Page 24 of Reckless Royalty

Fuck it. My thumb pauses over the search bar, and before I can even think about it, I type her name.

Madison Graves.

I hit enter, feeling a strange kind of tension settle in my chest. I shouldn’t be doing this. This feels like crossing a line. But fuck it, I need to know more about her. Who she was before all of this. Before the silence, the trauma, the fucking gunshots.

And holy shit, it’s like looking at a completely different person.

The first picture I click on is from about a few months ago. She’s on stage, a microphone in her hand, her blonde hair wild around her face, and she’s smiling. No, she’s grinning—that kind of carefree, wide grin that comes from real joy.

She’s wearing a black leather jacket over a graphic tee, and her arms are raised as if she’s inviting the whole world to look at her.

The caption under the photo reads:“Living my dream. Can’t wait to do it again tomorrow night!”

I blink at the screen, my mind spinning. Madison…was a singer?

I scroll down, looking through more of her old posts. It’s a fucking time capsule of a completely different life.

There are videos of her singing in what looks like a bar or club, her voice filling the room, and her presence is electric. She owns the stage, completely at ease and comfortable in her skin.

God, her voice is low and seductive as fuck. Even with all the electric guitars, bass, and drums.

It’s hard to believe that the girl in these pictures and videos is the same one who barely looks anyone in the eye now, who hasn’t spoken a single word since the night her family was murdered. She’s a shadow of herself, locked inside that silence, and it’s fucking killing me to see it.

I keep scrolling, and more pictures flood the screen. Some are of her with friends—laughing, hugging, making faces at the camera. Others are of her performing at various venues, her expression always the same: bold, spunky, alive.

I click on a post from a few months ago. She’s on stage again, her body language loose, confident, her curves accentuated in a way that shows she didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought.

She knew who she was, and she owned it.

And then there’s the comments—people telling her how amazing her voice is, how much they loved her performance, how they can’t wait to see her again. She was a fucking star in her own right.

There’s a definite disconnect between the girl I see in front of me now—quiet, broken, barely able to meet my eyes—and the girl she used to be.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, leaning back in my chair, running a hand through my hair.

From her posts, I realize she grew up in Surrey and moved to Timi?oara five years ago after her father died. He must be the one with the ‘Graves’ last name.

There’s a post about her hometown—pictures of the city, of her walking through the streets like she belongs there. I can see the pride in her eyes and in the way she talks about her roots. She loved that place. Loved the life she had. And it’s gone now.

She’s sitting in a small café, her blonde hair tied back, her face animated as she talks to the camera. I don’t know what she’s talking about at first, but the second I press play, my heart fucking stutters.

Her voice. Fuck me sideways,her voice.

It’s smooth and warm, with a slight English lilt that catches me off guard. There’s a hint of laughter in her tone, an easy confidence that pulls me in, and I can’t help but lean closer to the screen, captivated.

She’s talking about a bookstore she found, one that’s tucked away in some corner of Timi?oara, and she’s practically glowing.

“It’s like a hidden gem,”she’s saying, her eyes wide with excitement.“The kind of place where you could just spend hours, losing yourself in old stories and dusty shelves.”

I can barely fucking breathe.

This is who she used to be. This lively, unrestrained girl who could fill a room with just her presence. Hearing her voice now, seeing her smile and laugh, is almost surreal. The Madison I know doesn’t speak and barely looks up, but here, she’s different. She’s free. She’s herself.

And she’s a goddamn siren.

My gaze lingers on her smile, the way her eyes light up, and a strange warmth spreads through my chest. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this, felt this… drawn to someone.

I’ve never given a damn about someone else’s social media, never cared enough to scroll through endless posts, but with Madison, I want to know more.

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