The first rule of surviving Levi Steele was simple:

Never let him see you bleed.

The second?

Never let him see you care.

The night the tour brought them face-to-face again, the crowd at Madison Square Garden was already chanting his name like a prayer and a threat. Levi Steele—rock’s dark prince, all sharp edges and silver rings—stood at the side of the stage with his guitar slung low, eyes cold, jaw set.

He looked like he owned the world.

He looked like he’d burn it down for sport.

Across the stage, beneath blinding white lights, stood the only person who’d ever made him hesitate.

His rival.

His equal.

His favorite mistake.

They’d built their careers tearing each other apart in interviews, in lyrics, in front of millions. The press called it a feud. Fans called it iconic. Neither of them called it what it really was.

Because admitting the truth—that the fire between them wasn’t just hatred—would ruin everything.

She met his stare across the stage, chin lifting in challenge.

Levi smirked like he despised her.

She rolled her eyes like she couldn’t stand him.

The crowd roared, sensing the tension like lightning in the air.

And somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the rivalry, beneath the years of sharp words and sharper songs—

Their hearts betrayed them.