Page 45 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

I slam the laptop shut. My pulse pounds in my ears. But it doesn’t stop the images from playing on repeat in my head. The way he looked at her yesterday. The way she leaned toward him when they laughed. It was like they were in on some secret I’d never understand.

It all makes sense now.

The pieces fall into place with a cruel clarity. He’s here recording, she’s here recording—they’re working together,together.And me? What am I? Some convenient blast from the past? A fun fuck to spice it up?

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to shove the thoughts back down, but they keep spilling out. I let myself fall for it. For him. Twice now, I’ve let myself believe there was something real here, something worth risking everything for.

All along, he was going to leave. He said so himself, he's only here until he finishes recording the album.

This is my home now. I have Ollie, and because of our shared custody, I'm not going anywhere. That should have been it right then and there.

I grab my phone off the coffee table, staring at the blank screen like it holds the answers I need. I could text him. Ask him outright. But what would I even say?Hey, are you sleeping with Finley James? Because I just read half the internet, and it looks like you are.

No. I can’t do that. I won’t.

He doesn’t owe me anything.

But, I also have to use the information I have to make my own decisions. I definitely don’t intend to be his side piece.

Instead, I toss the phone aside and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling as the anger and doubt churn inside me. I hate this. I hate how much I care, how much I’ve let him get under my skin again.

And most of all, I hate that I can’t stop wondering what the hell he’s doing right now—and who he’s with.

SIXTEEN

Callum

This love we lost, we’ll find again

Monday, March 17

Mercer Hotel

147 Mercer Street, SoHo

6:21 AM

I’ve been staringat my phone so long the screen’s starting to blur.

Another text, another call—no response. She hasn’t answered any of them since she left the studio on Wednesday, and it’s driving me insane.

I didn’t get any sleep last night. I can’t let this drag out like last time. This time I have to make sure she knows I’m trying toreach her. I need her to tell me to my face to kick rocks if that is what she wants.

As I pace the small hotel room the label set me up in, the frustration builds in my chest like a storm I can’t stop. Did I do something wrong? Was it what happened at the studio? She didn’t seem upset when she left. In fact, she seemed quite satisfied.

She left quickly, but I assumed it was because of how quickly things went down. It was hot and sexy, but it was definitely a bit unconventional.

I run a hand through my hair, pulling at the ends as I glance at my phone again. Nothing.

"Shit," I mutter, grabbing my jacket. I can’t sit here anymore. I need to see her.

Prospect Park

7:04 AM

I make it to Brooklyn faster than I thought, but once I’m here, I realize I don’t know where to go. I don’t have her address, just the vague memory of her saying she lived near Prospect Park. I walk, the crisp morning air biting at my cheeks, scanning every street and brownstone as if her face might magically appear.

This is ridiculous. What am I even doing?

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