Page 40 of Unleashed By Eden

The room holds its breath. Mika shifts his grip on the small light, lowering it a touch. Dave pauses, eyes flicking to Megan over the top of the camera.

I stand slowly, keeping everything measured, even though my vision swims red. Getting prodded like that is not what I signed up for.

Megan rises too, tablet held against her chest. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Carter,” she pushes out quickly. “We’re just trying to get the truth. You did agree to these interviews.”

I give her a forced smile that has zero warmth in it. “We agreed to talk about music. The shows and the band. That’s the deal. I’m not here to kill rumors or dig into personal shit. That goes for every interview moving forward.”

“Carter—” she starts.

“No,” I cut her off. “That’s it.”

Dave powers down the camera. The panel light flickers as Mika switches it off.

Megan steps closer, dropping her voice. “Look, I get it. But if you ever want . . . someone to talk to, or anything else,” she says, eyes searching my face, “I’m here for you.”

I take her in properly. Perfume, glossy mouth, eyes way too eager. For a moment, I see the version of reality she probably imagined on day one: the broody rockstar who confides in the producer, they fuck, and she gets off on being the one who truly understands him. There is a reality where I let that happen. But it’s not this one.

I drag my hand over my stomach, flattening my shirt. “No,” I reply. “I’m good.”

Her expression drops. Then she pastes on a professional smile again.

“Alright then.” Her voice is brisk. “We’ll regroup before Paris.”

I don’t answer, just walk to the door, stretch my neck to the left to ease the tight pull there, and step out.

Outside the room, noise from the road crew floats down the hallway. Someone is testing a snare onstage, distant feedback whining then dying. I start walking. Anywhere is better than sitting in that chair while someone pokes at a story we’ve already rewritten and rumors that cut too close.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and fire off a message to Liam.

Me

Tell the doco people to back off the personal shit.

He replies almost straight away. Newborn or not, time zones don’t matter—his phone’s always in his hand.

Liam

Goes with the territory. We agreed to this. I’ll talk to them, but you’re gonna have to give them something.

I snort and shove the phone back in my pocket before I type something that will make him call and bust my balls.

Backstage opens up ahead of me, cables taped in neat lines on the floor, stacks of black cases against the walls. Half the lighting rig for tonight is already up.

The guys are huddled near Kai’s drum kit. Xander spots me first.

“How bad was it?” he asks.

“Shit show.”

Kai winces. “Great.”

“Good luck.” I nod toward Theo. “You’re next in the hot seat.”

He flips me off without lifting his eyes from the bass he’s tuning.

I walk past them to my guitar stand and pick up my main. My hands fall into position on the neck without thinking. I rest the body against my thigh and brush my fingertips over the strings. A soft chord purrs into the empty space. My hands remember what to do even when my head is far from the music.

Movement pulls my attention toward the side of the stage.