POV: Jasmine
Liam's villa looked exactly the same. Clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights spreading out like they were mocking me. But walking through that door feels like crossing into enemy territory where the enemy is my own fucking choices.
Every step forward is another step away from Leo, and the guilt is a living thing in my chest, clawing and biting and reminding me that good sisters don't do this. Good sisters don't choose three men over their baby brother.
That first night, the brothers outline the damage with brutal efficiency. We sit around Liam's dining table like we're in a war room, and in a way, we are.
"Stock has dropped fifteen percent since the press conference," Asher says, pulling up charts on his tablet with grim precision. "Three major artists are threatening to leave the label. Morrison's team called this morning—they want out of their contract entirely."
"The media's running daily stories," Finn adds, and there's none of his usual playfulness. "They've dissected everything. Our backgrounds, your history, even dug up shit about the foster system. Nothing's off limits anymore."
"And Adelyn?" I force myself to ask.
Liam's jaw tightens. "She's filed a formal lawsuit. Claiming hostile work environment and defamation. She's seeking financial damages and a public acknowledgment of wrongdoing from the company."
"She orchestrated the whole thing and now she's playing victim." The irony tastes like poison.
"Her lawyers are good," Asher says flatly. "They're spinning it as whistleblower retaliation. The narrative is that she tried to expose corruption and we destroyed her career for it."
The weight of it presses down on my chest until breathing becomes a conscious effort. I did this. My choices brought us here, to this table, counting losses like casualties after a battle.
"You need to come back to work," Liam says, his voice gentle but firm. "I know it's the last thing you want, but hiding makes it worse. It looks like guilt. Like you have something to be ashamed of."
"We need to resolve this fast," Asher adds, leaning forward with that intense focus that means he's already three moves ahead. "Force everyone to admit they set us up. Control the narrative before it controls us."
"And how exactly do I do that?" I ask. "Walk in there with a smile and pretend half the building isn't calling me a whore behind my back?"
"You walk in there and remind them why you were valuable before any of this happened," Finn says quietly. "You're good at your job, Jas. Better than good. Make them see that again."
The next morning, I dress in black armor—blazer, tailored pants, the kind of outfit that says I'm here to work, not fuck my way through the executive suite, even though that ship has already sailed and everyone knows it.
The drive to Cadence Records feels like heading to my own execution. Every red light is a chance to turn around. Every block closer tightens the knot in my stomach until I'm not sure I can breathe.
The security guard at the entrance looks up when I walk in. His eyes do that thing—that flicker of recognition followed by judgment. He knows. Of course he knows. Everyone knows.
"Morning," I say, forcing brightness into my voice.
He nods without responding, and the silence speaks louder than any words could.
The receptionist goes silent mid-sentence when she sees me, her phone conversation dying on her lips. I feel her eyes on my back all the way to the elevator, tracking me like I'm a threat that needs monitoring.
The hallway to my desk is worse. Whispers follow me like a wake, not even bothering to be subtle.
"That's her."
"Can't believe she had the audacity to show up."
"I heard all three of them. At the same time."
My face burns, but I keep my head up. Keep walking. If I stop, if I acknowledge it, I'll shatter right here on the industrial carpet.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
Nora appears out of nowhere, grabbing my arm and steering me toward the break room with the kind of force that says we're having this conversation whether I want to or not.
"Why didn't you answer my calls?" She shoves a coffee cup into my hands and plants herself in front of me, arms crossed, dark eyes blazing. "I've been worried sick, and you've been radio silent for days. I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere, or worse, wallowing alone in some shitty motel feeling sorry for yourself."
"I was at a farm," I say weakly. "With Leo. And then Leo decided to stay there permanently because apparently I'm suffocating him by caring too much, and now I'm living with the brothers, and I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Nora. I really don't."
She stares at me for a long moment, processing. Then her expression shifts from angry to calculating—that sharp, strategic mind already working the problem.
"Okay. Leo's having a crisis, you're having a crisis, everyone's having a crisis. But right now, you need to focus on surviving today." She leans closer, her voice dropping. "Half the office thinks you're a slut. The other half is jealous as hell that you landed three hot billionaires. You want to survive this? Prove your worth. Make yourself so valuable they can't afford to lose you, regardless of who you're fucking."
"That's your pep talk?"
"That's reality, babe." She squeezes my shoulder, and beneath the sarcasm is genuine warmth. "You're not going to win them over with charm. You're going to win them over with competence. So get your ass out there and remind everyone why you were running this place before the scandal broke."
At ten, the brothers call an emergency staff meeting. The entire company crams into the main conference room, and I feel every eye on me as I find a seat in the back. The weight of their stares is suffocating. Judgment presses into my skin from every direction.
Liam stands at the front, commanding and protective, Asher and Finn flanking him like sentinels.
"I want to address the rumors circulating about Jasmine Harlow," Liam announces, his voice carrying that natural authority that usually makes investors swoon. "She's an exemplary employee who's earned her position through exceptional work. Her personal life is none of your business, and I expect everyone to treat her with the professionalism this company demands."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Then I see the faces. Really see them. The woman from accounting rolling her eyes. Two guys from production exchanging knowing looks. A senior assistant whose expression says she's just had all her suspicions confirmed.
His defense didn't help. It made everything worse—confirmed every whisper, painted me as exactly what they suspected: the woman who slept her way to protection.
Someone whispers loud enough for the entire room to hear: "Adelyn was right. She tried to warn us about this."