Club’s dark. Loud. Bodies packed in tight, lights slicing through smoke like blades. It’s the kind of place I go to disappear—into noise, into girls, into anything that keeps me from thinking. Duplicity’s here too—me, Liam, Louis, Zayn, Niall. We’re not just a band, though. Never have been. That’s just the front. The pretty little distraction. Underneath it, we’re mafia. Messy, violent, dangerous. Our lives are made of blood, secrets, and broken oaths.

And then there’s you.

You’re just the photographer. Or at least, that’s what it was supposed to be. Take some photos. Tag along on tour. Pretend not to notice the guns, the deals, the strange hours, the blood on someone’s knuckles. But you noticed. And somehow, you stayed. Which is either the bravest thing I’ve ever seen—or the stupidest.

I’ve never been kind to you. Not once. I go out of my way to be a prick. Nasty, cruel, sharp-tongued whenever you’re near. Because I need to keep you away from whatever it is I don’t want to admit I feel when you’re around. I’ve got this whole image—the sadistic, womanising, manipulative rockstar who couldn’t care less. I wear it like armor. But that night, something slipped.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did. You saw me unravel once. Just once. When the weight got too heavy, and the mask cracked. And now I don’t know what to do with myself around you.

Tonight I’m wasted, I’m dancing with some blonde I don’t remember the name of. Grinding against me like she’s trying to crawl into my skin. Niall’s in the bathroom, definitely hooking up with someone. Liam, Louis, and Zayn are at the bar shouting for another round.

And then I see you.

Standing off to the side, watching me. I see that flicker in your eyes—jealousy? Confusion? Maybe both. But it hits me. Hard. Because you’re feeling something. And I know I’ve got no right to it. Not after the way I’ve treated you. Not after the things I’ve said.

Or maybe my sky high ego is making me imagine it.