Page 26 of New Year's Faye

"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry at all. "But hey, at least Sam looks good."

I followed her gaze back to the TV screens. She wasn't wrong. The stylist had dressed him in dark jeans and a forest green button-down that made his brown eyes appear almost golden under the lights. His hair had been artfully tousled, and his wedding ring caught the light every time he moved his hands.

They played one song then transitioned into another as Liz moved away, taking a call.

I nodded my head in time to the music, mentally running through the rest of our day.

"Faye?" Liz tapped me gently on my shoulder, pulling my attention from the screens. "There's someone here from the label."

I turned, my PR smile already in place—and felt it freeze on my face.

Alex Pontiff.

The sight of him hit me like ice water down my spine. He hadn’t changed in the slightest since the last time I saw him, five years ago, when he’d ripped my world apart. If anything, he looked even more polished, every inch of him exuding that smug confidence I’d once found so intoxicating. His suit was immaculate—tailored to perfection in a deep navy that brought out the sharp lines of his jaw and his almost unsettlingly perfect cheekbones. His dark hair was swept back, not a strand out of place, adding to the impression of meticulous control thatradiated from him like a force field. The faint scent of his expensive cologne drifted toward me, a crisp blend of something spicy and woodsy, as calculated as everything else about him.

But it was his eyes that really got me—still that same cool, calculating gray, sharp and assessing, with just a flicker of amusement beneath the surface. They’d once looked at me with warmth and admiration, or so I’d believed, but now I saw the truth. There was no warmth, only condescension hiding behind that well-practiced smile. His lips curved into a familiar, almost predatory grin that could easily pass as charming if you didn’t know better.

"Hello, Faye." His voice was exactly as I remembered it—smooth, with a hint of mockery wrapped in a thin layer of civility. He had the kind of tone that was impossible to pin down, teetering somewhere between polite professionalism and something far darker, like he was amused by the game he was playing and fully aware of the power he held.

The label thought you might need some... assistance managing this situation," he said, letting the word "assistance" roll off his tongue with exaggerated patience, as though he was speaking to a child who’d once again gotten in over their head. The implication hung in the air, thick and suffocating: I’d messed up. Again. Just like last time.

My jaw clenched, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, even as every memory of that time came crashing back. The way he’d systematically sabotaged me, spread rumours about my so-called “unprofessionalism,” and then swooped in to take credit for my work, leaving me with nothing but a shattered career and a bruised heart. He’d painted me as an unreliable mess, convincing the higher-ups I couldn’t handle the pressure—all while wearing that exact same infuriatingly sympathetic smile.

"We have it handled," I said, proud of the steadiness in my voice despite the anger simmering beneath. "But thanks for your concern."

"Do you?" His eyebrow lifted as he glanced down at his phone, where no doubt the headlines were still blowing up with the band’s impromptu Vegas wedding. "Because from where I’m standing, one of our biggest acts just had a drunken Vegas-style wedding that’s trending across every social platform. Hardly seems… professional." The last word came out like a knife, aimed to wound, bringing with it all the old accusations he’d used to ruin me before.

I held his gaze, refusing to flinch, even as the memories clawed at the edges of my composure. This time, I told myself, he wouldn’t get to see me crack.

"First," I said, channelling every ounce of control I'd built since then, "it wasn't Vegas. Second, we've already implemented a comprehensive media strategy that's generating positive engagement and increased ticket sales for the tour."

"Ah yes, the 'secret romance' angle." His smile turned sharp. "Interesting choice. Almost makes one wonder if there were... previous entanglements. The kind that might constitute a conflict of interest."

The blood drained from my face as I caught his meaning. He was going to dig into my past with Sam, try to twist our connection into something inappropriate.

Just like he'd manipulated me into appearing "unreliable" five years ago.

"Is there a problem here?" Sam's arm settled around my back to rest on my hip, pulling me tight against his side.

I started, glancing up at him to find his jaw tight, his gaze trained on Alex.

I hadn't even noticed the band finishing their set

"No problem," Alex said smoothly. "Just touching base about the situation. I'm Alex Pontiff, the label's new Head of Crisis Management."

Sam's thumb grazed my hip absently, a subtle gesture of affection and comfort that made Alex's eyes narrow. "Funny, I don't remember the label mentioning they were sending anyone."

"It was a last-minute decision. Given the... delicate nature of the situation."

"The situation," Sam's voice held an edge I rarely heard, "being what exactly?"

"A marriage that seems to have taken everyone by surprise." Alex's gaze slid to me. "Including, perhaps, the participants?"

Sam frowned. “What exactly are you saying?”

Alex lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’m just suggesting that Faye isn’t exactly known for her… reliability. It wouldn’t be the first time that she made a mistake.”

I would have stepped back had Sam’s arm not tightened around me, holding me in place. My body reacted as if Alex words were a physical slap.

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