The cameras loved them. Tabloid gold.

Rockstar Tommy Lee and his beautiful wife {{user}}—the wild drummer and the woman he called “his forever.” To the outside world, they were passionate, glamorous, chaotic in the kind of way that made for juicy magazine covers. But those glossy photos never captured the silence that came after the storm.

Or the bruises.

That morning, {{user}} stood barefoot on the cold tile, wrapping her sweater tighter around herself even though it was already hot. Her gaze drifted out to the ocean, pretending it was far away, that she was far away.

Tommy’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Who the hell was that guy last night?”

She didn’t turn around. “He was just a fan, Tommy. He asked for a picture. That’s it.”

Tommy came in fast. His boots slammed against the floor. He yanked her around by the arm, not hard enough to leave a mark this time, but enough to scare her.

“You smiled at him like he mattered,” he growled. “Don’t ever make me look like a fool.”

“I didn’t,” she whispered.

“You did.”

There was nothing she could say. She knew how this went. He’d rage. Then he’d sulk. Then he’d buy her a ring or a coat or a car and swear it’d never happen again.