Page 25 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. We both know what happens if I say no. Isabel Frost rises from the dead, splashed across every tabloid and social media platform. My parents crawling out of whatever hole they're hiding in to cash in on the scandal. My stalker, wherever he is, will know exactly where to find me.
"This isn't a choice," I say flatly.
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
I close the folder, my hands surprisingly steady considering I want to throw it in his face. "Do Phoenix and Rafael know about this? Your whole... plan?"
"They know I want you in the band. They don't know the rest."
"Why not?"
"Because they're good people." He says it like it's a weakness. "They'd try to stop me. Or worse, they'd try to help, and that could get them arrested. Or killed."
The way he says "killed" makes my blood run cold. What the fuck has Stephen Hughes done that Rex thinks could get someone killed?
He reaches into his suit jacket again and pulls out a business card, setting it on top of the folder with deliberate precision. "Foxhole Studios. 76 Graydock Way. October 13th, 6 AM." His visible eye meets mine, cold as arctic ice. "We're recording exactly two weeks from today. When your contract with The Reverie expires."
"Go fuck yourself," I spit, but my hand still reaches for the card.
"If you don't show up, I'll know you've made your choice," he continues, standing and throwing more than enough cash on the table to cover the wine and a generous tip. "The video goes live at 6:01."
"You're giving me two weeks to figure out how to break free from Stephen without getting wrecked? That's impossible?—"
His hand slips into his jacket again, a smooth, deliberate motion, and for one heart-stopping second I think he's pulling a gun. My whole body tenses, ready to dive under the table or flip it at him.
My knife drives into the pristine white tablecloth with a solidthunk, the blade buried in the mahogany beneath.
My grandfather's knife stands upright between us, that scripted 'B' on the bone handle catching the candlelight.
The couple three tables over definitely heard that. They're staring now, but Rex doesn't seem to give a fuck.
My throat tightens. I thought I'd never see it again. Thought it was gone forever, like everything else from my old life. But I refuse to show a hint of emotion as I tug it free from the table and slip it back into my pocket where it belongs.
"What's the catch?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"No catch." He adjusts his cuffs. "It's yours."
"Right. You're blackmailing me into joining your band, but you're returning my knife out of the goodness of your heart?"
"I'm not a thief," he says simply, and something in the way he says it makes it clear he's not just talking about the knife. There's weight behind those words, an accusation aimed at someone who isn't here.
Someone we both know.
He's halfway to the door when I call after him. "Rex." He pauses but doesn't turn around. "You said Stephen Hughes deserves what's coming to him. What did he do?"
For a moment, I think he won't answer.
Then, so quiet I almost miss it: "He took everything from me." He half-turns, and I can see his profile, the mask covering the damaged side. "I have nothing left to lose, Bells.Nothing. That makes me the most dangerous kind of enemy you could have—or the most dangerous kind of ally. Your choice."
"I already told you to go fuck yourself."
"And yet you're still holding that card." His lips curve into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes. "October 13th. 6 AM. Don't be late."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with an untouched glass of thousand dollar wine, a contract that might as well be written in blood, and a business card that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my hand.
Fuck.
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