

But her spot’s empty.

I turn and walk offstage for the last time this tour. As soon as I’m out of view and the arena lights burst on, the usual high collapses into a sharp, bittersweet moment.