Page 39 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

He exhales, and I swear I can hear the tension leave his body. "Thank you. I’ll text you the address."

I hang up before I can second-guess myself, setting the phone down on the counter. Across the room, Ollie looks up from his Legos and smiles, oblivious to the mess inside my head.

This is probably a terrible idea. But for now, I’m letting curiosity win.

Finley James—theFinley James. Her music was my therapy back then. Every lyric she sang felt like it was written just for me. Callum used to laugh about it, calling me obsessed, but he was the one who downloaded every album for me and played them on repeat.

I’m not sure how I could pass this up.

Wednesday,March 12

Electric Lady Studios

9:01 AM

The studio is tuckedinto a nondescript building in Midtown, the kind of place you’d walk past without giving it a second glance. Inside, it’s a different story. The walls hum faintly with bass, and everything smells like coffee and faintly metallic.

In a way, this place feels other wordly compared to the streets just outside of the door.

A young assistant leads me down a hallway lined with platinum plaques. I spot a few names I recognize, but it’s Finley James that makes my chest flutter. Seeing her name here feels surreal, like stepping into a memory.

"Right in here," the assistant says, opening a soundproof door. "They’re finishing up a take."

I step inside, the hum of the control room hitting me instantly. There’s a wall of glowing boards, flashing monitors, and a coupleof people behind the glass, but none of it holds my attention. My gaze locks on Callum in the recording booth.

He’s standing at the mic, headphones on, his eyes closed as he sings. His voice is low and raw, the kind of sound that makes you feel it in your chest. He’s wearing that same leather jacket but the sleeves are pushed up, showing the word "LEGEND" inked in bold, black letters up his forearm. His dark, messy hair falls just right above his eyes.

I can’t stop staring.

The way he holds the mic stand, his fingers curling around it, the veins in his forearms taut—it’s magnetic. He leans into the song and his long, sinewy body moves with the rhythm, completely lost in it.

It feels like I’ve stepped into a time warp. It’s almost like I’ve gone back to those nights in Charleston when I knew every note he played before he did. But he’s different now—more refined, more polished. He doesn’t just look like a rockstar; heisone. The music, the tattoos, the confidence—it’s all there, and it’s effortless.

The last note fades, and he opens his eyes. His gaze lands directly on me through the glass. He freezes for a second, then smiles—a slow, knowing curve of his lips that sends a shiver down my spine.

I stand there, my pulse hammering in my ears, unsure if I want to step closer or turn and walk out the door. Before I can decide, the assistant clears her throat behind me.

"I’ll let him know you’re here."

"Thanks," I say, my voice catching slightly.

She leaves, and I watch as Callum says something to the sound engineer before pulling off his headphones. He steps out of the booth, his movements confident but not hurried, like he has all the time in the world.

And for a moment, I forget every reason I told myself this was a bad idea.

FOURTEEN

Callum

I see the threads, where we have been

10:19 AM

The secondI see her through the glass, it’s like the rest of the room blurs out.

Sienna stands in the control room, her arms loose at her sides, like she’s forgotten to put up her usual walls. Her eyes move slowly and scan the room, but it’s not the gear or the plaques on the walls that have her attention. It’s the music. It’sme.

When our eyes lock through the glass, I see it—the spark of something familiar. She’s not trying to hide it, not like she did at the bar in the Lower East Side, or even on our walk.

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