Stella Monroe POV
I've been driving for an hour with no destination. Just away. Away from the Bluebird. Away from Tyler. Away from the wreckage of my life scattered across that stage like confetti.
My phone stopped buzzing twenty minutes ago. Forty-seven missed calls. Sixty-three texts. I haven't read any of them. Don't need to. I know what they say.
Come back. You're not well. We're worried. Let us help you.
Translation: you're trapped and we're coming to get you.
It's eleven twenty-three when I pull up outside Sound Emporium Studio. The building is dark except for one ground floor window. Through the glass, I watch Daemon Cross play piano with one hand.
His right hand moves across the keys while his left rests dead on his thigh. Scarred. Useless. Three years ago, a stage accident crushed the bones and ended his career as a guitarist. Tyler told me the story a dozen times. Always with the same warning.
"Daemon Cross is dangerous. Obsessed with revenge. He drove his protégé Amber to suicide with impossible standards. Stay away from him, Stella. He destroys everything he touches."
But Tyler's mask cracked tonight. Tyler sent me that text. Tyler's been stealing my songs for five years while convincing me I was lucky to be his muse.
So maybe Tyler's warnings mean Daemon Cross is exactly who I need.
The melody coming through the window tastes like silver. Cold and sharp. My synesthesia translates it into texture against my teeth. Grief music. The kind you write at three in the morning when sleep won't come and memories won't leave.
I get out of the car before fear wins.
The studio door is unlocked. Stupid at this hour. Or maybe he doesn't care about safety. The lobby is dark. My footsteps echo on hardwood floors. Each step sounds like breaking glass in the silence.
The piano stops.
"Studio's closed." Daemon's voice comes from down the hall. Rough. Exhausted. He doesn't look up from the keys.
I walk to the doorway. The room is bigger than I expected. Exposed brick walls. Soundproofing panels. A grand piano in the center under a single work light. Sheet music covers every surface. Some of it looks old. Yellowed. Like he's been working on the same pieces for years.
"I know," I say. "I'm not here for a session."
Now he looks up.
Dark eyes. Almost black. They take me in with one cold sweep. Ruined makeup. Wrinkled dress. Hair falling out of its bun. I look exactly like someone running from something.
"Then leave." He turns back to the piano. His right hand finds a chord. Minor. Dissonant. "I don't do walk-ins and I don't do midnight counseling."
"Tyler Hayes steals my songs." The words tumble out desperate and too fast. "He's dangerous. I think he hurt your artist Amber."
Daemon's hand freezes over the keys. Every muscle in his back goes rigid. The temperature in the room drops.
When he stands and turns to face me, his expression could cut steel.
"You have thirty seconds before I call security." His voice is dead calm. The kind of calm that comes before violence. "Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight."
My heart slams against my ribs. This was stupid. Insane. Coming to a stranger's studio at midnight with accusations I can't prove. Thinking he'd help me instead of throwing me out.
But I can't go back. Tyler's waiting. Vanessa's waiting. They'll trap me in those contracts one way or another. They'll bury me so deep under Tyler's shadow I'll forget I ever had my own voice.
"I need help stopping him." My voice cracks. "And you need the truth about Amber's death."
Daemon moves toward me. There's a limp in his gait. Slight. Another gift from the accident. When he stops three feet away, I smell coffee and exhaustion.
"Who are you?" Each word is precise. Controlled.
"Stella Monroe. Tyler's fiancée. Was his fiancée. I just destroyed our contracts at the Bluebird in front of half of Nashville's music industry."
Something flickers in his eyes. Not sympathy. Recognition. Like he's seen this exact desperation before.
"Tyler Hayes." He says the name like poison. "Haven't spoken to him in three years. Not since Amber died in this studio and he told the press my 'obsessive methods' drove her to it."
"He lied." I step closer. Need him to believe me. Need him to see what I see. "About Amber. About you. He's been lying about everything."
"Proof?" The word is sharp as a blade.
I have nothing. Just instinct. Just five years of watching Tyler operate. Just the burnt caramel taste of betrayal that won't leave my mouth.
"I know things. Things Tyler said that don't add up."
"Not good enough."
"He visited your studio the night Amber died. He told me once when he was drunk. Said he was checking on her as a friend. But you didn't know he was here, did you?"
Daemon's jaw clenches. "No."
"I know he has offshore accounts. Income that doesn't match what he reports. Vanessa set them up."
"Tax fraud. Not murder."
"I know my songs appear on his albums under his name. Five years of theft. I have the original files with timestamps proving I wrote them first."
"Copyright violation. Still not murder."
"I know he's been drugging my coffee." My voice shakes. "For months. Making me anxious. Dependent. I thought I was losing my mind but the symptoms only happen around him. And I know Amber had the same symptoms before she died."
That lands. I see it in the way Daemon's eyes narrow. The way his damaged hand curls into a fist against his leg.
"Why come to me?" he asks. "Why not police?"
"Because Tyler's father knows everyone. Vanessa knows everyone. They'll say I'm unstable. Having a breakdown. They've already started."
"And you think I'll what? Believe some desperate girl who shows up at midnight with conspiracy theories?"
"No." I meet his eyes. Hold them. "I think you've wanted revenge for three years and I'm offering you a way to get it."
The silence stretches. Daemon doesn't move. Just watches me with those calculating eyes. I can see him weighing options. Measuring risk. Deciding if I'm useful or just another problem.
Finally, he gestures to the piano bench. "Sit down. Tell me everything. Every detail. Every suspicion. If you waste my time, you're out. If you're lying, I'll make sure Tyler looks like a saint compared to what I'll do to your career. Understand?"
I nod. Sit. My legs shake with relief.
Daemon stays standing. Looming. His phone sits on the piano beside sheet music covered in his handwriting. As I open my mouth to start, it buzzes. Lights up.
Tyler Hayes.
The name glows on the screen between us.
Daemon picks up the phone. Shows me. "He's calling me. Already."
Ice floods my veins. Tyler knows. He's tracked my car or guessed or somehow always known that if I ran, I'd run here. To the one person he warned me against. The one person who might actually help me.
"Don't answer," I whisper.
Daemon's smile is sharp. Mean. Exactly as dangerous as Tyler said.
"Oh, I'm definitely answering."
He accepts the call. Puts it on speaker. His eyes never leave mine.
"Daemon Cross." Tyler's voice fills the studio. Warm. Friendly. The voice that used to make me feel safe. "It's been too long. How are you?"
"Tyler. Three years. What do you want?"
"I need your help actually. My fiancée, Stella Monroe, she's having a crisis. Mental health situation. She's not thinking clearly. Might do something dangerous." Tyler pauses. "She knows we had our differences back when Amber was alive. If she shows up there, call me immediately. She needs professional help. I'm worried about her."
Daemon looks at me. Waiting. Letting me choose whether he plays along or burns everything down right now.
I nod once. Play it safe. For now.
"Sure, Tyler." Daemon's voice gives nothing away. "I'll keep an eye out. Hope you find her."
"Thanks, man. I knew I could count on you."
Daemon ends the call. Sets the phone down carefully. When he looks at me again, there's something like respect in his expression.
"So," he says, pulling up a chair and sitting across from me. "Tell me exactly how we're going to destroy him."