Page 12 of You Rock My World
I double over laughing, and something inside me shakes loose.
We play a few more rounds. The questions grow more personal. Josie tells me her biggest fear is ending up alone, that she once stole lipstick on a dare, lost her virginity in the back of a car, and dreams of being an extra in a movie.
In turn, I share things I usually don’t talk about: how I sometimes feel crushed by fame, how terrified I am of letting people down, and how I’ve never felt like I belong anywhere.
Next round, I win. I play it cool, pretending I’m not about to ask the question I’ve been burning to ask since this game started. “What’s your favorite song of mine?”
My music is the one thing I never second-guess, the only unfiltered part of me. But inviting her opinion? It means stripping my soul bare and learning if the rawest parts of me deserve to be heard.
Josie flushes red and covers her face with her hands. “Awww, not that question.”
“Why not? I’ve asked worse.” She didn’t flinch before telling me how she lost her virginity.
Josie drops her arms and focuses the full power of those amber eyes on me. “Because if I answer, I have to stop pretending I’m so chill about being stuck in an elevator with Rian Phoenix.”
My pulse speeds up not for the first time tonight. I’ve no idea what her answer is going to be, but now more than ever, I’m dying to know. “Then talk to Dorian.”
“Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if you think I’m an unhinged superfan or a stalker.” Her eyes get shiny as she whispers, “It’s ‘Falling From the Same Sky.’”
And yep, a grenade detonates in my chest, leaving nothing but raw, open terrain behind.
7
JOSIE
September—Present Time
A wave of heat rushes through me, and I quickly avert my eyes, pushing the top of my pencil to get more lead. I push too hard and get too much out. As I tap some of it back in, Tessa’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. “Marcia, the financial side is sorted, right? We’re not expecting a legal battle?”
“The prenup covers almost everything,” the lawyer says crisply, flipping through her tablet. “Except for the album they co-wrote.”
My eyebrows shoot up as I finally get the right length of lead. Of course,thatalbum. The one I’ve grown to loathe after meeting Dorian, despite how beautiful and timeless it is. Every track is a love letter, a reminder of their perfect, untouchable romance. It was an audio scrapbook of why I would never have a chance. Romantic. Brilliant. Forever. They not-so-subtly titled itComing Home To You.
Except now, the needle has scratched the record—literally and figuratively.
I risk another glance at Dorian to reconcile the man in front of me with the devoted husband from the tabloids. His expression is unreadable, his jaw tense. Is he devastated about the end of his marriage? Would he have winked at me if he was? And when did their union fall apart? Who dumped who? Why?
I’m still asking questions in my head when Dorian’s agent takes over, waving a hand like this is manageable. “We’re already in talks with the label. They’re working out what percentages everyone gets from future royalties.”
The amount mustn’t be insignificant. I don’t have a clue how much money we’re talking about. I speak burn rates, not music rights.
Tessa steps in again. “What we need to prioritize is controlling the narrative. The public will care less about who owns the album and more about what the split looks like. Whose fault it is. We have to make sure Dorian comes out of this clean.”
I nod, even as something inside me recoils. The PR strategist in me knows she’s right. Image is everything in this industry, and a messy divorce could tank Dorian’s career faster than a bad album. But the hopeless romantic? She’s screaming that this is wrong. Too cold. Too impersonal.
My gaze flicks back to Dorian, searching for any sign of emotion, but his face remains frustratingly impassive. Does he even care that we’re dissecting his failed marriage like it’s any other business deal?
Tessa turns to the social media manager. “Bailey, what should we do for the official announcement, a press release or a simple post?”
“I’d suggest something clean on Instagram,” the young woman in the hoodie replies, her focus on her phone. “Everyone’s doing the same thing these days.” She continues scrolling like she’s already crafting hashtags in her mind. “A black-and-white photo, some poetic caption about growing apart but still loving each other. It’s bullshit, but it works. I just need the final statement from PR.”
All eyes land on me, and I stiffen as I realize it’s my turn to speak and I have jack shit to say. I attempt a shy smile, hoping it hides my panic. “Hi, um, hello everyone, I’m Josie. I was put on this account today, so I’ll need to get a few more details to craft a proper press release.” I keep my tone level, even if the words scrape like sandpaper against my throat. “Is the divorce amicable? Will the statement be a joint one? Should I coordinate with Billie Rae’s team?”
I pause, realizing how much I sound like an amateur. I’m used to presenting million-dollar deals, not million-dollar break-ups. I don’t deal with hard feelings. Series A fundings are easier to navigate than a series of events that led to marital collapse.
As if to confirm my inadequacy, the room bursts into subtle laughter at my naïve questions. The sound prickles across my skin, making me feel even more like a fish out of water. Victor mutters, “Amicable, that’s cute,” while the others shake their head.
“No, Josie,” Tessa explains, her tone firm but not unkind. “It’s anything but civil. And her team? They’ll be working against us, spreading lies we’ll have to shut down. Don’t expect help.”
