Chapter 18
Discipline. That was my brilliant strategy for not combusting into a million pieces of professional inappropriateness.
My master plan involved keeping my head down, maintaining distance, and focusing solely on work like some kind of corporate monk who’d taken a vow of sexual celibacy.
No more stolen glances that made my pulse forget how to behave. No more lingering in hallways hoping for encounters I definitely shouldn’t want but absolutely fucking did.
Just professionalism, productivity, and the soul-crushing safety that came with being invisible.
I entered the studio that morning with the kind of purpose usually reserved for people storming beaches or conquering nations.
Spine straight, expression carefully neutral, ready to win the Oscar for “Most Boring Employee Ever.”
I greeted coworkers with those polite nods and brief smiles that said ‘I’m friendly but not friend-ly, professional but not personal, available for work discussions but not emotional intimacy.’
My laptop bag felt like it was carrying actual rocks instead of electronics.
I’d stayed up until three AM like some kind of productivity psychopath, finishing every track, every demo, every piece of work that might be scrutinized by anyone with functioning eyeballs and an opinion.
I was determined not to leave anything half-done or vulnerable to criticism.
If I was going to be a boring, invisible employee, I was going to be the most competent boring, invisible employee in the history of corporate mediocrity.
At the studio lounge, I set my laptop down like I was defusing a bomb and attached a yellow sticky note: ‘Demos ready for review – J.H.’
Then I disappeared faster than dignity at a college party, before anyone could engage me in conversation about work or anything else that might compromise my newfound commitment to emotional unavailability.
The writers’ bullpen became my refuge, my fortress of solitude, my corporate witness protection program. Tucked away with the junior songwriters and session musicians, I felt invisible in a way that had once frustrated me but now provided blessed relief.
Here, I was just another face in the creative chaos, free from Adelyn’s passive-aggressive surveillance and those intense, knowing looks that made my skin feel too tight and my brain forget basic functions like breathing.
I’d grown to dread Liam’s looks especially. The way his green eyes seemed to see straight through my professional facade to the woman who’d melted under his touch just days before.
Every time he appeared in my peripheral vision, my pulse would spike and my carefully constructed composure would threaten to crumble like a house of cards in a hurricane.
So I avoided him. All of them. Like they were walking, talking temptations designed specifically to destroy my life.
When Liam’s voice carried across the bullpen, discussing arrangements with one of the producers, I kept my eyes superglued to my screen and my headphones firmly planted like armor against auditory seduction.
When Asher paused at the bullpen entrance, those steel-gray eyes sweeping the room in search of someone—me, probably—I hunched lower in my chair and pretended to be completely absorbed in scheduling emails that were about as interesting as watching paint dry.
Finn’s text arrived around two PM like a guided missile aimed directly at my resolve: ‘Miss you today, bunny. Everything okay?’
I stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard like it was a trigger I was afraid to pull.
It was the first message from any of them that I’d left unanswered in weeks, and the guilt felt like swallowing broken glass.
But answering would mean engagement. Engagement would mean risking the careful distance I was trying to maintain.
So I closed the message without responding, which felt like emotional vandalism but seemed necessary for survival.
The afternoon stretched on in deliberate isolation. I ate lunch at my makeshift desk like some kind of corporate hermit, declined invitations to join group discussions, and kept my interactions brief and professional enough to put people to sleep.
Every smile felt forced. Every conversation was carefully monitored for potential landmines that could explode my cover of boring competence.
It felt harsh, this self-imposed exile. The easy camaraderie I’d started enjoying with my coworkers, the sense of belonging I’d begun to feel in this world—all of it sacrificed on the altar of self-preservation.
But it was necessary. Adelyn was watching like a hawk circling roadkill, waiting for any sign of impropriety.
The brothers’ attention, no matter how carefully disguised, was too intense to hide forever. Someone would notice, someone would talk, someone would put the pieces together and destroy everything I’d worked to build.
By early evening, the silence around my work had become deafening. When I returned to collect my laptop from the lounge, I found it exactly where I’d left it, but the sticky note was gone.
Someone had reviewed the demos, listened to hours of my work, but chosen not to seek me out for discussion or feedback. The absence of contact felt like both relief and rejection—like being ghosted by your own professional accomplishments.
As I prepared to leave, gathering my things with the same methodical care I’d used all day, I caught sight of Adelyn near the elevator bank.
She was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, but her attention wasn’t on the screen. Her eyes tracked my movement with calculating precision, cataloging every detail of my appearance and behavior like I was evidence in a case she was building.
I forced myself to walk past her with confidence I didn’t feel, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
I didn’t acknowledge her presence, didn’t meet her gaze, didn’t give her any ammunition to use against me. But as the elevator doors slid closed, I caught her reflection in the polished metal—still watching, still assessing, expression unreadable but intent.
The descent to the lobby felt endless, each floor marking another small victory in my campaign of avoidance.
I’d made it through an entire day without compromising myself, without giving anyone reason to question my professionalism or dedication.
So why did it feel like losing?
Tomorrow I’d do better. Tomorrow I’d be stronger.
Tomorrow I’d probably hate myself just a little bit more for choosing safety over the things that made me feel alive.
