33. Declan

THIRTY-THREE

DECLAN

I've never been a Monday person, and today is no different. Seven AM and traffic is a nightmare, crawling like I'm in a parade I didn't ask to be in. Why the hell is there so much gridlock this early? I grip the wheel tighter, jaw clenched. If Crystelle doesn't have a damn good reason for dragging me out of bed at this hour, I swear I'm going to lose it. If this is about some brand deal or promo shoot, it can wait. Nothing's worth tearing me away from Savvy.

I pull out my phone and shoot him a quick text: Did you get a taxi yet?

Just thinking about him softens the edge of my frustration, but not by much.

Twenty agonizing minutes later, the traffic starts to thin. I spot the problem—a truck, charred and smoking, with firefighters blocking off half the road. Great. I maneuver past the blockade, and soon, the agency's underground parking lot looms into view. Seven-thirty on the dot. I glance at my watch as I kill the engine.

The parking lot is mostly empty, but Lennon's car sticks out like a sore thumb. Of course, he's here. He's always the first to arrive, probably sitting upstairs sipping black coffee and checking his watch every two minutes. His old sedan is parked near the entrance, not flashy by any means, but unmistakable. I know why he keeps it—the car used to belong to his dad, and though Lennon could afford anything he wants, he still drives it on quick runs like this. It's not beat up, just well worn, carrying memories of someone he loved.

As I step out of my car, the familiar rumble of a Ferrari echoes through the lot. Jasper and Lars pull in, always in sync, like they're attached at the hip.

"Hey, man," Lars greets me as he slides out of his car, running a hand through his hair.

I smirk. "You're early," I tease.

Jasper laughs, tossing me a nod. "Lookin' good, Declan."

Before I can respond, Lars jabs me in the side with a playful elbow. "Bet he spent the weekend with a certain fellow we all know."

"Guys, come on," I grumble, heat crawling up my neck. Jesus, am I actually blushing?

Jazz points at me with a wide grin. "Look at him. Dude's totally whipped."

We all laugh, but I can't deny it. Yeah, I'm hooked. And I'm damn happy about it.

"You have any idea why we're here this early?" Jazz asks, stretching his arms like he's still half asleep.

"No clue," I reply.

Lars shrugs, clearly as clueless as I am. "Hank, maybe. Crystelle wouldn't make us drag ourselves out of bed for nothing."

Makes sense. Crystelle's been managing us long enough to know better. She knows we're usually recovering from weekend gigs—or partying, depending on which member of the band you ask. Monday morning meetings? Not our style.

As we walk toward the entrance, I spot Crystelle outside, pacing and smoking like it's her lifeline. She's pissed. You can see it in the tension in her shoulders, the way she crushes her cigarette under her heel.

"You alright, Crystelle?" I ask, stepping closer.

She forces a tight smile, flicking the butt away. "Yeah, fine. Let's get this over with."

We exchange looks but say nothing, following her inside. The tension in the elevator is thick enough to choke on. By the time we reach the conference room, I'm already over whatever this is.

Lennon's already seated, looking bored out of his mind. He catches my eye and rolls his; I know exactly how he feels.

"Let's get started," Hank announces, his voice too chipper for the hour. He flashes a grin at the suits, and they nod like this is all very official and important.

I slouch in my chair, trying to mask my growing irritation. My mind drifts back to Savvy, to how I should be with him right now, grabbing breakfast or just stealing a few more minutes together before the day pulls us apart. Instead, I'm stuck here, listening to Hank ramble about some "big news" that's apparently confidential.

I glance at Crystelle, but she's still fuming, her eyes narrowing at Hank like she'd love nothing more than to strangle him. Whatever this is, she's not on board. That's all I need to know.

Hank clears his throat. "The governor's daughter is getting married in Dubai this weekend. And guess who her favorite band is?" The fake excitement in his voice grates on my nerves. He pauses dramatically. "Orion Skye!"

I blink at him. Is this guy serious?

"You've gotta be kidding me," Lars mutters, voicing what we're all thinking.

Jazz groans beside me. "Crystelle, please tell me this isn't why we're here."

She rolls her eyes but says nothing, leaving Hank to flounder on.

"We need to give him an answer by eight-thirty," Hank insists, glancing at his watch like we should be jumping out of our seats in excitement. "We leave in three days."

"Three days?" Jazz's voice cuts through the room, sharp and incredulous.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Lars growls, leaning forward.

I lock eyes with Hank, my expression flat. There's no way in hell I'm leaving that soon, not for this. Hank might think he can call the shots, but I've got my own priorities—and they're a lot more important than some VIP wedding halfway across the world. I glance at Crystelle again, and I wish she'd jump in and put a stop to this madness.

But she stays silent, her eyes cold, arms crossed.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I think it's a message from Savvy because he hasn't replied to my text. Everyone in the room is looking at me to say something to Hank. I ignore their gazes and swipe my phone open. It's indeed a message from Savvy.

I click on his name on the screen to read the content, but I immediately freeze. My heart pounds, the echo of each thud slamming in my ears. I can't take my eyes off the screen.

It's him. Savion—my Savvy—bound and tied up in the trunk. The ropes dig into his skin, cruelly marking his wrists… his ankles.

I can't blink. I can't even breathe as the camera zooms closer, catching every twitch of his fingers, every tremble in his muscles. His lips, the ones I kissed this morning, are chapped, trembling slightly.

No. No, this can't be happening.

I clench my phone harder, trying to steady the shaking in my hands.

Savion, baby…

A low growl escapes my throat. How the hell did this happen? We were just together. Less than an hour ago. He was safe. He was laughing.

I close my eyes, but the image burns behind my lids, seared into my brain. I can still feel the softness of his skin, still taste the warmth of his lips. And now... now he's here. Like this. Tied up. Vulnerable.

"Dec? What the hell's going on?"

Crystelle's voice feels distant, like it's coming from underwater. I try to answer, but the words lodge in my throat. I'm drowning in a whirlwind of rage and fear. My heart thunders against my ribcage, begging for me to do something.

My phone vibrates in my hand again, but I can't bring myself to look. Can't stomach whatever else might be waiting.

I force a breath, but it's shaky, unsteady. My muscles are tense, so tight it feels like they're ready to snap. The room around me warps, spins. The weight of the air presses down on me, suffocating.

I slam my fist against the table, startling the band and everyone else around. Chairs scrape back, but I don't care. All that matters is Savion. I need to get to him. Now.

I shove out of my chair, but a hand grips my shoulder, stopping me. "Declan—what the fuck is going on?" It's Lars. His voice cuts through the haze.

I can't even form words. I thrust the phone toward him, my jaw clenched so tight I feel the strain. He takes it, frowning as he looks down at the screen.

"Holy shit," he mutters, eyes wide.

"I don't appreciate when you guys use your phones in meetings," Hank's voice echoes.

That's all it takes. The room erupts into chaos—chairs scraping, voices rising. But none of it registers. All I can think about is getting to Savion. To untie him. To hold him. To protect him.

I make a beeline for the door.