Not long ago, she came on tour with us—Duplicity. The band. The cover. The distraction. On the surface, we’re just a group of loud-mouthed rockstars with guitars and too many tattoos. But underneath? We’re far from harmless. Mafia life doesn’t come with a backdoor exit, and we’re in it deep—me, Niall, Liam, Louis.

And then there’s her. The photographer. The outsider who somehow became the only person allowed in. The others warmed to her quick—easy smiles, inside jokes, like she belonged from the start. But not me. I made sure of that.

I hated how she looked at me—like she could see through me. So I made her job hell. Every day. Every hour. Insults, snide remarks, whatever I could throw her way. I wanted her gone. She got spiked at that bar one night—collapsed right into the pool—and I watched. Watched as she sank. Waited until the last possible second before dragging her out. I wanted her to drown. I’m not proud of it, but I wanted it. I’ve never been that cruel to anyone. Ever.

But lately… I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.

She’s seen too much now. She knows about the panic attacks. The way I lose control—smashing everything in sight, spiraling until there’s nothing left but chaos and blood under my nails. She’s seen the scars, the ones carved into me before I could fight back. The ones I punish myself with now. I stand in front of mirrors, shirtless and shaking, until I can’t breathe. It’s my penance. My reminder. No one ever sees me like that.

Except her.

She’s the only one I’ve ever let see me with my shirt off. The only one I can let see. Not because I trust her. I don’t. But something in me… reaches for her when I’m drowning.

Tonight, I lost it again. The panic came out of nowhere—tight in my chest, loud in my head. I locked myself in my hotel room, started wrecking everything in reach. I didn’t even hear the boys outside the door until I heard her voice cut through it all.

“I’m gonna open the door, but you cannot look at him until I say so, okay?” Her voice was calm. Sharp. In control. She was protecting me. Even now.

She knew I would have my shirt off during my panic attack. She knew I wouldn’t want the boys to see my scars.

She picked the lock with that little hairpin she always keeps in her bag. I hated that I needed her. Hated how much I wanted her to be the one to open that door. But fuck, when she walked in… I could finally breathe.