Chapter 6

We wait until Wade jumps out of the front seat and the other four bodyguards step out of the car ahead before getting out ourselves.

The metal door creaks as it opens. Flashes go off, blinding me. I feel a hand—probably Max’s—press down on my shoulder, pushing me toward the revolving door of the record label building.

"Ashton, did you really sleep with Ayla? Did you know she was in a relationship with Sawyer?"

I hear the question from one of the photographers, but we’re always instructed by Avalon not to respond. I let Max guide me out of the chaos. However, before we even reach the building, a solid weight slams into me, knocking me backward, and pain explodes in my jaw as the taste of copper floods my mouth.

It takes a few seconds for my dazed mind to process what the hell is happening, but before I can think about reacting, the centripetal force of another punch sends me spinning and stumbling. I no longer feel Max’s hand on my shoulder, only a massive weight pinning me to the ground and a heavy, clenched fist pummeling my face.

I try to use my arms to block the blows, but it’s useless. No matter how much I want to hit back, there’s no opening to retaliate. All I can do is endure the assault and wait for one of the damn bodyguards to pull me out of this mess.

The force of the punches feels like a ton, and my lower back presses harder against the solid concrete I’ve been knocked onto.

Adrenaline keeps the pain at bay, but I know I’m bleeding. The smell is strong, and thick liquid drips from my nose.

It takes less than a minute for Max and Lucca to pull the bastard off me, but for someone who was blindsided and pinned to the ground, that brief moment felt like an eternity.

I’m dizzy, blinded by vertigo, and the aggressive pounding of my heart in my chest resonates in my throat. My first instinct is to lunge at the son of a bitch who punched me until I bled. But before I can follow through, Wade’s athletic arms hook around mine, yanking me backward.

I blink uncontrollably, trying to steady myself from the dizziness caused by the blows to the side of my head. My voice fails, crushed by the tightness in my throat as it struggles to pull in more air.

I shake my shoulders, trying to break free of the human restraints, but Wade fights fiercely against me. I have to admit, despite my time spent in the gym, my arms are no match for his.

"Who the hell do you think you are, you bastard?! I’ll kill you!" I scream, kicking at the air. "Piece of shit!" I shout so loud my throat aches, and my ears tune out the voices around me. "Let me go, Wade! What the hell are we paying you for?! You let this idiot get near me and attack me!"

"You think you’re so great, don’t you?!" the other guy yells back, just as loud.

My eyes finally focus, and the man standing in front of me is nearly two meters tall, with hair cut close to the scalp. His white T-shirt is stained with blood—most likely mine—because he looks completely untouched.

I have no idea where he came from or how he got so close. He must have been waiting for me inside the record label; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to approach me so directly.

"You slept with my girlfriend, damn it!"

"Your... what?!" I frown, feeling a sharp discomfort in my brow.

"Ayla. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten her name."

"Ayla Knylee?" I reflect, recalling Sunday night—the girl who danced for me and came back to the hotel with me. The girl Ravennah Hollow mentioned was the daughter of a billionaire and a model. I swallow hard, my throat burning from the shouting. "I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. Funny how she forgot to mention that."

"Quiet," Wade murmurs behind me.

That’s when reality hits. We’re at the entrance of the record label, surrounded by witnesses and even more paparazzi, all ready to dig my grave and bury my cold body in it.

I analyze my situation carefully and do as Wade says. I press my lips together, though I’m dying to punch the bastard and return some of the bruises he just gave me.

"Let him go," I order Max and Lucca.

They hesitate, but when Sawyer shakes his arms, he finally frees himself.

Staring at me, he holds my gaze with an uncontrollable urge to keep beating me until there’s no air left in my lungs.

Wade finally releases me, and I take a deep breath, using the back of my hand to wipe the blood dripping from my nose.

I want to look around, see how many people witnessed this scene or how my friends are looking at me right now, but I have to admit, for the first time, I feel ashamed of a choice I made.

In general, I take pride in being good in bed and free to sleep with as many women as I want. I’ve never had a problem admitting that people are right when they call me a jerk or a womanizer—whatever.

Women want me, and I want them just as much. But as I look at Sawyer, I genuinely feel bad. The rough basketball player tries to mask his pain, most likely channeling his irrepressible anger to hold back tears.

I feel sorry for him.

Ayla didn’t say she was in a relationship, and she didn’t seem like the kind of person who would cheat on her boyfriend. So why the hell he’s here is a mystery I’m not sure I want to solve.

"Don’t think I’m done with you!" he warns before turning his back and walking through the crowd gathered around us.

Wade considers following him after the threat, but I stop him by grabbing his wrist. I’m tempted to punch Sawyer in the back myself, and the only thing stopping me is Jared’s furious glare.

I glance around, feeling the pressure of my breathing suffocating me. I push my hair back and use the hem of my shirt to wipe the blood off my face, exposing a strip of skin from my abdomen.

I rush into the building, our security forming a wall around me, but questions erupt behind us, and more camera flashes go off in my direction. The dizziness worsens under the light, and I plant my feet, trying to move faster.

I propel myself toward the revolving door, feeling swallowed as I pass through it. Heavy footsteps echo behind me, and the entire team falls into deep silence. But my mind is a constant collision of thoughts.

What a mess. If things were bad for me before, they’ve just gotten worse. The billionaire’s daughter and model was also taken.

I suddenly stop when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see Ayla’s name on the screen. I don’t even remember us exchanging numbers—I was too drunk.

Ayla:

I’m so, so sorry.

Sawyer is controlling. We were on a break; I wasn’t with him. I swear I’ll try to fix things on my end. I hope this doesn’t cause you more trouble.

I lock the screen again. The weight on my head is so heavy that I let it fall back, giving in to the exhaustion. If Ayla messaged me, it means this is already blowing up on social media, especially on Twitter and Instagram.

I lift my head, determined to move forward. We have a meeting with the new stylist team to finalize the tour’s return and announce the dates. But I freeze, feeling that familiar grip around my throat, choking off my air until my oxygen runs low when I see her.

Her dark hair falls in thick waves over her shoulder, cascading down to her chest. Few people can make me feel the way she does.

Yep. My old flame from Humperville. The woman I humiliated in Paris almost four years ago. She’s still my systemic vortex.

Whenever a new story about me breaks, I wonder what the hell she must think of me—whether her anger has grown over the years or if she’s simply moved on and gotten over the fact that I was hooking up with my ex while I was with her in Paris. I really am a selfish bastard.

But when her gaze meets mine, I don’t feel the least bit comfortable with what I see radiating from her eyes.

I hate the way she looks at me as much as she hates me.