Page 20 of Songbird
I haven’t seen the evidence for myself yet, so I set my phone on the table so we can both view the screen, then pull up my internet browser and type her name into the search bar.
The results page populates with a dozen headlines saying the same thing in different ways.
Music mogul Chip Daniels dumps pop star Rosalie Thorne three days before their fairy-tale wedding.
The wedding is off! Princess of Pop Rosalie Thorne busted cheating on Chip Daniels.
Where is she? Rosalie Thorne flees her wedding dress fitting after the truth about her affair comes out.
Rosie scans the headlines and scrolls to see more, her eyes flying over the screen and her nostrils flaring with short, overwhelmed breaths.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But it’s—”
“A smear campaign. To set me up as a liar, a cheater, and a coward to save his reputation and destroy mine in the process. And the best part? If I try to defend myself, there’ll always be people who won’t believe me because he’s gone and undermined my credibility.”
Damn. This woman is smart. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t know how smart.
“Yeah.”
“Ugh!” She shoves the phone away, folds her arms on the dining table, and drops her head. “How did I ever fall for such an asshole?”
“You’re in love with him?”
I don’t know why I asked it, and when Rosie lifts her head to reveal blues eyes wide with surprise, I wish I hadn’t. I’m saved from taking it back, and Rosie’s saved from answering, when somebody knocks on my door.
Rosie startles, and her surprise turns to panic. I set a calming hand on her shoulder and Dakota perks up before she wiggles her butt backward to press against Rosie’s ankles.
“Stay here,” I say. “Stay quiet. Don’t move from this chair unless I tell you to move. Got it?”
I wait until she nods before I cross the room with a kind of stealth I haven’t needed in nearly a year. Flexing my fingers in case I need to use my fists, I open the door just enough tosee who’s outside. When a face comes into focus, my defenses immediately drop.
“Violet. Uh… hey. What are you doing here?”
She lifts her arms to draw my attention to the half dozen shopping bags she’s carrying, then tips her head back toward her car still sitting on the gravel drive. A shiny red sports car is parked behind it.
“My car has a GPS tracker,” she explains.
“Ah. Right. And the bags?”
“Rosalie made an order for underwe—” Violet’s cheeks bloom with spots of embarrassment for the almost-mention of Rosie’s personal items. “I mean, she made an order when she was at my studio yesterday. When my car didn’t move last night, and she didn’t answer my texts, I started to worry.” Violet’s blush deepens. “I’m using her order as an excuse to check on her. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Check on her?” I say, acting clueless to play for time.
“I saw what’s happening online,” Violet says. “I don’t have anywhere near Rosalie’s public profile, but there was a lot of hate when I started dating Chord. Social media and tabloid gossip can be harsh—and, in my experience, usually untrue. Rosalie never gave me the impression of a woman with secrets, and even if she did, that’s her business and not mine. I still want to help.”
The door is still barely ajar, the two of us talking through a space no wider than six inches, and I’m not sure what to say next. I hadn’t planned for Rosie to be found by someone I trust. “I—”
“Violet?” Rosie sneaks up behind me and swings the door wide open. “I thought I heard your voice.”
Violet’s eyebrows shoot up as she takes in the petite pop star with bare feet and no makeup wearing my oversized shirt, and Iclose my eyes briefly to resist a sigh. “And I thought I told you to stay in the kitchen.”
Violet gasps, and I realize how that statement must sound to someone unaware of our history.
“No. I didn’t mean… It’s not like that. I’m not some big, stupid, misogynistic pig. It’s like… The thing is…”
Violet looks shocked and yeah, a little judgmental, but I keep struggling for words. I don’t know what Rosie wants to share and what she wants to keep secret. I might be cut out to beat the shit out of a psychopath who wants to kidnap her, but I’m not up for concocting stories out of thin air. And this is why I hate bullshit.
Rosie saves me with a condescending pat on my upper arm. “Finn used to be my bodyguard. He’s happiest when I do what I’m told.”
