Page 27 of New Year's Faye

“You want to show some respect?” Sam snapped. “That’s my wife you’re speaking to.”

My gaze flew to Sam, surprise warring with a delightful thrill at his possessive, defensive tone.

My wife.

"Thirty seconds!" the floor manager called out.

"You should take your place," I said, determined to shut down this conversation. "Liz, can you?—?"

"Of course, I'll show Mr. Pontiff to the green room." Liz's gaze danced between us, quickly assessing the situation. I caught the concern in her eyes.

"Actually," Alex said, "I think I'll watch from here. Always good to observe how these situations... develop."

The implication was clear: he was watching me. Waiting for me to fail. Just like before.

Sam's hand dipped to press firmly against my back. "Faye?"

I looked up at him, finding warmth and worry in his dark eyes. He'd been there after Alex destroyed my career, had watched me rebuild myself piece by piece. He knew what this meant.

"I'm fine," I said, more for Alex's benefit than Sam's. "Go. You have a show to do."

Sam hesitated, then did something completely unexpected. He leaned down and kissed me—not the careful peck we'd planned for the cameras, but something softer, more intimate. He lingered.

"Love you," he murmured against my lips, loud enough for Alex to hear.

Then he was gone, joining the band on set as the lights came up.

I touched my lips, still feeling the phantom press of his kiss, trying to ignore the way Alex watched me with calculating eyes.

"Still mixing business with pleasure, I see," he said quietly.

I straightened my spine, channelling every ounce of control I'd built since he'd last torn me down. "The difference is, Alex, this time I know exactly who has my back."

"Do you?" His smile was sharp. "Because from where I'm standing, this looks an awful lot like history repeating itself."

"No," I said, watching as Sam settled onto the couch, his ring catching the studio lights. "This time I'm not the naive girl who trusted the wrong person. I'm the woman who rebuilt herself after you tried to destroy her."

"We'll see." He checked his watch. "The label wants a full report by end of day. Try not to... disappoint them."

The words hit their mark—he knew exactly how much that accusation would haunt me. I kept my face neutral as the cameras started rolling.

Sam glanced over, offering me a warm, encouraging smile.

But this time, I wasn't alone.

“I don’t answer to you or the label,” I informed Alex, drawing strength from Sam’s quiet support. “I’m employed by the band. I’m their representative, not yours.”

“Contracts are precarious things,” he said in a soft voice. “Morality clauses and all that. You might want to ensure the band knows they’re on the labels radar.”

I gritted my teeth against the implication. “Noted.”

The segment cut to a commercial break and one of the techs ran over. “Sam has requested you on set.”

I blinked. “What?”

The tech began to mic me up, working quickly but efficiently. “He wants to introduce you.”

“But—”

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