19. Kiana

19

KIANA

Tyson is livid when he sees my injuries. He doesn't have to say a word to let me know. His large frame tenses up, his muscles straining so hard veins protrude. His eyes flash with the kind of rage that could burn down the entire city.

Another second, and he might launch into a rampage on my behalf.

I rush to explain.

"I was in a car accident," I say. "Earlier today."

His thick brows connect and his broad chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, taking me in. It's as if he's still processing how to react. Whether he wants to be in full scorched earth mode or if he's slipping into something else altogether.

"In NYC," I finish, bringing my hand to the lump on my forehead. "My injuries aren't serious, but?—"

"How?" he interrupts. "How did it happen?"

"Hit and run. The guy drove off."

"I bet he did." He lumbers forward, a large mass of muscle that feels safe and protective on presence alone. Cupping my elbow, he unlocks the double doors to his home and then guides me inside.

My anxiety begins to recede as I let him.

I can finally let my guard down after a day spent thrown into another unpredictable situation.

The door snaps shut behind us, and I realize we're in our own impenetrable fortress. Sighing, my shoulders slump, losing the weight they've been carrying.

"Make yourself at home," he says. His thumb rubs a soft back-and-forth pattern across the curve of my elbow. "I'm going to get you an icepack for that bump on your head."

I carefully toe out of my sneakers as Tyson's large form retreats down the hall. I'm slow exploring on my own, wandering from the foyer area to the rest of the ground floor. The house is spacious. Clean but empty.

Tyson keeps few personal possessions.

No photographs. No knickknacks. No real color scheme other than black and slate gray.

I find myself in the living room where his long sectional sofa curls around the room and glass doors preview the surrounding trees.

When I landed at LAX and gave the airport taxi the address—info I had taken from the terminated contract he signed—the driver told me he had no clue where the place was. The result was that we got lost twice on our way here.

Tyson bought just about the most reclusive home he could, miles outside of LA.

Now that I'm inside, I realize it fits him in a lot of ways. A home full of wide windows far removed from the city where he can have a vantage point to watch the world from afar.

"Here," he says when he returns. His warm palm cups the tip of my shoulder in the same fashion he'd done my elbow, easing me toward the sofa cushions. He crouches beside me as I sit down and then applies the cold compress he's grabbed.

My eyes close at how good it feels. Even better than the one they'd used at the ER.

"How'd you get here?" he asks.

"Hmmm?"

"You said you were in New York City."

"Oh," I mutter. "I escaped the hospital and went to the airport."

"Kiana…" he sighs with a shake of his head. His thick fingers are gentle as he smooths curls away from my hairline and holds the cold compress to the bump. "You shouldn't have flown across the country like that."

I swallow against the tide of emotions threatening to erupt. They've been locked inside me from the moment Tyson and I separated in London. It might've been a risky choice to make in the wake of everything that's happened, but I needed to get away.

I couldn't stay another second in Tommy's clutches.

As if sensing these are my thoughts, he draws back enough to peer into my eyes. His palms slide across the curve of my cheeks as he takes my face into his hands.

"You can come by anytime," he says. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I don't want you exposed when the threat's out there. Tell me about the crash. Everything you know."

I exhaust myself recounting the details.

Tyson listens patiently, tending to my bumps and bruises as best he can. But what makes the difference is the soothing warmth of his touch. Though reliving the car crash takes a lot out of me, Tyson replenishes what's lost.

He massages the aches and pains in my neck and shoulders. He kisses and caresses the parts of me that feel fractured. I find myself wrapping my arms around his wide frame and snuggling my face into any nook I can find. He holds me tight to him 'til I feel myself drifting off.

My eyelids grow heavy, and my breathing slows.

"It's okay, princess," he says. "Time to take it easy. Nobody's got to know you're here."

Comforting words I need to hear at a time like this.

Before I can even think about objecting, I'm drifting off to sleep in his arms. I'm fading into a black well that's dreamless but peaceful.

It's evening when I wake up in Tyson's bed. I'm slow reacting, tucked into the thick folds of the comforter. I don't even remember making it up to his room let alone falling asleep in his bed. I sit up, spotting the dusk-smattered sky through the giant windows.

Hours must have gone by. The last thing I remember, it was a sunny afternoon and Tyson was applying a cold compress.

Swinging my legs to the side of the bed, I notice the set of folded clothes laid out for me. A smile slinks onto my face.

He's left me clothes to change into.

Clothes that are far too big on me given the vast size difference between us, but it's the thought that counts. I opt for the t-shirt— just the t-shirt—and then leave the room in search of him. I find him downstairs in the kitchen, huddled over his laptop. His expression's sharp and concentrated, his gaze unblinking on the screen.

At first he doesn't even notice me.

For a second or two, I hover in the doorway, observing him.

This stoic, steely mountain of a man who has become such a close and unexpected companion in a short amount of time.

My heart beats faster thinking about where this could be going. What does it mean that I trust Tyson so explicitly after only a few weeks of knowing him?

"I almost got lost," I say, making my presence known. I pad into the kitchen in his t-shirt that swallows me up and comes down my thighs.

He looks up at the exact moment I do—his dark eyes rove over me.

Surprise flares in them for the briefest second before settling on my face.

"Get enough rest?"

I smirk. "I woke up not knowing what year I was in."

"That was the goal."

"You brought me upstairs?"

"You fell asleep in my arms," he answers. "We were on the sofa. Anytime I've fallen asleep on it, I wake with a crick in my neck. The bed's more comfortable."

My skin warms up at the mental imagery. Dozing off in his arms so he scooped me up and carried me upstairs to lay me down in his bed. He'd tucked me in…

A huge, intimidating man like him who bulges with muscles and has a permanently furrowed brow.

I almost giggle, but my smirk keeps the sound at bay. I wander deeper into the kitchen and gesture at his laptop.

"What have you been up to?"

"Tracking your situation," he answers. "Putting together puzzle pieces."

The smirk's wiped off my face. My insides twist into small knots. "You don't need to. You don't even work as my bodyguard anymore…"

"I'm not letting this go. There's somebody out there trying to take you out."

"And you won't let them?"

He drags his gaze from the laptop screen back to me. Resolve burns in the dark, stone-like orbs. The knots that had twisted inside me begin coiling even tighter, but for a different reason— Tyson's so determined to uphold his duty to protect me, it feels overwhelming.

In comparison to the disregard from Tommy and the record label, it feels like Tyson is the first person in a long time to see me as a person. The woman I am and not just some brand to sell.

"I'm not stopping 'til it's handled," he says. "Today's car crash was no accident."

"What have you found?"

He pats the stool next to his. "Sit down. There's a lot to go over."

Dread pools at the pit of my belly as I do what he says. Sliding onto the kitchen stool next to his, I look at his laptop screen to discover a familiar image.

My penthouse.

I recognize my entryway along with the living room area and the LA backdrop.

It's security camera footage from earlier today. Tyson presses play on the video. My lips part to ask what he's showing me if I haven't been home in over a week.

Then the front door opens and Shawn walks through. He glances around out of paranoia, scoping out the place to make sure he's really alone. He's clutching the key I'd given him well over a year ago. Back when I trusted him enough to have immediate access to my most private space.

I watch in speechless shock as my ex-boyfriend snoops around. He pops open my fridge and helps himself to a bottle of sparkling water.

Tyson clicks play on a different video. This one from the angle of the camera that leads into my bedroom.

Shawn's made his way from the kitchen. Once in my bedroom, he tugs drawers open—including my underwear drawers—and begins searching for something.

A strange fluttery sensation strikes my heart. Some mix of disbelief and horror.

"What is he…" I stammer, then drift off as shock takes over again.

He grabbed my tablet and started for the door.

"I confronted him about it," Tyson says, snapping shut the laptop before I could see what happens next. He reaches across the counter and produces the item in question.

My tablet.

I blink staring down at it, feeling so lost I don't know where to begin.

Why was Shawn in my penthouse? What was he doing digging in my drawers, and what did he want with my tablet?

"He claimed he bought it for you and was taking it back," Tyson says. "As you can see, I got it back for you. He made it out in one piece. For now."

"Tyson… what…" I shake my head.

"I have to be honest. I was checking your security cameras. I have been doing that. It was the only way I could keep an eye on you. All other contact was cut off."

"You've been spying on me?"

His jaw clenches tighter, then he nods. "It was the only option I had left to still try and protect you. I wanted to still look out for you even if you weren't in LA. Make sure everything was alright."

I'm unable to process these revelations for seconds to come. As if Shawn sneaking into my penthouse wasn't enough, Tyson's still had access to my place. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath, trying to make sense of what I've learned.

I take the moment to listen to my intuition.

"What do you think Shawn was doing with my tablet?"

"I've had a friend look into his private communications. We believe he knew you had explicit photos and videos of the two of you," he says. "Someone named Henry B. reached out to him about selling them for a few million."

"You mean he was going to sell content of me? Us?" I croak.

"We have the email chain." He opens the laptop again, tapping away at the keyboard, before he turns it around for me to see.

Shawn's email address in a chain of emails with this Henry B. guy discussing private photos.

"Oh my god," I whisper. "How could he?"

"It gets worse," Tyson says. "The person emailing him seems to be the same person who paid Rashad to come after you at the Ice Lounge."

"And probably the same person who paid the hit and run guy and sent the package with the poisonous powder?"

Tyson's nod is grim, confirming every horrible detail is interlaced.

My hands come to my face and I struggle over which direction to go in. Where do you begin figuring out a way forward when it seems everything's beyond your control?

If it's not the label dictating my life, it's this mysterious entity trying to destroy me.

Tyson gathers me in his arms, enclosing around me in a cocoon of instant warmth. I let myself melt into him like I had earlier when I first arrived. His embrace has the same effect—it calms the fears quelling inside me.

The panic. The stress. All the bad things invading my head and making it impossible to think.

"Thank you," I murmur.

"For what, princess?"

"Being the mountain I need to rest on sometimes." I nuzzle my face against his chest, which is surprisingly comfortable. "I get why you were monitoring the camera systems. Especially when Tommy made me cut contact. But I don't get Shawn. How could he hate me this much?"

"Money talks. And resentment grows. From the emails, it seems he was growing bitter for a while. Probably pissed you were the bigger name."

"Tommy told me it was a contract. His team and my team staged a meeting. Which means I wasted four years of my life on him. I was convinced I was in love while he was trying to milk a PR relationship. I was so naive!"

"How would you know?" he asks. He frames my face in his large hands to force my gaze up to his. "You were young. New to fame. It sounds like it was your first real relationship."

Though everything Tyson says is true—I was young and I was inexperienced and easily taken advantage of in an industry of vultures—it's hard to accept the truth.

Shawn played me.

And Tommy and the label facilitated it.

They commodified my romantic life as another part of my brand.

It worked. So much of my discography are songs written about Shawn and our relationship.

"I want to take back the narrative," I say, covering his hands with mine—or as much as I can given our size difference. "How can I take back control and make them pay, Goliath?"

"We'll do it together," he promises. "We're going to catch the person that's behind all of this. We're going to make sure Shawn's held accountable for his role. Then we're going to free you from Tommy and the label. You'll be a free woman with nobody after you."

"All of that sounds too good to be true."

He drops a sweet kiss onto my lips. "Not too good to be true, princess. Just gonna take some work. Are you up for it?"