Page 53 of Every Shattered Note
I nod.“Also grandchild of the founder—Victor Vaughn, Senior.One of the best musicians and the guy who signed half the damn music world in the early seventies.That one.”My voice tries for nonchalance.I fail.
She lets out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh.Her expression twists, half dazed, half horrified.“Fuck.”
I reach up, pull off my glasses, and shake my hair loose.It’s longer now than it was during my DMP days—more rebellion than fashion—but I can see the moment recognition flicks across her face like static.It’s not instant.It’s worse than that.It’s slow.
People only see what they want.And she wanted Rafe that day.
“I’m guessing you saw some loser with a beat-up case and decided I was your guy.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it.Her jaw trembles before she locks it down with effort.“I was desperate.”
Her voice holds no heat.Just bare honesty.It sits between us, unsettling and true.
“Desperate enough to ignore that I’m clearly too old to be a college kid,” I say, biting back the ache in my chest.“You were flustered.Adorably so.And I was amused.Usually when someone recognizes me, they want an autograph or to scream in my face that they love me.But you just ...told me I was fucking late and probably sucked because I had no idea who Hall & Oates were.”
Her brows shoot up.“I don’t think that’s exactly how it went.”
“Maybe not,” I say with a tired shrug, the kind that costs something.“But it makes for a better story.Something to tell our grandchildren.”
She recoils like I struck her.“Excuse me?”
Fuck.Too far.
“Sorry.I skipped a few steps.”I run a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I sound.“I’m new at this.”
“What, kidnapping women?Or impersonating musicians?”
“There’s no kidnapping.And I am a musician,” I say, firmer than I intended.“Lolita can back me up if you need proof.”
She raises a single finger.“That’s not the point.You lied to me.”Her voice cracks on the last word.“I?—”
“A few nights ago, when I dropped you off, I was going to tell you,” I say, barely louder than the guilt clawing at my throat.“I even practiced the words in my head.But then I chose the coward’s way out.I didn’t want to ruin it.You made me feel like a person again, not a famous musician or a Vaughn.And I hadn’t felt that in ...I don’t even know how long.”
“Why?”
The question cuts through me.
“Because no one ever hears anything good about me,” I say quietly.“Not in the tabloids, not in the boardroom, not even in my own fucking house.Victor Vaughn, Junior was a bastard.Everyone knows it.I’m the punchline to his joke.The headlines always circle back to me being just like my father.”
She leans closer, but doesn’t reach for me.“You’re not him.”
I scoff, bitterness rising like bile.“Tell that to the world.Or better yet, the board of my own label—who trust Eddie with decisions instead of me.I let someone else take the reins because no one wants to risk another Vaughn at the top.”
Aly studies me like she’s still trying to decide if I’m real.
And that silence—fuck, that silence—it feels like her pulling away from me.One inch at a time.Like I’m watching the distance stretch in slow motion, unable to stop it, unable to follow.I’ve lost too many people to let this happen again, but I know deep down: I never really deserved her.
So, I do what I think is best.
“You owe me two favors,” I remind her.
“I thought it was three,” she suddenly says.
I shake my head.“Agreeing to come with me was the first one.”
“…I’m listening.”
I nod slowly, afraid to breathe.“The second,” I say, careful not to lose whatever thread of connection still binds us, “is to stay a couple of days.Rest.Get warm.Just ...be safe.Please.”
