Page 8 of Dissonance

“Goodbye, Dad.” I end the call before he can say anything else, put my phone on Do Not Disturb, and slide it into my top drawer.

Sighing, I stand, crossing my office and straightening the plaque. And for a moment, I just look at it.

The thing is, my father isn’t looking at Tyler. He’s looking at a painted image of him, the carefully constructed disaster that follows him wherever he goes. He’s never seen the kid who sits across from me with his sleeves pulled over his hands, who just wants someone to tell him the music is enough. That’s the version I’m fighting for. And I’d be a very different kind of manager if I let the noise drown that out.

Turning, I head to the window, eyes landing on the older part of the building just beyond—dark brick, heavy doors, the empire built long before I even had a desk inside it. This wing is newer, sleeker, my name on the front panel outside. Close enough to keep my father from worrying too much. Far enough to breathe without him standing over me.

I drop into my chair and look at the folders spread across the desk, color-coded tabs lining the sides. Reign Cooper. One collaboration, one strategic realignment. It should be a clean solution. Instead, there’s a familiar weight, not quite dread, just the quiet awareness of what that name inevitably brings with it.

Of who has always come attached.

Shoving the thought aside, I reach for the first file. Some things you don’t get to think about until the work is done.

And the work is never done.

Chapter Three

Lockie

The studio doesn’t look like much. Tucked behind an unmarked door in a building that could house an accounting firm, it’s deliberately forgettable. Neutral signage, frosted glass, no security barriers or screaming fans with phones raised hoping to snap a picture. No hint that one of the biggest artists in the world is inside right now.

That’s the point.

Cooper could shut down entire streets if he wanted to. Fly across continents just to work in flashier locations. Instead, he chose this. Small rooms, quiet entries, minimal staff. Over ten years of handlers, never-ending chaos, and being moved like an asset instead of a person, he guards his privacy harder than he guards his awards.

Beanie pulled low over his curls, sunglasses on despite being indoors, he might be dressed down enough to pass without a second glance, though nothing about him ever truly blends in. Reign Cooper isn’t a look, it’s a presence. It clings to every fiber even when he’s trying to hide.

Declan stays close to his side as we walk down the corridor, fingers brushing the small of his back as they move, quietly murmuring something that makes Cooper’s mouth twitch. It’s domestic, grounded, a version the public never gets to see. A version he nearly never got the chance to have.

I follow half a step behind, eyes up, attention wide. The building’s quiet, with one receptionist at the front, two exits, hallway cameras in predictable positions.

Thea kept the details light when she called. No theatrics, no hard sell, just the music and that same quiet certainty she always carries when she believes in something fiercely. Cooper didn’t seem concerned, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t do my own recon before we flew out here.

I know exactly who sits on the other side of that door.

And I don’t like what I’ve read about him.

Declan reaches for the handle and holds it open for Cooper to walk in first. Tyler perches on the edge of a sofa, leg bouncing hard enough to rattle the glass table beside him. Dark hair messy, eyeliner faint but still there, nervous energy radiating from his pores. He looks younger than he does in the headlines. Not wired or volatile, more docile. His gaze flicks up, recognizing Cooper at once, and he half rises like he’s unsure whether he’s supposed to approach or stay put.

The guy behind him is a different read. Sprawled back, ripped jeans and white trainers, phone loose in one hand—the posture of someone who has confidence he hasn’t earned and has never had to carry the weight of consequences. His eyes cut to Cooper, sliding over him in a slow, unimpressed once-over before drifting away again.

I catalog him instantly. Not a threat. Just reactive. The kind that turns small sparks into flames and calls it entertainment.

My gaze moves around the room without pausing—distance to Cooper, distance to Declan, angles to the door, lines of movement if something escalates. Then clean perfume cuts through the stale air, and my eyes find her before I’ve finished the sweep.

But then Tyler moves, one slow, hesitant step forward, and I shift my stance. Not to block him, just enough that he checks himself, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

“Uh—ZeroSaint,” he says, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

My eyes stay on his face, then drop to the hand hovering between us.

“ZeroSaint,” I repeat flatly. “That your real name?”

A flicker of embarrassment crosses his face, eyes darting sideways. “It’s—Tyler.”

“Lachlan.”

One word, and something I’ve spent three years keeping in a firm grip slips. I’d gotten used to it. The distance. The way our orbits occasionally overlapped without colliding. A glimpse across a room at some packed event, her voice carrying from the background of a FaceTime call on Cooper’s tour bus, her signature on contracts just below where he’d signed. Each one noted, processed, and set aside.