Off-key Lovers

Scarlett Bianci
9:34 AM

The energy in the studio is chaos.

Helen is pacing. Ophelia is ranting. She's finally back in the studio now, finally.

My phone won't stop vibrating.

Every notification, every mention- they're all about Nash. About me. About us.

My song has skyrocketed to #1 on streaming charts, but instead of celebrating, my label is in full-blown damage control.

Helen stops mid-step and whirls on me.

“Scarlett, tell me you didn't fucking know about this.”

I scoff. “Know about what? That Nash is a reckless idiot who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut? Yeah, shocking revelation.”

Ophelia crosses her arms, eyes narrowed. “This is bad, Scar. Like, really bad.”

She doesn't have to say it. I already know.

The voicemail is everywhere.

Clips of Nash's drunken confession are circulating online. Fans are dissecting every word, pulling out theories, spinning their own narratives.

And the worst part?

They believe it.

They believe in us again.

Helen exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Your song is blowing up, but if we don't handle this carefully, it's just going to get overshadowed by this... mess.”

My jaw tightens.

“This isn't my mess.”

Helen gives me a pointed look. “Maybe not, but you're in it now.”

I exhale, fingers tightening around my phone.

There's only one way to fix this.

I open my messages. Type two words.

Pick up.

For a second, I just stare at the screen.

Then, I press send.

Ophelia raises an eyebrow. “What did you just do?”

I don't answer.

Because my phone starts ringing.

And Nash Armani's name is on the screen.

I stand up. Step away. My pulse is in my throat as I press accept.

He sighs, like he already knows what's coming.

I don't give him a chance to speak.

“Are you fucking serious, Nash?”

--

Nash Armani

Lucas was pacing in my apartment scolding me. I deserve it anyway for being such a drunk idiot. Not only have I embarrassed myself and made myself look like a lovesick fool, but I dragged Scarlett in the drama again between us just when it's about to be forgotten.

A text.

From Scarlett.

My stomach tightens.

It's only two words.

Pick up.

For half a second, I consider ignoring it.

But then-

I sigh, rub my face, and press call.

She picks up immediately.

“Are you fucking serious, Nash?"/”