Page 95 of Before You Fell

Fucking hell.

Era.

They slap a pretty word on anything now. Grief becomes growth. Damage becomes direction. A slow bleed becomes marketing if the font is expensive enough.

I lean toward the mic and give her that smile. The one that has sold records, ruined better judgment, and made more women trust me than I ever deserved.

“Everything we do is intentional,” I say, the lie coming out so polished it almost shines. “The album’s got teeth. Some songs bite harder and some sit lower in the gut. We wanted it to feel alive, not safe.”

Damon’s shoulders relax half an inch. Fucking puppet master thinks he pulled the strings.

Jax glances at me and I can tell he knows I hate every word that just came out of my mouth. Because half of that album has no pulse. Half of that album is dead because Willow is not on it.

Another journalist lifts a hand. A man in a navy blazer, his smile too wide for his face.

“The world tour kicks off after tonight’s show. Phoenix, how do you prepare physically and mentally for that level of pressure?”

I almost laugh.

Physically, I poison myself just enough to keep functioning.

Mentally, I think about a girl who will not answer my calls and I want to peel my own fucking skin off.

Instead of saying any of that shit, I tip my head and let the arrogance settle easily on my face. It knows where to sit. It has paid rent there for years.

“I wake up looking this good, so I save a lot of preparation.”

A few people laugh.

I keep going because the room prefers a frontman who behaves like a product with a pulse and a cocky mouth.

“Pressure’s part of it. You want the stage, you take everything that comes with it. The noise. The lights. The expectations. The ninety thousand people waiting for you to prove you deserve the spot. We don’t walk out there hoping to survive. We walk out there to own it.”

My stomach turns as the cameras flash.

Cruz’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t appear amused. Jett stares at the table, and Jax stops tapping.

Maybe they hear it too. The bullshit. The hollow shape of Willow’s absence in every answer.

Damon nods slightly from the wall, satisfied for about three seconds.

Then a journalist near the back raises a hand. “Phoenix, how is Willow Hart doing after the drug overdose?”

The shock doesn’t hit clean. It stumbles in ugly. It leaves the cameras buzzing, the chairs shifting, and the air moving around a sentence nobody knows how to touch.

Drug overdose.

Willow Hart.

Two sentences that do not belong anywhere near each other, let alone in some asshole’s mouth in front of a room full of microphones.

Jax pulls his phone out so fast that it knocks against the table. Cruz straightens as Jett goes still beside him.

My face stays blank for one stupid second because I can’t comprehend what the bastard is asking. I stare at him through my sunglasses, waiting for the words to take shape into something that makes sense.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Damon pushes off the wall. I catch it out of the corner of my eye, a sharp step forward.