Nola

With the stress of everything that had happened with Mike, and the strangeness of being in a rockstar's Hampstead mansion, I hadn't expected to sleep much, but I did, and my mind carried me back to earlier that day, when I'd finally made the decision to break up with Mike.

"I'm leaving you."

My palms were sweaty, and my throat felt like I'd swallowed sand, but I'd still said it. Finally.

Mike didn't look up from the TV. He did this so often, pretending that he hadn't heard me, that whatever I said wasn't worth listening to, and my resolve wavered. But if I backed down now, I'd never get out of this.

"Did you hear me?" I said.

Mike sighed. "What?"

"I'm leaving you."

He snorted. "Don't be so stupid."

I flinched. How many times had he said that over the months we'd been together? How much had I started to believe him?

"I'm not," I whispered.

Mike rolled his eyes and turned up the volume on the TV.

Okay then. I'd said my piece, but I couldn't force him to listen. I slung on the rucksack I'd packed earlier. It felt pathetically light; Mike had never allowed me much of my own stuff, and I had less now than when I'd moved in.

"Where are you going?" Mike asked.

My hands tightened on the straps. "I told you. I'm leaving."

Mike muted the TV and the sudden silence was horribly loud. My heartbeat felt like thunder. "I'm not in the mood for your games, Nola," he said. "Not tonight."

What was special about tonight? I shook my head to clear it. "Goodbye, Mike."

As I backed toward the front door, a storm gathered on Mike's face, and he jumped to his feet, the remote clattering to the floor.

"Nola, what the fuck?"

I ran.

Mike chased me.

My eyes snapped open and I half sat up, my heart thudding, still caught in the dream/memory. I breathed in and out slowly, trying to calm myself.

Okay, so yesterday had been real.

I'd finally left Mike.

Now I was in Darius Keller's home.

Somewhere inside me, so deep I'd thought she was gone for good, my inner fangirl faintly stirred.

Tentatively, I got out of bed and ventured into the bathroom, where the white theme continued – all gleaming tile and porcelain, with the only splash of colour being a potted plant in the corner.

I'd expected a rockstar's home to be decorated with mountains of cocaine and half naked groupies, but this was oddly soothing

Mike's apartment had been done in harsher blues, and there wasn't a chance in hell he'd have let me change anything. He didn't even like it when I left my phone charger lying around.

How long had Mike looked for me last night?

I hadn't checked my phone – had he kept calling and texting?

Would he try again today?

What would I do if he did?

I should block his number but I couldn't bring myself to do it. He still had some hold over me.

Trying to put him out of my mind, I took a shower, washing my hair twice as if I could rinse yesterday away. Everything apart from this. Weird this situation was, millions of women would kill to be in my position, and though I wasn't the type to brag about it, I should at least savour the experience. It would never happen again.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel, but I couldn't see a hair dryer, so I twisted my wet hair into a loose knot.

Why are you wearing your hair like that?

Mike's voice filled my head, and I froze. During our initial dating stage, I'd made sure my hair was perfectly styled because I wanted to look my best for the guy that I really liked. But moving in with someone means them seeing you in your natural state, and I'd always thought of that as a sign of trust. Mike had not agreed.

The first time I'd bundled my hair on top of my head had been three days after I'd moved in with him. I'd felt out of place, and for whatever reason, I'd decided that cleaning the kitchen might help. If I could take pride in the apartment, it might feel more like home, but I hadn't wanted my hair flopping over my face while I cleaned, so I'd tied it up.

I'd never forget the look of disgust that Mike had given me when he came home, or what he'd said.

Not exactly sexy, is it?

I'd been too stunned to speak. I'd never wanted to be one of those people who dresses to the nines while dating, then lets themselves go once in a relationship, but I'd never imagined that Mike would expect me to be styled and made-up every single day.

He hadn't even thanked me for cleaning his kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, I gripped the basin with both hands and stared at myself in the mirror.

Once, I'd have called myself pretty.

Now I saw only flaws.

I looked away before the now-familiar tears could sting my eyes, but I couldn't shake Mike's voice from my head. As I pulled on my jeans, I still half-expected him to be there, telling me I'd lost too much weight and my ass no longer looked good, or that I'd gained too much weight and I should be ashamed of how fat I was. When I put on my bra, I could hear him complaining that it wasn't sexy enough, that I should wear something lacy every day, but only if it matched my panties. He hated the notion that most women don't coordinate their underwear in their day-to-day life, and most of us aren't dressed like Victoria's Secret models under our clothes. Even when I did wear something sexy, he'd find fault with it.

Nothing was ever good enough.

As I crept out of my room, rucksack already slung over one shoulder, I felt a weird urge to snoop. Normally, I wasn't a nosy person, but I was in the home of one of the most famous – and hottest – rockstars in the world. Anyone would be a little tempted.

But I didn't snoop. Darius had helped me, in a way that few others would, and I wouldn't repay that by sneaking around.

I headed to the kitchen. It was bigger than I'd realised last night, all tiled in a pale stone similar to the patio. The warmth under my feet suggested underfloor heating. The cabinets were all white – surprise, surprise – with gleaming, integrated appliances, and a small breakfast bar separating that part of the kitchen from the wooden table positioned in front of the huge windows, next to the double doors we'd come through last night.

I'd hoped that Darius would be here, because though I had no idea what to say, I couldn't leave without thanking him.

But the only person in the room was Rhydian Byrne, sitting at the table by the windows, hunched over a bowl of cereal.

His expression darkened when I came in. The piercing in his nose gleamed silver.

"Um, hi?" I ventured.

No response.

I started picking the skin around my fingernails. I hadn't always been this anxious around people, but the confident me seemed so far in the past that sometimes I wasn't sure she'd ever existed.

Rhydian eyed my rucksack. "You leaving?"

"I guess so?" Why was everything coming out as a question?

"Good."

I twisted my fingers together, trying to stop myself from picking. "I don't . . . I didn't mean . . ." I had no idea what I was trying to say.

Rhydian continued to glare at me with cold blue eyes until I wondered if I should scurry away without seeing Darius. I edged towards the doors.

"Morning."

I jumped at the sound of Darius's voice, and turned to see him striding into the kitchen, looking far too perky for the early hour.

His leather trousers were replaced by dark jeans, and a black V-neck T-shirt that hugged the muscles of his arms and chest and hung flat against his taut stomach. His feet were bare, and for some reason that made my stomach flutter. I raised my eyes to his face. I'd been this close to him last night, and I'd been a fan for long enough that I was extremely familiar with his appearance, but somehow, in this setting, it felt like seeing him for the first time again.

God, he was beautiful.

It was the only word to really describe him. 'Handsome' was for other men.

His olive skin, hinting at his half-Italian heritage, was so smooth it looked like it had been airbrushed, except for the areas darkened by carefully cultivated designer stubble, which highlighted the sharp edge of his jaw and his knife-edge cheekbones. Dark eyebrows framed dark eyes with thick, long lashes that made me want to cry with jealousy. But something was different this morning, and it took me a moment to put my finger on it. He wasn't wearing his trademark eyeliner. Anytime Darius Keller appeared in public, his eyes were lined in kohl – sometimes subtle, sometimes heavy and smoky – but not today.

Because we're not in public, I reminded myself.

I wasn't looking at Darius Keller the rockstar. I was looking at Darius Keller the man.

It was surprising how much younger he looked without it. I knew he was only twenty-four, just a few years older than me, but his energy and charisma, the way he dominated the stage during performances, made him appear older somehow. And when thousands of people were screaming his name, he seemed almost immortal. It was easy to forget how young he really was.

Darius padded across the kitchen, opened a door to reveal an integrated fridge, and pulled out a bowl of grapes.

"You hungry?" he said, holding up the bowl.

I shook my head, hoping my stomach wouldn't pick that moment to growl. It had been at least eighteen hours since I'd last eaten, but Darius had already done enough for me.

Darius headed for the table. His dark hair, thick and wavy, worn just below his shoulders, was tied back for once, casting the beauty of his face into even sharper relief. Unlike most of his heavily tatted rockstar friends, he only had one visible tattoo – stylised black flames snaking all the way down his left arm, ending at his wrist.

He sat down and patted the seat next to him. "We don't bite," he said.

I wasn't so sure about Rhydian.

"I should get going," I said, gesturing at the doors.

"You suddenly have somewhere to be?" Darius asked.

Words failed me again.

Darius had saved me last night, but I still hadn't worked out what to do next. I still didn't have anywhere to go.

"That's what I thought," Darius said. "Come. Sit."

I sidled over to the table and took a seat as far away from the two rockstars as possible.

"Are you ready to talk about last night?" Darius said, plucking a grape from the stem. Sunlight gleamed off the skull ring on his middle finger.

"What do you mean?" I croaked, my throat suddenly dry.

"The guy who was chasing you. Your boyfriend?"

I automatically nodded, then stopped. "Ex," I said. Hadn't I told Darius that last night? Was he testing me?

"Why were you running away from him?" Darius said.

I didn't know how to answer that, so I stared at the tabletop.

A couple of moments passed, then Darius said, "Did he hit you?"

In my periphery, Rhydian stiffened.

"No, it was nothing like that," I said.

"Can you tell me what it was like?"

"I don't know how," I whispered.

Darius waited, quiet and patient, rolling a grape back and forth along the table.

"It'll sound stupid," I said.

"Try me."

I glanced at the doors, debating making a run for it, but something kept me sitting there. I needed to talk to someone, and maybe a complete stranger wasn't ideal, but I didn't have any friends left.

"It started small," I said. "He'd make these comments about my appearance, like, he wanted me to wear my hair differently, do my makeup differently, dress differently, and I was so stupid and wrapped up in him, that I did what he said, thinking that would be the end of it."

I sighed, wishing Rhydian wasn't at the same table. It was hard enough telling Darius this, let alone someone who clearly didn't want me here.

"But it wasn't," I continued. "My hair always had to be styled, but he didn't want me having hair care products anywhere in the bathroom. Or bedroom. Or anywhere in his apartment."

"You lived with him?" Darius said.

I nodded. "I had to vacuum every time I brushed my hair because he'd lose his shit if he found a single hair on the carpet, or in the shower. Sometimes I think he deliberately looked for them, like he was hoping to find an excuse to yell at me. I suggested cutting my hair short to make things easier, but that pissed him off too. I had to keep it long. If I didn't wear makeup, he'd tell me I should, but when I did, he'd tell me I was wearing too much or doing it wrong. He'd show me photos of other women and tell me to do my makeup like theirs, but when I did, he'd accuse me of trying to impress other men.

'He only let me wear what he approved of, which wasn't much, and then he'd accuse me of dressing boring, or not making an effort for him."

As the words spilled out, tears built in my eyes.

"He'd portion out my food so I couldn't eat too much, but still accuse me of gaining weight, while in the same breath saying it was disgusting to see my ribs or hipbones when I stretched. I did all the cooking, but he hated me making the same thing more than once a month. I was supposed to produce a different gourmet meal every day, using the best quality ingredients, but I wasn't supposed to spend too much on them. Mike was a tight-fisted bastard on top of everything else. I wasn't allowed a single thing of mine on display in the flat, not even my damn toothbrush. He expected me to do all the cleaning, and he'd inspect every surface afterwards, to make sure there wasn't a speck of dust left. I did all that alongside having my own job, but flipping burgers at McDonalds made me stink of grease, and he complained about that too, so I quit, thinking it would make him happy. Of course it didn't. He still made me pay rent and half the bills, even though I no longer had an income."

"Your boyfriend made you pay rent?" Darius said. "To him?"

Even Rhydian had stopped eating his cereal and was listening.

"Yeah," I said. "He discouraged me from seeing my friends, until eventually my friendships collapsed. He expected me to organise social events with his friends, but he wouldn't talk to me during the events. It was like I wasn't even there."

I swiped my fingers under my eyes to stop the tears from falling.

"Every day he tore me down, piece by piece, until there was almost nothing left. Whenever I tried leaving him, he convinced me to stay. I was so blinded by what I thought was love that he could talk me into anything, even giving up every last bit of my self-respect. How fucking pathetic is that?"

"It's not pathetic," Darius said.

I shook my head. "Last night I had to run. If I didn't, if he caught me, he'd talk me into staying again, and then I'd never get out."

"But he never hit you? Nothing like that?" Darius pressed.

"No." And that was why it had always been so hard to talk to anyone about this. When I laid it out to Darius like this, I could see how wrong it was. But at the time, I'd convinced myself it was normal, and I didn't know how to explain that this was so much more than my boyfriend not liking how I did my hair.

"You're sure? Because if the bastard ever laid a hand on you, my lawyers will help you sue him into the ground," Darius said, his eyes flashing.

I sat back in my chair, startled. "Why would you do that?"

Darius stared at me for a long moment, his dark eyes intense. "I don't like abusers."

"That's not – Mike didn't abuse me," I said.

"Really?" Darius arched one eyebrow. "What would you call it?"

"I . . ." I scrambled to find words. "He said a lot of horrible shit, but I can't compare that to someone getting beat up by their partner."

"Not all abuse is physical," Darius said.

"He'd have been shocked if I'd called him an abuser. And I don't mean shocked that I'd called him out, but genuinely shocked that anyone could see him like that. He really didn't think he was doing anything wrong."

Rhydian snorted.

"What are you going to do now?" Darius asked.

"I'll move back in with my parents, look for a new job, and try to get back on my feet," I said.

"What kind of job?"

"I don't know, but I'm okay with never going back to McDonalds."

Darius nodded. "You're looking for something new."

"I guess?"

"But you don't know what."

"No." I lowered my gaze. "I don't know if Mike wore down the ambitious part of me along with everything else, or if I just never had an ambitious part."

"There's one way to find out." Darius leaned across the table, his eyes like dark lasers. "Come work for me."