Page 103 of Shattered Melodies

How had they found me? I’d been so careful, so goddamn careful. Oakwood was supposed to be safe, supposed to be my escape from the chaos of my life as Corey King.

But now they were here. The vultures, the paparazzi, whatever you wanted to call them. And it was only a matter of time before they put two and two together, before my carefully constructed life came crashing down around me.

I downed the second glass, the alcohol hitting my system like a warm wave. It wasn’t healthy, I knew that. My therapist would have a field day if she could see me now. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I just needed the noise in my head to stop.

“Get it together, Liam,” I growled at myself, gripping the edge of the counter. “You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.”

But could I? The doubt crept in, insidious and familiar.

“Shit,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. I needed to talk to someone, needed to get out of my own head before I did something stupid.

The house was quiet, too quiet. Jimmy was still out, probably schmoozing with some industry bigwigs or whatever it was he did when he wasn’t babysitting my mess of a life. I needed him here, needed his level-headed advice and his uncanny ability to talk me down from the ledge.

I poured another glass of whiskey, ignoring the voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like my therapist. “You’re using alcohol as a crutch, Liam. It’s not a healthy coping mechanism.”

Just as I was about to take another swig, my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID and felt my stomach drop. Dad. Because of course he’d call now, when I was three glasses deep and teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

For a moment, I considered letting it go to voicemail. But I knew from experience that would only make things worse. With a deep sigh, I answered.

“What do you want, Dad?” I didn’t bother with pleasantries. We were long past that.

“Is that any way to greet your father, Liam?” His voice was cool, controlled. It made my skin crawl.

“Cut the crap,” I snapped. “You didn’t call for a friendly chat. What’s going on?”

There was a pause, and I could almost see him in my mind’s eye, sitting in his plush office chair, a glass of scotch in hand. “Very well. I’ll get straight to the point. I know you’re Corey King.”

The world tilted on its axis. I gripped the kitchen counter, trying to steady myself. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb, Liam. It doesn’t suit you.” His voice was sharp, cutting. “I hired a private investigator. He was quite thorough.”

Rage boiled up inside me, hot and fierce. “You had no right,” I hissed. “No fucking right to invade my privacy like that.”

“I had every right,” he shot back. “You’re my son, and you’re throwing away everything we’ve built for you. For what? Some childish fantasy of being a rock star?”

I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Childish fantasy? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how successful Corey King is? How much money he… I’ve made?”

“Money that should be going into the family business,” my father said, his voice cold. “Not wasted on frivolous pursuits.”

“Frivolous?” I was shouting now, beyond caring about keeping my cool. “Music is my life, Dad. It’s who I am and always has been. Why can’t you understand that?”

“Because it’s not who you’re meant to be!” He was yelling too now, his composure finally cracking. “You’re a Denison. You have responsibilities, a legacy to uphold.”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside me. “I never asked for that legacy,” I said, my voice low and hard. “I never wanted it.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. When my father spoke again, his voice was eerily calm. “I’m giving you an ultimatum, Liam. Come back to New York. Take your place in the company. Or I’ll reveal your little secret to the world. Your precious anonymity will be gone, just like that.”

My blood ran cold. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” And with that, he hung up.

I stared at the phone in my hand, disbelief and fury warring inside me. How dare he? How fucking dare he still try to control my life like this?

Without thinking, I hurled the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack, then clattered to the floor. I stood there, breathing hard, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

“Fuck!” I yelled, slamming my palm against the counter. The pain was sharp, grounding. It cut through the haze of alcohol and anger, bringing me back to myself.

I needed to think. Needed to figure out a plan. But my mind was a chaotic mess, thoughts swirling and colliding like debris in a tornado.

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