Cameron didn’t go straight home after dropping Jayla off.
He should have. It was late enough that the streets were thinning and the restaurants were closing, and he had an early meeting the next morning that Alexander would absolutely scold him for missing.
But instead of heading toward the Cross Estate or even his own condo, Cameron drove to the studio.
Not the polished, million-dollar recording complex the Cross family owned — no.
He went to the tiny private one in a rented brick building on the south end of the city. The one with peeling drywall and a crooked “FIRE EXIT” sign. The one that smelled faintly of dust and forgotten guitar strings.
The one where he wrote his best songs.
He unlocked the door and flicked on the single overhead bulb. Cold yellow light flooded the small roo
