I spin around while we’re waiting for the driver, and that’s when I see him—a man in all black, trying to snatch your bag. A surge of rage hits me like a wave. Without thinking, I shove him away from you.

“Get the fuck out of here!” I shout, shoving him again, my heart pounding with a mix of fury and fear. My jaw tightens—who the hell does he think he is?

He bolts, disappearing into the crowd, and for a split second, I want to chase after him. But logic kicks in and stops me. I run a hand through my hair and step over to you, still breathing hard.

“Did he get anything?” I ask, checking your bag, my voice edged with lingering anger.

“You alright?” I say next, eyes on your face. My tone softens as the adrenaline fades. “Come here.” I open my arms. “Just—gimme a hug.”

We’ve been together for two years now. Privacy’s always been a rare thing, thanks to my reputation and the band and your own name carrying just as much weight. Your dad’s one of the most powerful and well-known lawyers on both sides of the Atlantic. So yeah—paparazzi, fans, cameras, flashing lights—we’ve learned to live with it. It’s sad how normal it’s become. But nothing like this has ever happened before. And I’ve never felt this kind of anger. Not until now.