26. Declan

TWENTY-SIX

DECLAN

I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over the screen, willing something—anything—from Savion. The last few texts were brief, cold, like they'd passed through a filter that stripped out the warmth I've grown so used to. Nothing like the man who had, unbeknownst to me back then, stolen my breath at that museum gala. The air feels heavier in my chest, squeezing tighter with each second of silence. Something's wrong. I can feel it.

And then I get another message from him.

Savvy: I miss you too.

That makes me feel better, but not 100 percent. I'm getting a vibe that makes me uncomfortable.

The lounge is dead quiet, except for the distant hum of the AC kicking in. I sit here, restless, knowing that whatever is on his mind, he's not telling me. And the not knowing is driving me insane.

I glance at the clock again. I'm the first one here for the band meeting with Chrystelle, but I can't shake the feeling that I should have told Jason from PR to let the others know I needed to skip out. I could have said something came up, something more important than whatever we're supposed to discuss today.

The door creaks open, and I barely look up. It's Jason—again. He's always here, always talking, always filling the space with useless chatter about what the fans are saying, like I'm supposed to care.

"You gotta see these," Jason says, his voice too casual for what's bubbling inside me.

"Not now, Jason." I don't bother looking away from the phone, my patience wearing thin. I'm trying to keep it together, focus on Savion, on what might be going on in his head. I don't need Jason's noise right now.

But he doesn't get the hint. "It's about your boyfriend."

Those words hit me like a sucker punch. I look up slowly, the weight in my chest shifting into something darker, heavier. I don't like the way Jason says it, too relaxed, too damn casual, like this is just another day at the office. My hand tightens around the phone as I try to keep my cool.

"What did you say?" My voice comes out low, a little rough around the edges. I can already feel the storm rolling in, but I don't know from where yet.

Jason holds out his tablet, the screen lit up. "You might want to take a look at these memes."

Memes? I snatch the tablet out of his hand before he can say anything else, my stomach already twisting into knots. I can feel my pulse in my throat, a slow, steady thud that grows louder with every second.

As the screen flickers into focus, the first image hits me like a fist to the gut. There's Savion, but not the Savion I know. They've taken some photo of him, distorted it, exaggerated his features, made him look ridiculous, like some kind of joke. And beneath it? Comments. Hundreds of them. Cruel, cutting words that pick apart everything about him—his appearance, his career, his relationship with me.

My vision blurs as I scroll. More memes. More comments. They're everywhere. It's like I've been thrown into some sick game where the whole internet thinks it's okay to rip him apart for fun.

The pressure in my chest builds. A burning heat rises to my face, and my jaw clenches so tight it hurts. I want to break something. No. I want to break someone. My fingers curl into a fist, knuckles white, and I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

Jason's still talking, but I don't hear him anymore. All I can see is Savion's face on the screen, plastered all over the internet for the world to tear down. And it's my fault. My life, my world… it's leaking into his, poisoning everything.

I've always hated social media. Even when Jason pushes for more engagement, more posts, more interaction—it always grates on me. It wasn't until therapy that I could trace it back to where it all began, to the part of me that learned, the hard way, how much damage the media can do.

When my parents died, the vultures descended. Not reporters—no, that's too polite a word. Vultures. They circled my house, hovering, their cameras clicking like beaks snapping for flesh. Every time I stepped outside, they were there. Every damn time. Faces pressed up against the gates, voices shouting questions I wasn't ready to answer—questions no one should ever have to answer.

"Was your mother on drugs?"

"Was your father abusive?"

"What did you do to help her?"

As if I could've stopped it. As if it wasn't already too late.

I'd keep my face blank when they were around, but the minute I got inside, I'd collapse. There was this one spot just inside the front door where I'd curl up, knees drawn to my chest, and let it all out. The tears. The anger. The helplessness. I was trapped. Cornered. My world had already fallen apart, and those assholes were just waiting to pick apart the pieces.

Then there was the TV.

God, I wish I'd never turned it on.

I made the mistake of pressing that button. And there they were—my parents, smiling on the screen. Except the smiles weren't real, not anymore. Not after everything that had happened.

The vultures had taken everything—every scrap of privacy we had left—and put it on display for the whole world to see. I felt naked, exposed. They had no right. How could they just plaster my family's pain across every channel, every newspaper? But they did. And people ate it up.

It got worse. They dug up old pictures, interviews, anything they could use to sell the story. My face was in those collages too, alongside my parents, like I was part of the spectacle. They didn't know me. They didn't know the secrets behind those smiles. But they didn't care.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I couldn't breathe in a crowd. I'd walk into a store or go to school, and I could feel them all watching me—judging me. Whether they were or not, it didn't matter. In my head, they all knew. They knew my family's dirty secrets. They knew how broken I was.

When I joined Orion Skye, the guys figured it out pretty fast—my aversion to social media, the way I avoided anything that would put my personal life out there. Jason handles most of it now. I'd rather keep my distance. Let someone else deal with the public, with the endless scrolling and posting and commenting. My therapist says it's okay—that I don't have to engage with it. And I don't.

But this… seeing Savion's face plastered all over the internet, being ripped apart by strangers? It feels like it's happening all over again. The same helplessness, the same rage, the same guilt.

Only this time, it's not me they're tearing apart.

It's him.

I need to see him.

My jacket's barely over my shoulders before I'm out the door, Jason's voice trailing behind me. Something about waiting, about calming down. He doesn't get it. He doesn't know what this feels like—this urgency. Like my whole body is wired, buzzing, ready to explode.

The elevator feels too slow. My foot's tapping against the floor, the motion keeping time with the pounding in my chest. I press the button for the lobby again, even though I know it won't make a damn difference.

I need to hold him.

But more than that, I need to know he's okay. That he hasn't seen the shitstorm that's brewing online.

Except, who am I kidding? Of course, he's seen it. Of course, he's read every damn comment, every disgusting lie they're spreading about him. It's the same old story—the media latches onto you like a parasite, feeding off your life until there's nothing left.

I try to swallow, but my throat's dry. No matter how much I tell myself that I'll fix this, that I'll protect him, the truth claws at the back of my mind. I can't control the media. I can't stop them from tearing him apart.

But that doesn't mean I won't try.

The elevator doors open, and I'm out before they've fully slid apart, my pulse thudding in my ears. My heart is beating too fast, a mix of adrenaline and panic pushing me forward. Each step feels like I'm fighting against something invisible, something suffocating.

I enter the parking lot and find my car, fumbling with my keys. The engine roars to life, but I barely hear it. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, echoing in my skull like a war drum. I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white.

What if he's not okay?

The thought keeps circling in my mind, and I hate it. Hate that I can't just turn it off. Hate that I can't shield him from this. I promised I'd protect him, but how the hell do you protect someone from the whole world?

The second I pull up to the museum, I know something's off. Or maybe it's just me. The usual buzz of excitement that comes with walking into Savion's world—the place where he's at his best, surrounded by ancient bones and history—just isn't there today. The tension in my chest tightens another notch, but I push it down. He's probably in the back, buried in work like always.

I stride through the entrance, scanning the front desk. That's when I see her.

Dina.

She fangirled over me the first time I visited Savion here. I remember the excitement in her eyes when she asked for a selfie, how she couldn't stop gushing about Orion Skye. But today... something's different.

Dina's standing there, her eyes flicking to mine. Instead of that sparkle, her face falls into something else—guilt, maybe? Embarrassment? Hell, I don't know. But she's not as bubbly as she was when I first saw her. She doesn't even smile.

"Declan," she says, her voice softer than I expected. Almost cautious.

"Hey, Dina." I try to sound casual, but the unease in my gut grows. "Is Savion here?"

She hesitates, glancing down at her hands like she's trying to avoid my gaze. My stomach sinks. "He left about an hour ago," she finally says, looking back up at me.

I freeze.

He left? Savion never leaves early without telling me. Ever.

"An hour ago?" My voice sounds too sharp, but I can't help it. If Savion left early and didn't say a word, it only means one thing. He saw it. The memes. The trash people are spewing online.

Dina shifts awkwardly, and I can tell she knows more than she's letting on. Maybe she saw it too. Maybe that's why she's so... subdued.

"Yeah... he didn't really say much when he left," she adds, almost apologetically.

I nod, but I'm not really listening anymore. The reality is crashing down on me too fast. I barely manage to throw a quick "thanks" her way before I'm out the door, heart racing.

Savion saw it. He had to have.

I fumble with my car keys, the panic rising in my chest like a tidal wave. I need to get to him—now. I have to make sure he's okay. The drive to his apartment feels like an eternity, every red light and slow car pushing me closer to the edge.

I keep imagining him sitting alone in that apartment, scrolling through his phone, reading the comments. Seeing the memes. All that filth. All those lies. My jaw clenches so hard it hurts, but I don't care. I just need to get to him.

. I need to tell him it's going to be okay, even if I don't believe it myself. I need to wrap my arms around him and make him understand that none of this bullshit matters. But deep down, I know it does.

The light turns green, and I press the gas. Every second feels too long, every delay too much. It's like the world is conspiring to keep me from him, and I can feel that helplessness gnawing at me, the way it always does when I lose control.

But I won't lose him. Not to this. Not to the fucking media.

By the time I pull up to his building, my hands are shaking. I race up the steps, my legs barely able to keep up with the urgency thrumming through me.

The second the key that Savion gave me turns in the lock, I burst into the apartment, my heart pounding in my ears.

"Savion!"

I'm met with silence.

I step inside, my eyes darting around the open space. It's too quiet. Too still.

Where the hell is he?

Savion emerges from the bedroom, his hair tousled and damp. He's wearing soft gray sweats that hug his form and a snug black turtleneck, but it's the look on his face that makes my breath hitch. His eyes—usually vibrant and expressive—are dull, like they've lost their light. His scars, so often hidden beneath makeup, stand out starkly against his bare skin.

I'm taken back to that first shower we shared, the steam rising around us like a veil. I'd seen him without makeup for the first time then—water cascading over his body, revealing an untouched beauty. He'd looked so vulnerable yet undeniably beautiful, and I remember wanting to cradle him in that moment, to protect him from the world outside.

But now, the weight of reality crashes back in.

"I saw it," I say, my voice low and tight, each word laced with urgency. "I saw the posts."

"I thought I could handle it, Dec. I thought I was strong enough…"

"You are," I insist, feeling my own walls begin to crack under the weight of his pain. "But you don't have to do it alone. Not anymore."

He takes a shaky breath. "I'll be going to South Africa for two weeks," he says, almost too casually, but I can hear the tremor behind it.

"That's great news," I say, genuinely happy for him but missing him already. We met during that fundraising event, so it's not surprising he got this opportunity and he deserves it.

Savion lowers his eyes quickly before looking at mine again, guilt etched on his features. He pulls in a deep breath and then slowly releases it. "I love you… so, so fucking much, Declan. But… but the… what's happening is messing with my head and… it's not good for my mental health. You will always be famous and I… I will always look the way I do. I guess what I'm trying to say is…"

He doesn't complete the sentence, but I know what he wants to say.

And.

I.

Am.

Gutted.

"I need some time to process everything," he continues, "and maybe this brief separation will be good for us."

His words hang heavy in the air. I want to scream, to pull him close and refuse to let him go, but I know he's right in some way.

"Just… promise me you'll take care of yourself?" I say, the ache in my chest deepening.

He nods, his voice barely a whisper, "I will, Dec. I promise." He expels another deep breath. "And I promise I'll understand if you move on."

Move on? What the fuck?

The fact that he's assuming I'll choose anything or anyone else over him has me in a state of dissonance. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Savion's the rainbow in my life… bringing vivid colors and meaning to my world. Letting him go would be like losing all my limbs, my heart, my soul.

How can I make Savion see how much he's added laughter and music to my life, and how much I want to do the same in his?

How can I make him understand that when I said "I love you" to him, I meant it to the very depths of my heart?

How can I convince him that I will never choose fame or fans over him?

I choose him.

How can he not see how much I crave him, how much he means to me?

"Savion, we can work this out." I want to pull him closer to me, but I respect his need for space. "We don't have to move on from anything."

Don't do this to us, Savion. Please…

Hating the physical and emotional distance between us, I yield to temptation, and reach out to cup his tear-dampened cheeks. "Look at me, Savion." I wait until he fixes his eyes on me. "We'll address this when you return from South Africa, okay?"

And as we stand there, two souls caught in a tumultuous sea of emotions, I realize that love, while powerful, isn't always enough to shield us from the world's harshness. Sometimes, it's the distance that helps us find our way back to each other.