Stella Monroe POV
Seven oh four in the evening. November 25th. Tyler's apartment building.
The wire sits cold against my ribs. Taped beneath my bra. So small I can barely feel it. But I know it's there. Recording everything.
Two days ago, Tyler's voicemail said "I know where you were." Yesterday, I didn't answer his calls. Hid at Daemon's studio while his tech guy disabled the GPS app and swept my car for trackers. Found two. One in the wheel well. One under the passenger seat.
Tyler's been tracking me for months. Maybe years.
Today, Tyler's texts shifted from angry to concerned. "Baby, please. I'm worried. Can we just talk?"
So here I am. About to walk into his apartment wearing a wire. About to smile and apologize and let him gaslight me while Daemon and King listen from a van two blocks away.
I punch in the door code. My hands shake. The wire suddenly feels massive. Obvious. Like Tyler will see it the second I walk in.
Three flights of stairs. Each step tastes like copper. Fear metallic in my mouth.
Tyler opens the door before I knock. Like he's been waiting. Watching through the peephole.
"Stella." He pulls me into his arms. "Thank God."
His relief feels real. Sounds real. He holds me like I'm something precious that almost got lost. For half a second, I forget why I'm here. Forget the trackers. The searches. The plan to kill me in seven months.
Then his grip tightens. Just slightly. A reminder of who's in control.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry for scaring you."
"Come inside. We need to talk." He pulls back. Studies my face. Looking for cracks. For lies. For any sign I've turned against him.
I keep my expression soft. Apologetic. Broken.
The apartment is exactly as I remember. White walls. Minimal furniture. Everything organized and sterile. Through my synesthesia, it tastes like bleach. Toxic clean.
Tyler guides me to the couch. Sits close. Takes both my hands.
"What's going on with you?" His voice is gentle. So gentle. "The Bluebird. Ignoring my calls. Disappearing for days. This isn't like you."
Here it comes. The reframing. Making my escape about my instability instead of his control.
"I don't know. Everything just felt overwhelming. The pressure. The showcase. I couldn't handle it."
"That's what I thought." Tyler squeezes my hands. "So I called Dr. Morrison. Your therapist. She agrees you're showing signs of severe anxiety. Maybe something more."
My stomach drops. "You called my therapist?"
"She needed to know what happened. We're both worried about you." His thumb rubs circles on my palm. Soothing. "She wants to see you twice a week now. I already made the appointments."
He decided. Without asking me. Arranged my life while I was gone.
"And I called your parents."
Ice floods my chest. "Tyler..."
"They needed to know, Stella. Their daughter had a breakdown on stage. They were grateful I called. They agree you need more support right now."
He's building his case. Unstable girlfriend. Concerned fiancé. Even her therapist and parents agree she's falling apart.
"What did you tell them exactly?"
"The truth. That you've been struggling with the pressure of launching your career. That you're not stable enough right now for the industry's demands. That you need time to heal." Tyler's voice stays soft. Reasonable. "They were so worried. Your mom cried."
My mother. Who barely calls anymore. Who was relieved when Tyler said he'd take care of me. Now she's crying because Tyler told her I'm broken.
"I didn't mean to worry anyone."
"I know you didn't. That's why we're going to fix this. Together." He stands. Pulls me up. "But first, you need to promise me something."
"What?"
"No more studio sessions. No writing. No performing. Not until you're stable."
The wire records every word. Every careful manipulation.
"But I love writing."
"And you'll write again. When you're well. Right now, creativity is just more stress you don't need." Tyler cups my face. Forces me to look at him. "I'm trying to protect you, Stella. From the industry. From yourself. Can you trust me to do that?"
No. The word screams in my head. But I nod. "Yes."
"Good girl."
He kisses my forehead. Then goes to the kitchen. "I'm making dinner. Your favorite. You need to eat."
While he's gone, I sit on the couch. The wire is still recording. But I need more. Need something that proves intent. Proves danger.
Tyler brings me wine. Red. I shake my head. "My stomach's still upset."
"Of course." He sets it aside. Sits next to me. His expression shifts. Subtle. From gentle to something sharper. "We need to talk about Daemon Cross."
My blood goes cold. "What about him?"
"I know you went to his studio." Tyler's voice stays calm but his eyes are ice. "November 23rd. Two in the morning. Four hours."
The GPS. He checked the logs before I disabled it. Saw exactly where I was.
"I couldn't sleep. I was driving around. I saw the lights on." Keep the story vague. Confused. "I barely remember that night."
"You don't remember spending four hours at Daemon Cross's studio?" Tyler's hand finds my wrist. His grip is light. "The same man I've warned you about for five years? The man who killed his last artist?"
"I didn't mean to. I was confused. I wasn't thinking clearly."
"No. You weren't thinking at all." His fingers tighten. Not much. Just enough to hurt. "Do you know what he does to the artists he signs? He obsesses over them. Controls them. Pushes them until they break. Amber trusted him and she died."
"Tyler, you're hurting me."
His grip tightens more. I feel my pulse against his fingers. See the skin go white where he's pressing.
"Promise me you won't see him again." Tyler's voice drops. Dangerous. "Promise me you'll stay away from Daemon Cross. I'm protecting you."
Pain blooms up my arm. Sharp. Hot. "I promise."
"Say it. Say his name."
"I promise I won't see Daemon Cross again."
"Good." He releases my wrist. Immediately kisses where he was squeezing. "I'm not angry. I just love you too much to watch you get hurt."
I look at my wrist. Red marks. Fingerprints. They'll bruise by tomorrow. Purple and green. Proof of his grip.
The wire records it all. The threat. The pain. The kiss after.
Tyler's phone rings. He checks the screen. "Work call. Give me five minutes."
He walks to the bedroom. Closes the door most of the way. I hear his voice. Normal volume. Talking about contracts or deals or something professional.
Then his voice drops. To a whisper. So quiet I almost miss it.
"Fragile little thing. Won't take long."
My breath stops. The words are barely audible. But the wire catches everything.
Tyler comes back smiling. "Sorry. Where were we?"
I eat dinner. Let him talk about therapy and my parents and our future. Play the grateful fiancée who needs his protection.
At ten, I tell him I'm tired. Need to go home.
"Call me when you get there," Tyler says. "So I know you're safe."
"I will."
He kisses me goodbye. Soft. Sweet. Perfect concerned boyfriend.
I drive straight to Sound Emporium. My wrist throbs the whole way.
Daemon and King are waiting in Studio B. The tech guy removes the wire. Plugs it into his laptop.
We listen to everything. Tyler's voice. Gentle. Manipulative. Calling my therapist and parents. Threatening me about Daemon. Squeezing my wrist until it bruised.
Then the whisper. Through the bedroom door.
"Fragile little thing. Won't take long."
The words fill the studio. Cold. Calculated. Final.
King speaks first. His voice is grave. "That's premeditation."
Daemon's face has gone empty. Dead calm. "We have four months to build a case before he moves."
I stare at him. "Four months? How do you know when?"
Daemon and King exchange a look. Some silent conversation.
"Tell her," King says.
Daemon opens his laptop. Pulls up files. "My tech guy got into Tyler's cloud storage yesterday. Recovered deleted search history from the last month."
He shows me the screen.
Percy Priest Lake drowning statistics.
Staging suicide believable methods.
Sedative overdose symptoms women.
All searched in the two weeks after my Bluebird breakdown.
And one date that appears in seventeen different searches.
June 20th.
Percy Priest Lake June 20th weather.
June 20th sunset time Nashville.
Boat rental Percy Priest Lake June.
"He's already planning your death," Daemon says quietly. "The location. The method. The exact date. June 20th at Percy Priest Lake. He's going to drug you, drown you, and stage it as suicide."
The room tilts. My wrist throbs. My throat closes.
Seven months. I have seven months to live unless we stop him.
"Can we go to the police now?" My voice sounds far away. "With this evidence?"
"Search history isn't enough. Could claim he was researching for a song. Writing fiction." King shakes his head. "We need more. We need him confessing intent. We need financial records proving motive. We need a case so solid he can't talk his way out."
"Which means six more months of this." Daemon gestures at the laptop. At the recording. At my bruised wrist. "Six more months of letting him hurt you while we build evidence. Can you handle that?"
I look at my wrist. The red marks are darkening. Tomorrow they'll be purple. Green. Ugly proof of his grip.
Six more months of Tyler's hands on me. His voice in my ear. His control tightening.
Or I run now and he wins. Keeps my songs. Destroys my reputation. Kills the next girl he dates.
"I can handle it," I say.
"Stella." King's voice is gentle. "This isn't just dangerous anymore. This is life or death. If Tyler suspects what you're doing..."
"Then I won't let him suspect." I meet Daemon's eyes. "You need evidence. I'll get you evidence. Whatever it takes."
Daemon studies me. Looking for cracks. For doubt. For any sign I'll break.
"All right," he says finally. "Then let's make sure you survive until June 20th."