Chapter 28

Jules

The bass thrums through my chest, a relentless, steady pulse that feels like it's trying to sync with my already hammering heart. The rooftop of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel is alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and the kind of buzz that only happens when the room is packed with people who think they're gods. Perfume and ambition hang thick in the air, mingling with the night breeze that occasionally cuts through the heat of bodies pressing too close.

Kill John is in their element, a storm of easy charm and magnetic energy that draws people in like gravity. It's not just their music or their fame—it's something innate, an aura that makes everyone want to be near them, to bask in their light. They don't even have to try; their laughter carries across the room, their presence commands attention without a single word.

Meanwhile, across the room, my girl group is doing exactly what they are good at—smile, sparkle, work the room without ever seeming like they're working it. They're flawless. I should feel pride, satisfaction. This is what I've worked for, after all.

But I'm sitting on a cold stone bench tucked into the shadows of the terrace, clutching a glass of water with a grip that's starting to ache.

The headache that's been brewing all day is a sharp knife behind my eyes now, carving its way deeper every time I try to focus on anything for too long. I close my eyes, tipping my head back against the wall. Just five minutes. Five minutes to let the chaos around me fade into the background noise so I can pretend I'm fine again.

The email plays on a loop in my mind, every word dripping with menace. And then the subtle sabotages—the mic cable "accidentally" severed at a soundcheck last week, the string of cryptic texts from untraceable numbers. The threats are getting bolder, closer. I know she's watching me.

And the worst part? I can't even let Whip know. He's in the center of all this, and I'm barely holding the edges together.

"Jules."

The sound of his voice startles me, my eyes snapping open. Whip is standing in front of me, his dark hair catching the soft glow of the terrace lights, his hands buried casually in the pockets of his tailored black pants. He looks devastatingly handsome and somehow out of place, like he's wandered out of a dream and into my reality.

"I thought that was you hiding in the shadows," he says lightly, though his sharp gaze tells me he sees more than I want him to.

"I'm not hiding," I lie, sitting straighter and setting my untouched glass of water on the bench beside me.

His lips quirk into a knowing smirk. "No? What do you call sitting out here alone, glaring at your water like it insulted your family?"

I huff a laugh despite myself. "I'm taking a break."

"Then let's make it worth it." Without waiting for an answer, he extends his hand, palm up.

I frown at him. "What are you doing?"

"Dancing."

I blink at him, baffled. "Whip, there's no music."

His grin is easy, disarming, and so very him. "You don't need music to dance."

I should say no. I should stay firmly planted in my little corner of solitude. But his hand hovers between us, warm and steady, and before I can overthink it, I place mine in his. His fingers curl around mine, pulling me to my feet with a gentleness that contrasts the strength in his grip.

The distant hum of the party fades as we step into the light, the city skyline sprawling out behind us. Whip's hand slides to my waist, light but firm, and his other hand holds mine, guiding me in slow, unhurried circles.

"You're terrible at this," I murmur, my lips twitching against my will.

"Terrible?" He arches a brow, mock offense lighting up his face. "I'm a goddamn delight."

The corners of my mouth tug upward, and I laugh softly—a real laugh, one I haven't felt in far too long.

"There it is," he says, quieter now, his voice brushing against my frayed nerves like a balm.

"There what is?" I ask, tilting my head.

"Your laugh." His thumb brushes the back of my hand, a soft, fleeting touch that sends a shiver down my spine. "You've been... different lately. For a while now."

My gaze drops to the space between us, the city lights blurring in the background. "I've just been busy," I mumble, the excuse sounding hollow even to me.

"Busy," he echoes, his voice flat, almost disbelieving. "Right."

When I look back up, his eyes—too blue and too damn piercing—are locked on mine. They're searching, seeing past the cracks in my armor, and the weight of it makes my chest tighten. I want to look away, to retreat back into myself, but his hold on me keeps me rooted. His hand slides up, the rough pads of his fingers brushing my cheek like a whisper, and just like that, the world around us fades to static. The wind whistling, the laughter, the party—everything dissolves until it's just him and me, standing in this fragile bubble where time feels like it's holding its breath.

I don't even realize I'm floating into his touch until my forehead nearly brushes his chin. The warmth of him is magnetic, pulling me in, wrapping me in the kind of safety I didn't realize I'd been craving. My pulse flutters, a rapid staccato that echoes in my ears, but it's not fear. It's something deeper, something dangerous and raw.

His thumb ghosts along my jaw, and my breath catches. Whip's eyes are locked on mine, impossibly blue, impossibly soft, like he's baring a part of himself I've never seen before. It's terrifying. It's mesmerizing.

I lean in without thinking, like gravity has shifted and the only place I want to be is closer to him. My heart pounds so hard it's a wonder he can't hear it. Just a little closer, and I know—I know—he'll kiss me.

Then it hits. The memory of the email, the whispered threats, the growing shadow of someone watching my every move. The ice-cold reality crashes into me, and the bubble bursts.

I jerk back, so fast it feels like I've physically cut the connection between us. My arms cross over my chest instinctively, as if I can hold myself together before I splinter apart completely. "I can't," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the hum of the party.

His hand falls, and the warmth disappears, like the sun slipping behind a storm cloud. He steps back, his gaze steady on mine, and it's that mix of frustration and hurt that makes my stomach twist into a knot. Because I put it there. Because I know I've been the one to push him to this breaking point.

"You used to tell me everything," he says quietly, but there's a weight to his words, a roughness that scrapes at my defenses. "When did that change?"

I open my mouth, then close it, words slipping through my fingers like sand. My arms wrap around my middle, a futile attempt to hold myself together. "It's not like that," I manage, though my voice sounds as shaky as I feel.

"Then what is it?" His voice sharpens, slicing through me like a blade, and I flinch. Not because he's yelling—he's not—but because he's right. He always sees too much. He's always been able to strip me bare without even trying.

"Whip, just drop it. Please." My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. For the weakness. For how much I want him to listen and ignore me all at once.

But Whip doesn't budge. He doesn't back down, not now, not ever. "No." His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek as his hands flex at his sides. "I'm not dropping it. I'm not walking away from this." His eyes lock onto mine, and they're blazing with an intensity that pins me in place. "I'm not an idiot, Jules. I see you. And I know something's wrong."

I take a step back, needing space, needing to breathe, but it doesn't help. The weight of him, of his determination, presses against me, making it hard to think, hard to hold on to the walls I've built.

"You don't understand—"

"You're right, I don't," he snaps, his frustration spilling over now. "Because you won't fucking tell me. But I don't care what you say. I know something's up." He takes a step closer, and I swear the air between us crackles. "I know you too well to pretend I don't see it. And trust me when I say, I plan to find out—whether you like it or not."

My breath catches, his words slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave. There's no room for argument, no way to sidestep the fire in his eyes. He means it.

He doesn't wait for a response. Doesn't give me a chance to lie or deflect or shove him away again. He just turns on his heel and walks off, his shoulders rigid, his movements sharp. The ache in my chest deepens, spreading like a bruise.

I watch him disappear into the crowd, his broad shoulders swallowed by the sea of glittering lights and meaningless laughter. The fear twisting in me isn't just about her—the woman lurking in the shadows with her threats and her games.

No, the real terror is what happens if Whip gets too close.

The thought follows me home, clinging to my skin like smoke. Hours later, I'm at my desk, staring at the latest batch of data glowing on my screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to strike, but my mind refuses to focus. It spins in a hundred different directions, tangled up in fears I can't afford to entertain. Progress has been maddeningly slow. Every lead I chase fizzles out just as it starts to feel solid, like I'm grasping at smoke.

But not this time.

The shadow account my contact flagged last week finally gave me something—an IP address. It's not enough to pinpoint the woman yet, but it's enough to narrow the field. I've traced it to a location. East Coast. A small city. Close enough to be unsettling, but still vague enough to frustrate the hell out of me.

She's careful, covering her tracks like a pro. Every breadcrumb she's left has been a deliberate move to taunt me—like the bouquet of flowers that showed up at my office yesterday. No card, no note. Just lilies.

White fucking lilies. Funeral flowers.

I wanted to throw them out the window, but I didn't. I took them apart petal by petal, checking for anything—clues, a message, a fingerprint—but came up with nothing. Another mind game. Another way to get under my skin.

And it's working.

My stomach churns as I review the timeline I've been piecing together. Each little sabotage—delayed deliveries for the girl group's tour, rumors about a "problematic" client (a.k.a. me) circulating in certain circles, Whip's name being whispered in connection to some shady dealings that don't exist—it's all too coordinated to be random.

She's watching me. Watching him.

My phone buzzes on the desk, pulling me out of my spiral. A message from my tech analyst contact:

It's slow going, but I've got a hit on a proxy server she's using. It's encrypted, but I'll crack it. Might take a day or two.

A day or two. God, it feels like forever.

I scrub my hands over my face and lean back in my chair. Exhaustion tugs at me, but I can't give in. Not now. Not when I'm finally starting to see a faint outline of her web.

My eyes flick to the corner of my screen, to the folder I've labeled "Threats." Inside are screenshots of every email, every anonymous message, every shred of evidence she's left behind. It's a digital map of her campaign against me.

Against Whip.

My chest tightens at the thought of him, and I push it down, willing my mind to stay focused. I don't have the luxury of distractions right now.

But the fear, it doesn't let up. It coils tighter around me with each passing day, a constant reminder that she's not slowing down. I feel it in my bones—she's escalating, and soon, I won't be able to outrun it.

The buzz of my phone interrupts the silence, pulling my attention away. Another news alert. Nothing significant, just another shallow piece about the event I barely managed to survive. Kill John takes the main focus, naturally. And there, in bold letters, is Whip's name—bright, impossible to ignore.

My pulse jumps, a sharp thrum in my neck, but I force myself to take a breath, push the tension back down. I close my eyes for a moment, steadying myself.

I crack my knuckles, open another tab, and dive back into the chaos of my work. The finish line feels like it's always just beyond my reach, a moving target I can never quite touch. But I see the path now—clear, even if it's fraught with danger.

Closer.

But not close enough.