Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Three seconds of staged intimacy, and my world shatters.
I’m drunk—enough that I stagger and collapse into a man nearby. He steadies me with a grin and a drawl, “Whoa there, darlin’. Not every day a beautiful girl just stumbles into me.”
I don’t know what has gotten into me, this wild jealousy that is so childish, yet fuelled by alcohol. I take the man, and I grab his face and kiss him. He is obviously shocked, but quickly responds, like I have made his entire night.
My vision swims.
Then a bellow cuts through the music, “What the fuck?!”
The crowd parts as Travis quite literally launches off the stage and barrels forward, hauls the guy off me and connects his fist with the man's face, sending a sickening crack through the crowd. I stumble back, landing hard on my ass. Heat and fear spike through me. Travis roars, and a crowd of hands yank him away. His eyes blaze on me: betrayal, rage. He strides over, grabs my arm and hauls me up, before dragging me into a locked side room.
The slam echoes.
Silence.
Then his voice, low and furious. “What the hell were you doing?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He presses closer, voice cold. “If you need to mess around, Violet, don’t call yourself mine.”
Anger ignites in me. I slam my palms on the bench. “I’m sorry, but never once have I said I am yours, and considering you just made out with a girl on stage, I don’t think you get to make a scene like that!”
His jaw clenches. “That’s different. It’s part of the act.”
I roar, “Bullshit!” My head aches, my heart burns. “You are a rockstar, I get it, but you could have warned me, could have discussed it with me. You say I’m yours? What a load of crap. You’re Travis Phoenix and your world is always going to destroy mine.”
He snarls, grips my shoulders. “You ARE mine, Violet. That’s all there is. That’s all there will ever be.”
His fingers tighten on my face, then his lips crash onto mine—raw, desperate, devouring. I groan as he slams me back onto the bench, kisses me like he’s starving. My body arcs up against him. He hoists me onto the countertop, yanks my dress up, shoves my panties aside, and plunges his tongue into me, sliding over my clit.
“Travis...God...” I shudder.
He pulls away, yanks his jeans down, draws out his thick cock. He tears open a condom, rolls it on, then aligns himself at my entrance. He presses in—slow torture—then slips out.
“Please,” I beg, hips rolling.
He teases me, slowly. “Did you like kissing him?”
My pulse hammers. “What?”
“Answer me!” He drives in hard.
“No!” I gasp.
He hammers into me, fast and brutal, and I cry out. “I saw you kissing that girl—jealousy blinded me. I just lost it.”
He pauses mid-thrust. His eyes lock on mine. Then he fucks me until I am so close, so close, and he finds his own release, roaring as he spills into the condom, body shaking around mine. He didn’t let me cum, he made sure he reached his release before me. He wants me to know he is in control. Anger bubbles in my chest.
“You were punishing me,” I hiss.
He watches me, silent.
“Oh my God, Travis,” I scramble up, yanking down my dress. “I can handle your jealousy, your possessiveness—but punishing me because of something you did first? That’s messed up.”
I turn and rush out the door, fury and heartbreak tangled in every step. He doesn’t follow.
Maybe we’re doomed to repeat the past.
Maybe that was our story.
THE NEXT MORNING, YET again, my face is all over the internet. Not in a glamorous pop-star way, but in the humiliating “mystery girl makes Travis Phoenix lose his mind mid-show” way. TMZ has freeze frames of him leaping into the crowd; Rolling Stone calls me the “muse who sparked a meltdown.” The memes are relentless. #PhoenixDown. #GroupieGate. Every push notification is a fresh reminder that this isn’t just a small drama, it’s gone nuclear.
The shame is so thick it's like I can taste it in the back of my throat. I hide in bed and scroll compulsively, giving myself paper-cut wounds of humiliation with every swipe. The doorbell rings just as I’m contemplating whether to smother myself with my pillow. I shuffle to the door in sweatpants; Reagan stands on the stoop with a coffee, two croissants, a bag of ice for my bruised ego, and what looks suspiciously like an “I Told You So” smirk.
“Before you ask, yes, I saw,” she says, breezing past me and setting up camp on my living room couch. “You, my friend, have dethroned last year’s ‘Sex Tape’ debacle for best internet drama. Congratulations.”
I groan. “I didn't mean to—"
She waves it off. “You’re both idiots, but that’s not news. Sit.”
I do. The coffee is exactly how I like it. She must have gone heavy on the sugar out of sympathy.