Dirty Little Secrets

CHAPTER 27.

SUMMER'S POV.

I woke up to the familiar scent of George’s apartment—clean laundry, faint coffee, and safety. My body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Every breath pulled at the bruises along my ribs, and my face throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I tried to sit up on the couch and immediately regretted it, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

“Easy,” a deep voice said from across the room.

It was Kingsley.

He sat in the armchair, elbows on his knees, watching me with an intensity that made my stomach twist. His eyes were shadowed, jaw tight. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

“How did I get here?” I whispered, voice hoarse.

“I found you collapsing in the club hallway, after our discussion.” he said quietly. “ So I brought you to George's house.”

Before I could respond, George stormed in from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand. The moment his eyes landed on my face— the swollen eye, split lip, the bruises peeking from my collar—he froze. Then fury took over.

“Jesus Christ, Summer.” He set the glass down so hard water sloshed over the rim. “What the hell happened? Kingsley said you were at the club again. After everything—after the beating at your apartment—you still went back there?”

I looked away, shame burning hotter than the pain. “George, I didn’t have a choice.”

“No choice?” His voice rose, tight with anger and worry. He knelt in front of me, gently tilting my chin to examine the damage. “Look at you. You’re black and blue. They could’ve killed you. Tell me who’s doing this. We go to the police. I’ll pull every favor I have. Or let me at least cover the rent, the bills—whatever it takes so you never step foot in that place again.”

“I can’t,” I choked out. “Involving the police makes it worse. They’re watching Clyde. They’re watching all of you. If I let you help financially, they’ll just find another way to squeeze me.”

George’s eyes flashed with frustration. “Then what? You keep letting them destroy you until there’s nothing left? I’ve been here since your parents died, Summer. I know you. This isn’t survival. This is suicide.”

The tension in the room thickened, heavy with everything unsaid. I could feel Kingsley watching us, silent but coiled like a spring.

“I need air,” I muttered, pushing to my feet despite the agony. I limped toward the small music corner George had set up—his old keyboard and my notes from the duet still scattered there.

Kingsley stood immediately. “Summer, wait—”

George shot him a look. “Give her a minute, man.”

But Kingsley followed me anyway. George’s jaw tightened, but he stayed back, the subtle clash of their approaches hanging in the air—George’s steady, patient anchor versus Kingsley’s fierce, all-consuming protectiveness.

In the corner, I lowered myself onto the piano bench, wincing. My fingers hovered over the keys. The duet sheet music stared back at me. Rewrite the Stars. The lyrics mocked me now.

I started playing softly, voice barely above a whisper, trying to lose myself in the notes despite the pain shooting through my side with every breath.

“No one can rewrite the stars… How can you say you’ll be mine?”

The words caught in my throat. Tears spilled over. I slammed my hands on the keys, a discordant crash filling the room.

Kingsley was beside me in an instant, his hand covering mine, stopping the noise. “Summer… stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

I yanked my hand away, tears streaming down my bruised face. “That’s the point, isn’t it? I destroy everything. The song, my scholarship, my life, and all of you. I told you I’m poison.”

He crouched in front of me, eyes burning with a storm of rage and worry. His voice dropped low, raw. “Don’t you dare shut me out again. I carried your broken body out of that club. I saw what they did to you. Tell me the truth. Who is controlling you? Because I know it’s more than money. More than the stripping.”

I looked into his eyes—those intense, beautiful eyes that saw too much—and something inside me cracked. “Someone from my past,” I whispered, the half-truth tasting like ash. “He’s controlling me with blackmail and threats. If you get involved, it’ll destroy you too, your mom. Everything will be destroyed and I can't let that happen.”

Kingsley’s face darkened. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him. “Your past? My man my mother was arguing with someone on the phone the other night. I overheard her… something about Mr. Robert. She sounded terrified. Is he the one? Tell me, Summer. Let me help you fight this.”

My breath hitched. He was so close to the truth, and I can't let him get it. “Kingsley, please. Stay out of it. I’m begging you.”

He cupped my face gently, thumb brushing a tear away from my uninjured cheek. The touch was careful, reverent, but his voice shook with intensity. “I can’t. I won’t watch you bleed for people who don’t deserve your sacrifice. You sang with me like the stars could be rewritten. Don’t tell me that meant nothing.”

The tension between us was electric—pain, longing, fear all tangled together. I wanted to lean into him. I wanted to push him away forever.

From the doorway, George cleared his throat, arms crossed. “She needs rest, Kingsley, not more pressure.” His tone was calm, but there was an edge.

Kingsley didn’t move, eyes still locked on mine. “She needs the truth, and protection. Real protection at that.”

George stepped closer. “And you think charging in like a hero is going to fix it? She’s been through enough. We do this smartly and together. Not whatever storm you’re ready to unleash.”

The air crackled with their subtle clash. George’s steady presence versus Kingsley’s burning intensity. I was caught in the middle, as always.

I pulled away from Kingsley’s touch, fresh tears falling. “Both of you… just stop. I’m tired. So tired.”

Kingsley stood slowly, jaw clenched. “This isn’t over, Summer. Not by a long shot.”

George watched him leave the room, then turned to me, voice softening but still firm. “You know I’m right. Let us help. Before there’s nothing left of you to save.”

I nodded weakly, but inside, the walls were crumbling faster than I could rebuild them. The duet music sat mocking me on the stand. The stars weren’t going to be rewritten.

Not for someone like me.