Chapter 92 *
Scarlett’s POV
He pushed past me. Walked into my apartment like he owned it.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He looked around. His nose wrinkled like he smelled something bad. "Mom said you agreed to marry into the Santoro family. Is this the place they set up for you? Some kind of pre-wedding apartment?"
I closed the door. Crossed my arms.
"Listen, Mr. Big Shot Actor. What makes you think I owe the Romano family shit? You're not the boss of me. What are you, the neighborhood watch?"
His face went dark.
"You need to show some respect. We're family."
I laughed. Actually laughed.
"Funny. I thought you said Zelda was your only sister. Why don't you go bother her instead and get the hell out of my face?"
That hit a nerve.
His whole body went rigid. Like I'd slapped him.
"You got some nerve bringing up Zelda. After what you did? I haven't even settled that score with you yet."
Settle the score?
Perfect.
I'd been wanting to settle some scores myself.
I tilted my chin up. Started rolling up my sleeves.
"Oh yeah? Come on then. Let's settle it right now. And don't say I didn't warn you."
Graham's eyes went wide.
"What—what are you doing?" He took a step back.
Oh, he remembered.
Yeah. He definitely remembered.
That time right after I came back to the Romano house. When Zelda accused me of breaking her precious crystal figurine.
Graham had been so sure I did it. So protective of his "real sister."
He'd slapped me. Hard. Across the face.
I'd slapped him back. Twice.
Then he'd gotten so pissed he went to his room. Put on his boxing gloves. Came back ready to teach me a lesson.
I beat the shit out of him.
Bare hands against his gloves. Didn't matter.
He'd ended up on the floor. Bloody nose. Split lip. Crying.
The family had to pull me off him.
I took a step forward. Smiled.
"Since you're so eager to throw down, let's go. I'll give you a rematch."
Graham's face went pale.
"I'm your brother! You got no respect! No class!"
"Then leave."
"This isn't over," he sputtered.
"Sure it's not."
He backed toward the door. Practically tripped over his own feet trying to get out.
I watched him stumble into the hallway. His face was red.
I was about to slam the door when I heard him talking.
His phone was pressed against his ear. He was walking away but his voice carried.
"What do you mean you still can't reach her? What am I paying you people for?"
I paused. Hand on the doorknob.
"Listen, I don't give a damn—I need ceo_of_napping to compose for this project. I need her..."
My brain did a full stop.
Wait.
What?
"Tell her she can name her fucking price. Whatever she wants. Just get me a meeting with ceo_of_napping..."
His voice faded as he turned the corner.
I stood there. Frozen.
Graham was trying to reach ceo_of_napping?
The one I hadn't used in years?
I closed the door slowly. Locked it.
Walked back to my laptop sitting on the coffee table.
Opened it. Stared at the screen.
I hadn't logged into those accounts in forever. SoundCloud. Instagram. The whole ceo_of_napping brand.
That was from another life. Back when I was fourteen. I'd been obsessed with fantasy novels. Indie music. Spent hours writing songs. Composing. Recording demos on a shitty laptop I'd saved up for.
Posted them online because why not.
Then some struggling indie artist named Evan Cross found one of my tracks. Used it. Went viral overnight.
After that, industry people kept reaching out. Indie labels. Producers. Even some big names wanting to buy my compositions.
It got overwhelming fast.
So I stopped. Deleted the apps from my phone. Ignored the messages. Let the whole thing die.
I typed in my login info. Waited for the page to load.
My Instagram popped up. @ceo_of_nappingOfficial.
Last post was from three years ago. Some moody photo of sheet music.
I clicked on my DMs.
Jesus Christ.
Hundreds of unread messages.
I scrolled through them. Most were spam. Some were genuine collaboration requests.
And then I saw them.
Messages from an account called @GrahamRomanoOfficial.
The first one was from six months ago.
"Hi! Big fan of your work. I'm working on a project and would love to discuss a potential collaboration. Please let me know if you're interested."
Professional. Polite.
The next message was two weeks later.
"Following up on my previous message. This is regarding the HBO Max adaptation of The Nightbound Chronicles. I'm playing the male lead and looking for someone to compose the opening theme. Saw your fan post about the books years ago. Your demo was incredible. Would love to talk."
I scrolled faster.
More messages. Every few weeks.
The tone got more desperate.
The offers got bigger.
$50,000 for the rights to that old demo.
$100,000 if I'd expand it into a full theme song.
$250,000 plus backend points.
The most recent message was from last week.
"$500,000. Final offer. Plus full creative control and credit. Please respond."
I sat back. Stared at the screen.
The Nightbound Chronicles.
I remembered that book series. Dark fantasy romance. Enemies to lovers. Morally gray characters. The whole package.
I'd been obsessed with it back in Montana. Read all six books twice.
Even wrote a little acoustic piece inspired by it. Posted it on SoundCloud with some caption like "if this series ever gets adapted, this is what the opening theme should sound like."
That post got decent traction. A few thousand likes. Some comments from other fans saying they loved it.
I'd completely forgotten about it.
But apparently Graham's team hadn't.
I pulled up a new tab. Searched "Graham Romano HBO Nightbound Chronicles."
Articles popped up immediately.
"Graham Romano Cast as Lead in HBO Max's The Nightbound Chronicles"
"Rising Star Graham Romano to Headline Major Fantasy Series"
I clicked on one. Read through it.
Graham had been cast as Kieran Ashford. The brooding anti-hero male lead.
Filming was set to start in three months.
And apparently, he wanted to personally perform the opening theme song.
I almost laughed.
Of course he did.
Graham Romano. The guy whose entire career was built on family connections and his pretty face.
Critics called him "all looks, no talent." His last three movies bombed. His acting was wooden at best.
This HBO project was his big break. His chance to prove he was more than just a Romano with good bone structure.
And he wanted to pull an Evan Cross. Be the actor who's also a legit musician.
Build credibility through my work.
I leaned back. Crossed my arms.
Why the hell should I help him?
He treated me like garbage. Now he wanted to use my talent to save his failing career?
I selected all the unread messages from his account.
Hit delete.
Every single one gone.
Then I went to his Instagram profile.
Clicked block.
"User Blocked" popped up on the screen.
I smiled.
Felt immediately better.
Closed my laptop. Stood up.
My hot pot was still bubbling on the table. The broth smelled amazing.
I sat down. Picked up my chopsticks.
Dropped a piece of beef into the pot. Watched it cook.
This was perfect. My new apartment. My fresh start. No Romano family drama.
Just me and my hot pot.
I was about to fish out the beef when someone knocked on my door again.
Oh hell no.
If Graham came back, I wasn't just rolling up my sleeves this time.
I stomped over to the door. Yanked it open. Ready to unleash hell.
"I swear to God if you—"
The words died in my throat.
I stared at the person standing there.
My brain completely short-circuited.
What.
What the actual fuck.