The next three weeks are a heavenly nightmare.

Our shows — Indianapolis, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland — are some of the best we’ve ever played. The fans are more invested in Wildwood than ever, now that we’ve officially rekindled our romance. They wave RYDER + FELICITY FOREVER signs from the pit, chase our tour bus down the street when it pulls into town, scream like banshees when Ryder surprises me with an unscripted, acoustic performance of A Girl Named Felicity — which has never before been played live. In Chicago, when he grabs my face and kisses me halfway through Orbit, I’m grateful Soldier Field is an open-air stadium — otherwise, the force of their cheers would’ve blown it clean off.

The moments I spend with Ryder — both on stage and off, in mammoth hotel beds and narrow bus bunks, in five-star restaurants and cheap roadside rest stops — are the happiest times of my life. We are more solid than we’ve ever been, even before the breakup two years ago. We know each other better now. We’ve been through the fire and come out the other side, stronger because of it.

Ryder’s arms are a warm port in the storm, a constant source of light in the growing darkness.

Carly’s predictions were, unfortunately, correct: as soon as the elevator video broke, the paparazzi swarmed with a vengeance. Since, it’s been a constant mob scene. They stake out every hotel we stay in, stalk every venue we perform at. They sneak into restaurants where the band is eating and bribe waiters for information about us — what we ordered, what we said to each other, whether Ryder and I were holding hands at the table. They are relentless and we cannot seem to shake them, no matter how many back roads Alec turns our bus down, no matter how diligent Smith, York, Linden, and Stevens are at holding them off.

Francesca’s grand plan — to feed the beast, doing a slew of promotional press interviews — felt more like a marketing masterstroke to boost sales, now that we’re officially back together. Her blasé, emotionless advice sent Ryder into such a rage, I thought he was going to fly to LA just to yell at her in person. Thankfully, we managed to talk him down in time for our show in Washington D.C..

After getting settled in our hotel room — the one we now share, since we never spend the night apart — the boys head out in search of food while Carly and I hit the high-end clothing shops just around the corner. York and Smith look bored to tears as we flit from store to store, not buying much of anything, just enjoying a free afternoon.

“We have to go in here,” I declare as we pass a vintage clothing boutique. The window mannequins are dressed in retro denim jumpsuits with massive bell-bottoms. Huge 1970s era glasses cover their faces. Fringe bags sit at their feet.

“You don’t have to twist my arm,” Carly agrees, already pulling open the door with a tinkling bell sound.

Mid-day on a Monday, the shop is abandoned. The owner doesn’t bother us as we peruse the racks, running our hands over one-of-a-kind items we’d never in a million years find in a modern mall. If the items within these walls could talk, they’d tell some interesting stories — these clothes have lived entire lives before they came to rest on these hangers.

“Oh my god!” Carly spins around, a feathered fedora tipped down over one eye. “I have to get this, right?”

“It would be a crime not to,” I say somberly.

She grins.

We dare each other to try on increasingly outrageous outfits — a leather bomber jacket covered in patches, a full-length mink coat, a bright yellow jumper dress with matching mustard tights.

“Look at this,” Carly breathes, pushing aside a row of hanging dresses to reveal a floor-length white wedding gown. My eyes widen as I look at it. Ivory silk, with lace sleeves and a full skirt. It simply breathes elegance. Like something Jackie O or Audrey Hepburn would’ve worn.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, walking a few steps closer, despite myself. My hand trembles as I reach out toward it.

“You should try it on.”

I snatch my hand back at Carly’s words, coming to my senses. “That wouldn’t be the smartest idea.”

“Why not?”

I glance through the pane at the two tabloid photographers waiting outside, cameras poised and ready for the moment we emerge. Smith and York, standing in front of the door with menacing expressions, are the only thing keeping them at bay.

“Oh,” she grumbles. “I forgot for a minute about the ever-present paparazzi.”

“It’s not just that.” I’m still staring at the dress. “It’s just way too soon to be thinking about that sort of thing.”

She scoffs. “Too soon? If anything, it’s overdue.”

“Ryder and I have only been together a few weeks.”

“…plus or minus a few years.”

“Most of which, we spent apart,” I remind her.

“So, you’ve never thought about it?” She shoots me a dubious look. “Never even considered what it would be like to marry Ryder?”

Of course I’ve considered it.

I know he has, too.

We’ve never talked about the blue velvet box I found in his bedside table, the morning I left LA. We’ve never discussed the question he would’ve asked; the answer I would’ve given.

“Hello? Paging Felicity Wilde…” Carly’s voice brings me back to the present.

“Sorry.” I swallow hard. “No. I don’t think about it.”

She lets the gown fall back into the depths of the rack with a regretful sigh. “Too bad. That dress would be a dream on you.”

I blink back tears as I turn to a nearby shelf, grabbing the first pair of sunglasses I come across. They’re shaped like stars.

“These are more my style!” I shove them onto the bridge of my nose, and look at her over the tops. “What do you think? Glamorous?”

She snorts. “I think, in addition to an agent, you need to find yourself a stylist…”

The only benefit to having two hulking babysitters trail us around all day is that they carry our packages. By the time we exhaust ourselves and head back to the hotel, both Smith and York are laden down with several bags each, looped over their beefy arms. The mere sight of it makes me smile.

We’re just around the corner from our hotel when the door to a nearby shop swings open. A woman steps out onto the sidewalk and plants herself directly in our path, as though she’s been waiting for us.

My feet go still.

Carly sucks in a sharp breath.

I hear a clatter behind me as the bags hit the pavement, Smith and York flanking us to block any potential threat. But the woman standing there isn’t dangerous to anyone — except, perhaps, herself.

Her eyes are sunken into her head, the circles around them so dark they look like bruises. Perhaps they are. I see signs of trauma all over her body, from the scrapes on her knuckles to the track marks in her arms.

“Felicity,” she calls, reaching for me. But Smith is suddenly between us, forcing her back.

“Ma’am, you cannot be here.” His voice is gruff. “We’ve told you before.”

“I want to see my daughter!” she screams, trying to dart around him. Her eyes flash with hate, despite the drugged haze clouding their depths. “Let me see her, you goddamned bastards!”

I’m frozen. Unable to move until I feel Carly’s hand slide into my limp one, squeezing gently as she pulls me along.

“Come on, honey. We can’t be out here.” She glances nervously behind us, at the growing crowd of rubberneckers — a mix of paparazzi snapping photographs and regular people who’ve stopped to watch the ruckus.

“FELICITY!” My mother screams, making me flinch. “Sweetie, tell them you’ll talk to me. Honey, tell them to stop sending me away!”

“Ma’am, please.” Smith’s voice rumbles like thunder. “Step back, or I will be forced to call the police.”

“You go ahead and call them!” Her voice cracks, increasingly desperate with every word. “I’ll tell them you’ve been keeping me away from my girl! That you haven’t let me see her! Not here, not Nashville, not Atlanta. I need to speak to her. I’m her Momma, don’t you see? I just want to talk to her.”

My stomach turns leaden. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

She’s been following the tour?

Carly and York manage to bustle me around the corner, leaving Smith behind to deal with my mother. She’s still screaming, even as we turn out of view. The paparazzi push in on us, yelling questions of their own as we cross the final stretch of pavement to the rotating hotel doors.

Felicity, can you confirm that was your mother?

Have you spoken to her at all?

Do you have a comment about the pending litigation your relatives have filed against you?

“We have no comment!” Carly yells, shielding me as best she can with her body as flashes go off all around us. “You fucking vultures,” she adds at a lower decibel.

We step into the sanctuary of the lobby, blessedly silent in the aftermath of the onslaught. Walking with purpose toward the elevators, we keep our eyes dead ahead and don’t speak again until we’re safely ensconced in the penthouse suite.

“Jesus,” Carly mutters as the door clicks shut, leaning back against it. Less than a second later, her body jolts forward as the boys come barreling into the room.

Ryder’s eyes cut instantly to me. Two strides, and he’s there — his hands cupping my cheeks, his forehead against mine.

“Baby.”

“I’m okay.” My voice shakes. “I’m fine.”

“She didn’t touch you?”

“Never got close enough.”

“Thank god.”

I reach up and grip his wrists, squeezing gently as I pull his hands away from my face. A flicker of unease shoots through his eyes.

“She’s said… she’s been following the tour. That she’s tried to see me in multiple cities.” I search his face. “Did you know?”

His expression crumples. “Baby—”

“You did! You knew!” I hiss, pulling away from him. “How could you not tell me that, Ryder?”

He watches me pace. “We didn’t want to worry you.”

“We?”

His jaw ticks in silence. There’s an apology in his eyes.

My eyes swing around the room, scanning over Carly, Lincoln, and Aiden, each wearing a similarly guilty expression.

“You all knew about this?”

Carly swallows hard. “Honey, you have so much on your plate, right now. We didn’t want to add one more thing.”

“I’m not some fragile flower that needs to be protected!” My voice cracks. “I’ve been protecting myself from my family since long before you all decided to butt in.”

“That’s the thing, Felicity.” Linc’s face contorts into a glower. “You shouldn’t have to protect yourself from your own family.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, Lincoln, but I don’t have any other choice.” I run my hands through my hair, worry overtaking me. “God, if she’s here, if she’s been following the tour, that means he’s not far behind.” My eyes fill with tears as my heart rate kicks up a notch. “He always finds me. Even before my life became a media circus, I knew no matter how far I ran, he’d be there. One step behind. Dragging me back into hell.”

The room is so silent, no one seems to be breathing as they watch me tread back and forth across the room, my sundress swinging around my thighs with the force of each stride.

Carly’s voice is barely audible. “Maybe we can get them into rehab—”

“My parents have been to rehab five times. Twice by family request, and three more after court orders.” My laugh is dark. “Never seems to stick.”

“But—”

“Carly! Stop. Please, just… stop trying to fix this.” I squeeze my lashes shut. “There’s no fixing this. No Hollywood ending in the cards here. Fade in on our heroine, reconciling in a touching moment with her parents — freshly sober, endlessly apologetic for making her life a living hell.” My head shakes. “No. I’m sorry, but that’s never going to happen. My father… he’s not just an addict. He’s violent. Especially if money gets tight and he’s in need of a fix.”

“Felicity…” Ryder takes a step toward me, but I backpedal away.

If he touches me right now, I’ll fall apart completely.

“It’s only a matter of time. Not if but when.” My pulse races as I resume pacing. “And if it was just about the money, I’d pay him. But he’ll just keep coming back for more, over and over again. Until there’s nothing left to give. Until he’s either drained me dry… or killed me.”

Two large hands hit my shoulders, forcing me to a stop. Ryder’s face drops down to look into my eyes.

“Felicity.”

I blink up at him, a tear rolling down my cheek. My voice trembles. “What?”

“He may find you. He may track you down. But he’ll never get close enough to touch you, baby. Because I’ll be there, standing between you.”

Another tear escapes.

“And so will I.” Carly’s declaration is filled with ferocity as she slides both arms around my waist from behind in a tight hug.

“Count on it,” Aiden says, his big hand settling on my arm as he steps to my left side.

“You know I’ve got your back, babe,” Linc adds, his fingers curling around my right bicep as he closes in.

More tears slip down my cheeks as I stand there — Ryder in front of me, Carly at my back, the boys on either side. A circle of protection.

“We can be your family, baby.” Ryder’s lips hit my forehead. “You just have to let us.”