Page 55

"It would be." Nash’s expression shifted from grief to dark, worried intensity. "If she were alone or if she were with friends. But she isn’t. The reports we’re getting... they’re terrifying."

I leaned forward, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. Here it comes.

Ben dropped onto the couch next to me.

"Sutton has been struggling." Nash lowered his voice as if sharing a painful family secret. "You know the pressure she’s under. The tour, the album... it broke her. She hasn’t been herself for months. We were trying to get her help. We had a facility ready, a place where she could rest and recover. But she was confused and scared. She ran."

"And now?" the interviewer prompted.

"Now she has fallen into the hands of someone who is taking advantage of that confusion." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "We’ve confirmed she is being held by a man with a violent criminal history. A man who knows who she is and sees an opportunity."

"Held?" the interviewer asked, her eyebrows shooting up. "Are you saying she is a hostage?"

"I’m saying she is not in her right mind," Nash said firmly. "I’m saying she is vulnerable, and she is currently in the custody of a man who has put people in the hospital. We believe she is in immediate danger. We believe she is being manipulated."

The screen changed. The satellite feed of Nash shrank to a box in the corner, and a new graphic filled the center of the screen.

It was a split screen. On the left was a photo of me taken a month ago—pale, thin, looking overwhelmed at a gala. I didn’t even remember it, but that didn’t matter. The picture was carefully chosen to support the "mental breakdown" narrative.

Ben was on the right.

His mugshot. The photo still on his mantle, but seeing it on a fifty-inch screen in high definition was infinitely worse. The harsh lighting emphasized the bruising on his face, the split lip, the buzzed head. But it was his eyes that made me want to shudder. In the photo, Ben’s eyes were cold, dead, and filled with a violence I didn’t recognize.

Below the photos, the caption read:

POP STAR IN DANGER? EXECUTIVE PRODUCER ALLEGES "BRAINWASHING" BY VIOLENT LOCAL.

A sharp intake of breath came from beside me. Ben’s face had gone completely white. He wasn’t staring at Nash or me. He was fixated on his own face on the screen.

The man on the television didn’t look like a hero. He didn’t look like the tender man who had washed my hair or taught me to chop garlic. He looked like exactly what Nash said he was—a thug. A criminal. A threat. Ben’s shoulders hunched forward, his chest caving in as if he had been punched. The confident, grounded presence that had filled the cottage for days evaporated, leaving behind a man who looked exposed and ashamed.

Nash’s voice continued over the graphic. "We’re filing emergency motions this morning to take action. We are asking the court to step in. Sutton cannot make decisions for herself right now. She’s under the influence of a dangerous individual. We need—I need—to get her out of there before something tragic happens."

It was a threat. It was a promise.

I grabbed the remote and hit the power button and the screen went black. The voice cut off mid-sentence. The silence rushed back into the room, but it wasn’t empty. It was heavy, screaming with the truth that had just been broadcast to millions of people. I sat there, staring at the blank screen while my heart beat a slow, thudding rhythm against my ribs. I was past crying. A deep, arctic chill started in my marrow and worked its way out.

I turned slowly to face Ben.

He hadn’t moved. He still stared at the blank TV. "He’s right."

"No," I said fiercely as I vaulted to my feet. "Nash is lying. Every word was a lie."

"That mug shot isn’t a lie." Ben finally tore his eyes away from the screen to stare at me. His defeated expression broke my heart. "My record isn’t a lie. I did those things, Sutton.”

"That was ten years ago," I argued, taking a step toward him. "That isn’t who you are. You know that."

"It doesn’t matter who I am. It matters what I look like. You saw what was on that screen. Look at the story. Violent criminal. Ex-con. That’s what the world sees. That’s what a judge is going to see."

He pushed to his feet and paced away from me, as if needing to put distance between us. "I thought I could protect you, that I was the shield. But I’m not. I’m the thing he’s going to use to drown you."

"Nash doesn’t care about you and he doesn’t care about your record. He’s just using you to get to me."

"Exactly," Ben snapped, turning back as he stood in the kitchen area. "He’s using me. Because I gave him the ammunition. By bringing you here, by keeping you here... I handed him the gun. If you were in a hotel, if you were with friends, he couldn’t say you were in danger. But because you’re with me... he can take everything from you."

He stared at me, and his eyes were utterly blank. "I’m the reason you are going to lose your freedom."

The truth of his words hit me hard. He wasn’t wrong. Logically, legally, he was right. My presence here, my proximity to his past, was the catalyst Nash needed. But it wasn’t Ben’s fault.