Legacy & Cameron – Cancelled

The roar followed him offstage like a living thing—an animal with teeth, gnawing at the last scraps of energy he had left. He smiled for the band, lifted a hand in thanks for the crew, but everything was muffled now, blurred at the edges. Every touch on his shoulder felt like static. Every voice was just another demand.

He kept walking.

By the time he reached the dressing room with his name in silver writing on black metal pasted to the door, his ears were ringing so hard it felt like pressure building behind his eyes. He shut the door, locked it, then locked it again. His forehead pressed against the cool wood as he tried to breathe the way Lauren had taught him—slow inhale, slow exhale, anchor yourself in the sound.

But the sound was wrong. His breath wasn’t calming; it was reminding. Reminding him of her. Of the boys. Of the two months since he’d held them instead of waving at a screen. Two months of missing bedtime stories, missing first steps, missing the way Lauren’s hand found his without thinking.

And then the other reminders came—the nights he’d tried to fill that ache with strangers and liquor, the haze he pretended he didn’t remember. The guilt hit him like a second wave of nausea.

He pushed off the door, rubbing his forehead hard, as if he could scrub the memories out. A fist slammed against the door.

“Blaine, you good to come out front? Quick meet‑and‑greet. Press is here.”

“No,” he called back. “I’m done. I need a minute.”

“It’ll help the numbers, man. You’re inches from number one. Stan says this could tip it.”

“Stan can go suck a big one,” Blaine snapped. “I said I’m done. He can go out and suck the fans’ dick if he wants to, I do not!”

More shouting. He tuned it out. He didn’t have room in his head for anyone else’s needs.

He dropped to his knees beside his backpack, digging through it with shaking hands. His phone felt like a brick, heavy and slow as it booted. He dialed Lauren. It rang. And rang.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Please.”

Voicemail.

He tried again. And again. The third time, he broke.

“Where are you? I need you. I’m wrecked, Laur. I’m—” His voice cracked. “Just call me. Please. Babe, I really need to hear your voice.”

He hung up. His throat burned from the show, from shouting, from everything. Water felt like swallowing ice shards. He reached for the whiskey instead, drinking until the edges softened, until the room stopped spinning quite so violently.

Another knock.

“Car’s here, Blaine.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fine. Be right out.”

He searched for his sunglasses—nighttime armor against the paparazzi flashes that felt like knives. His headache was blooming behind his eyes, pulsing with every heartbeat. He dumped the entire bag out, cursing under his breath.

That’s when he saw it. The small foil‑wrapped packet. The thing he’d sworn he didn’t need anymore.

He stared at it.

Then he grabbed it.

The ritual came back too easily—lighter, spoon, tourniquet. His hands shook so badly he spilled some when another knock rattled the door.

“Driver’s waiting!”

“Give me a fucking second!” he shouted, voice cracking with panic. “I just entertained fifty thousand people for over three hours. Let me come down for a minute!”

He drew the liquid into the syringe. His arm was already ready. The puncture hurt—sharp, real—but then the warmth hit. The warmth that wasn’t warmth at all, just absence. Absence of guilt. Absence of noise. Absence of himself.

He slid down the wall, eyes closing, letting the black wave swallow everything he didn’t have the strength to carry.

The warmth didn’t stay warm.

It thickened. Turned heavy. His limbs felt like wet sand. His head lolled back against the wall, and for a moment he thought he was just tired — just finally, blessedly shutting down after weeks of running on fumes.

Then the room tilted.

The ringing in his ears deepened into a low hum, like someone had put a hand over his head and pressed. His vision smeared at the edges. He tried to lift his hand but it didn’t respond.

Another knock. Louder this time.

He couldn’t tell if it was real.

“Blaine? Blaine, open the door.”

The voice sounded underwater. He tried to answer but his tongue felt thick, useless. His chest tightened. His breath came shallow, too shallow. Panic flickered, but even that felt distant.

The door rattled. Someone cursed. A thud — shoulder hitting wood.

Then the world blinked out.

Blink.

He was on the floor now. Or maybe he’d always been. Shapes hovered above him — two, maybe three. One was shouting his name. Another was on the phone, voice cracking.

“—not responding — I think he’s — Jesus Christ, hurry!”

Blink.

Hands slapped his face lightly, trying to rouse him. Someone rolled him onto his back. Someone else swore when they saw the syringe.

“Oh my God. Blaine. Blaine, stay with me, man. Hey — hey — look at me.”

He tried. His eyes fluttered. The ceiling swam.

Blink.

The door was open now. More voices. Heavy boots. A medical bag hitting the floor. A woman’s voice, calm and firm.

“Pulse is thready. Pupils pinpoint. Let’s move.”

Cold air hit his face as someone lifted his chin and fitted an oxygen mask over his mouth. A sting in his arm — Narcan. His body jerked involuntarily.

“Come on, Blaine. Breathe.”

He tried. His chest fought him. His vision pulsed black at the edges.

Blink.

Movement. He was being lifted, strapped, rolled. The hallway lights streaked above him like comets. Someone was shouting instructions. Someone else was crying.

Blink.

Outside. Night air. A wall of flashes exploded around him — white, blinding, violent. Paparazzi shouting his name like it was a battle cry.

“Blaine! Blaine! Overdose? Is he alive?”

The lights stabbed through his skull. He whimpered, turning his face away, but the stretcher kept moving.

Blink.

Blink.

The ambulance doors slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the flashes. A blonde EMT leaned over him, tightening the oxygen mask. Her hair fell forward, haloed by the harsh interior lights.

His fading vision smeared her features together — soft voice, blonde hair, gentle hands.

Lauren.

His heart lurched.

“Lauren!” he choked, reaching for her weakly. His fingers barely lifted off the stretcher.

The EMT startled. “Sir, stay calm—”

“Lauren… I want Lauren…” His voice cracked, slurred, desperate. “Lauren…”

The EMT pressed the mask more firmly over his mouth. “Please calm down, Sir. Just breathe. Stay with me.”

But he wasn’t hearing her anymore. He was drowning in the image his brain insisted was real — Lauren leaning over him, Lauren touching his face, Lauren saving him.

“Lauren…” he whispered again, fading.

Then everything went quiet.

And the world went black.

Misery Moments

He woke up because his nose itched.

A stupid, maddening itch right at the bridge, like a feather brushing him over and over. He tried to lift his hand to scratch it.

His arm didn’t move.

He tried harder. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

His brain felt thick, slow, like someone had poured syrup into it. He tried the other arm.

Same.

A dull, creeping alarm crawled up his spine.

He tried his legs.

Nothing.

What the fuck?

He forced his eyes open.

Dim light. A ceiling he didn’t recognize. Not a hotel. Not a venue. Not anywhere he’d ever been. His arms were stretched slightly outward, wrists secured by thick straps. His ankles too. Metal rails. Shadows in the corners. No windows.

His chest seized.

No. No, no, no.

He yanked hard, the restraints clacking against metal. Panic detonated in his chest.

“HEY! HEY! WHAT THE FUCK—LET ME GO!”

His voice tore out of him, raw and cracked. He pulled harder, muscles screaming, but the straps held.

“HELP! SOMEBODY GET IN HERE!”

His breath came too fast. His vision blurred at the edges. His mind raced, grabbing at the worst possible explanation — the one he’d joked about with the band on long nights, the one that didn’t feel funny now.

Some obsessed fan.
Some basement.
Some nightmare.
Some Misery shit.
As in the classic old movie about a crazed fan keeping her favorite author captive, breaking his legs so he couldn’t leave.

“HELLO?! SOMEBODY GET IN HERE AND UNTIE ME OR I SWEAR TO GOD—I WILL MAKE YOUR CRAZY ASSES REGRET THE DAY YOU WERE BORN!”

The door opened.

A woman stepped in — scrubs, badge, hair pulled back. She froze when she saw him thrashing.

For a split second, Blaine’s panicked brain didn’t register the scrubs. Just the silhouette. Just the presence. Just the fact that someone was there.

“Okay—okay, Blaine,” she said, hands up, voice steady but urgent. “I’m going to get the team.”

She backed out fast.

Team?
What team?
Huh!?

His heart hammered. His breath hitched. His vision swam.
His brain was foggy.

And only then — only in the silence after she left — did the pieces start to rearrange themselves.

Scrubs. Badge. Metal rails. Dim medical lighting. Restraints meant for safety, not captivity.

Not a basement.

Not a fan.

A hospital.
He was tied up in some fucking hospital!

But the panic didn’t care. It kept clawing at him anyway.

More footsteps. More people. A man stepped forward, older, calm, wearing a hospital badge clipped to his pocket.

“Blaine,” he said gently, “I need you to stop pulling. You’re safe.”

“Safe? SAFE? I’m tied down like a fucking hostage! Untie me or I’ll—”

“You’re restrained because you were combative when you came out of the overdose.” the doctor explained calmly.

The words hit him like a punch.

“What?” His voice dropped to a rasp. “What did you just say?”

“You overdosed,” the man repeated. “We had to intubate you. You stopped breathing. You aspirated. You’re in the ICU.”

Blaine stared at him, chest heaving.

“You’re still coming off the Narcan and sedation,” the doctor continued. “You were trying to rip out your IV lines and airway equipment. The restraints are temporary.”

Blaine swallowed hard. His throat felt scraped raw. “I… I played Magnolia Park Stadium. Sold it out. Three encores. Did I collapse backstage?”

The doctor exchanged a look with someone behind him. “You didn’t collapse. You coded. Twice.”

Blaine’s stomach dropped.

“We stabilized you,” the doctor said. “You’re on oxygen, IV fluids, electrolyte correction, and continuous monitoring. You’re lucky the paramedics got to you when they did or this would have ended very differently.”

Blaine’s voice cracked. “Lauren… my wife. Does she know?”

A voice answered from somewhere behind the doctor.

“She knows.”

Brad entered the room—arms crossed, curls flattened, face carved from granite. He looked older than Blaine had ever seen him. And furious. And terrified.

“Brad,” Blaine croaked. “Fuck. I—”

“Don’t,” Brad said quietly. “Not now. As you might have deduced, this is one of my facilities. When you were announced to the ER, I was called and got on the plane instantly.”

“I need to talk to Lauren … please. They took my phone. Can I use yours?”

Blaine’s breath hitched.

“No need. She is here, was already flying in to surprise you with a visit,” Brad said. “She found out when she landed. She saw the footage of them loading you into the ambulance. She thought you were dead.”

Blaine closed his eyes, the restraints suddenly feeling heavier than his own bones.

“She had a severe panic reaction when she learned you coded in the ambulance. She’s being treated in the family unit. She can’t see you yet, we need to stabilize her more.”

“Fuck,” Blaine whispered closing his eyes, shaking his head. “Fuck.”

Brad stepped closer, voice low and shaking with restrained fury.

“You almost left my daughter a widow,” he said. “You almost left your sons without a father. And you almost made me bury you.”

Blaine felt the words like knives.

Brad exhaled sharply. “We’ll talk about this when you’re out of danger. And when Lauren can stand without shaking.”

The doctor adjusted Blaine’s oxygen mask.

“Try to breathe slowly,” he said. “You’re safe. You’re in a hospital. You’re alive.”

Blaine stared at the ceiling, wrists bound, throat burning, heart breaking.

Alive.

Barely.

Lies

Time blurred after that.

Blaine drifted in and out, the monitors beeping steadily beside him. Nurses came and went, adjusting lines, checking vitals, speaking softly as if loud voices might shatter him. Brad stayed in the corner, arms folded, jaw tight, watching every rise and fall of Blaine’s chest like he didn’t trust it to keep going.

At some point — minutes, maybe an hour — the door opened again.

Brad straightened instantly.

A nurse stepped in, speaking quietly. “She’s awake. Stable. Asking for him.”

Brad exhaled, tension breaking just slightly. “Is she steady enough to walk?”

“She insisted,” the nurse said. “We tried to get her to rest, but… she’s determined.”

Brad scrubbed a hand over his face. “Of course she is. Fine then, suppose it’s unavoidable.”

Footsteps approached in the hall — slow, careful, uneven.

Blaine turned his head toward the sound, heart thudding painfully.

And then Lauren appeared in the doorway.

Blaine looked wrecked.

Skin pale and waxy. Lips cracked. Eyes bruised at the edges from oxygen deprivation. A faint abrasion at the corner of his mouth from the intubation tube. His hair was matted. His wrists were still strapped to the rails. IV lines everywhere. The monitor beeped steadily, but his breathing was shallow and uneven.

He looked like someone who had almost died.

Lauren looked like someone who had almost lost her husband.

Her long blonde curls were frizzy, flattened, tangled. Her soft blue eyes were swollen and red. She wore a cardigan over her blouse, sleeves pushed up, hospital badge clipped to her pocket. She looked like she had been holding herself together with sheer willpower.

Brad walked over to her, they spoke quietly for a moment, he stayed near the door. Watching. Monitoring. Doctor and father at once.

Lauren froze when she saw Blaine.

He tried to lift his hands toward her, forgetting he was tied down. The restraints tugged. He winced.

“Laur…” His voice was hoarse, scraped raw. “Baby… please…”

She broke.

Lauren rushed to him, collapsing against his chest, sobbing into his gown. Blaine tried to hold her, but his wrists were still bound.

“Brad,” Blaine rasped. “Please—untie me. Please.”

Brad hesitated only a moment. Then he stepped forward, unbuckled the restraints, and freed Blaine’s hands.

Blaine wrapped his arms around her instantly, clinging to her like she was the only thing keeping him alive, digging his hands into the mass of her blonde curls. She cried harder, shaking, gripping his gown in both fists.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean—Laur, I didn’t mean—”

They stayed like that until her sobs softened into trembling breaths.

She pulled back slowly.

Her face changed.

The softness drained out of her. What replaced it was pain so sharp it looked like it hurt her to hold it.

Then she slapped him.

Hard.

His head snapped sideways. The sting bloomed across his cheek.

He blinked, stunned.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I deserve that.”

Her voice trembled, but her words were knives. “How could you do this to me? To our sons? Is that what you want to teach them about being a man?”

“They’re still little,” Blaine whispered. “They’ll forget. I’ll do better. Laur, please—I made one mistake. One overdose. I swear.”

She slapped him again.

Brad flinched. Blaine didn’t.

Lauren shook her head, tears spilling again, but her expression was disgust—like she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

“I wish it were that easy,” she said. “Look at me now, Blaine, and tell me how often you’ve screwed up on this tour. Drugs, booze, anything. Let’s be clear now. I need to hear the truth.”

“No,” Blaine said quickly. “That was… once. One lapse of judgment.”

She stared at him.

Then she slapped him again.

“You lied,” she said. “I gave you a chance to come clean. Had you, I could have forgiven you. I get it. You hit a rough spot, you were in your head. But you chose to lie. You think I’m an idiot?”

“NO! Laur—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, voice cracking, “that they ran tests. All of them. Toxicology. Blood panels. Repeat screens. You’ve been using for months.”

Blaine’s eyes shot to Brad.

Brad didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t defend him.

“Okay,” Blaine said, breath hitching. “Okay, fine—I… dabbled. I needed it. I’ll go to rehab. I’ll fix it. I swear to God, Laur, I’ll fix it.”

She laughed once—a broken, humorless sound.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just like the alcohol, right? After you crashed the Lambo drunk off your ass before the tour? You promised then you’d stop drinking. You promised me. And tonight you had almost half a bottle of whiskey in you. Combined with whatever you injected. You almost met Jesus. Another lie.”

“Okay, that, yes, I wasn’t thinking. Just needed to take the edge off. I’ll rehab for that, too. I swear. I am done with that for good too.” Blaine whispered.

She slapped him again—harder than before. Then she leaned in close, her voice a hiss that didn’t sound like her at all.

“I thought I lost you tonight. I missed your calls because I missed you so much I flew out here to surprise you, spend a few days with you. I was landing when you called. Before I could check your voicemail, your manager called me. Told me you overdosed. And then I saw the footage—my husband being loaded into an ambulance, limp, blue, cameras flashing like you were already dead. Can you even try to comprehend how that feels? Can you!?”

Blaine’s eyes filled. “Laur… please…”

“I called the hospital,” she said. “In case it didn’t come up yet, this is one of Dad’s hospitals. They told me you coded. Twice. Do you understand what that means to me?”

“I’m so sorry,” Blaine sobbed. “I’m so fucking sorry. I missed you and the boys so much. I couldn’t take it. I tried the breathing you taught me but it felt like suffocating. I needed you, Laur. I needed you.”

She stared at him, shaking.

“Oh, you needed me. Funny,” she said quietly, “because they ran more tests. You had irregularities. So they ran other tests.”

Her voice broke.

“You have an STD.”

Blaine froze.

Lauren’s voice shattered. “You cheating liar. Needed me, my foot! You were gonna come home and give that to me, I wouldn’t have known what hit me! You are such an irresponsible, egoistic manchild! You don’t even know the half of it!”

She turned and ran out of the room.

Blaine felt like the floor dropped out from under him. He looked at Brad.

Brad gave him a look Blaine had never seen before — not anger, not rage, but a father-in-law type disappointment so deep it felt like a verdict.

“You brought that on yourself, Blaine. Now you get to stew in it.”

Then Brad walked out too.

Blaine sat up, ripping out IV lines, monitors shrieking in protest. He swung his legs off the bed, tried to stand—

His vision exploded into white.

His knees buckled.

And the world went black.

Benched

He came back slowly, like someone dragging him up through mud. His head throbbed. His chest hurt. His mouth tasted like metal and cotton. The ceiling above him wasn’t the ICU ceiling—no harsh lights, no chaos, no restraints. This room was dim, quiet, too quiet. A private suite. Brad’s doing. Of course.

He blinked again, trying to piece together how he’d gotten here. The last thing he remembered was Lauren’s face—broken, furious, devastated—and then the floor rushing up at him.

A shape moved in the corner.

Brad sat in a leather chair, elbows on his knees, watching him with an expression Blaine had never seen on him. Not anger. Not fear. Something worse. Something heavier.

Disappointment.

“You’re awake,” Brad said quietly.

Blaine swallowed. His throat burned. “What… happened?”

“You collapsed,” Brad said. “They stabilized you. I had you moved here — more private. For you, and for us. I won’t have staff whispering about my son‑in‑law’s moral lapses.”

Blaine tried to sit up. His muscles screamed. Brad didn’t move to help him.

“Don’t,” Brad said. “You’re not steady.”

Blaine sank back, breathing hard. “Lauren…”

“She’s resting,” Brad said. “Sedated. She had another panic episode after everything. Can’t blame her. We don’t need you agitating her more. You’ve done plenty.”

Blaine closed his eyes. Shame washed over him like heat.

“Listen, Brad, I—”

Brad raised a hand. “Save it for Lauren. I’m not sure how you could possibly explain any of this, but that’s between you and my daughter. I’m not going to waste breath telling you what I think of all this. It should be obvious — even in your current state.”

A spirited knock, then the door opened.

Stan stepped in, looking like he’d aged ten years in one night. Relief flickered across his face when he saw Blaine awake — but it vanished just as fast.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Stan said. “You scared the shit out of everyone.”

“I’m fine,” Blaine muttered.

Brad’s head snapped toward him. One eyebrow lifted — a warning.

Stan’s expression hardened. “Fine? Blaine, you fucking died. I think our definitions of that term vary greatly.”

Blaine flinched.

Stan stepped closer, voice rising. “Do you have any idea what you just did? Three shows canceled. Three. And not little pop‑up venues — arenas. Somewhere between fifty and seventy thousand tickets sold each. Magnolia Park is threatening to sue. The promoter is losing his mind. Insurance wants a full toxicology panel before they’ll cover anything. The press is already running overdose headlines. Fans think you’re dead.”

He jabbed a finger toward the floor. “They’re holding vigils for you, Blaine. Actual candlelight vigils. Outside venues. Outside hotels. All over every social platform known to man. Your face is everywhere — tribute edits, memorial posts, people crying on livestreams.”

He dragged a hand down his face, exhausted. “And I’ve spent the last six hours trying to keep your career from going up in flames. I’ve been on the phone with lawyers, agents, PR, the label — all of them asking if you’re alive, if you’re stable, if you’re even capable of finishing this tour. I had to tell them I didn’t know.”

Blaine’s stomach dropped.

Stan exhaled sharply. “I had to go on live TV to tell the world you were still breathing. And let me tell you, Blaine — after the shitstorm you started, I’m not entirely sure how long that’s going to remain true. If the overdose didn’t kill you, I might.”

Brad shot him a warning look.

Stan didn’t back down. “Don’t worry. I won’t. I respect the work you Gods in white do too much. But Jesus, man — you put me in a position where I had to reassure millions of people you weren’t a corpse when I wasn’t even sure yet that you weren’t just gonna clock out anyway!”

Blaine stared at him, throat tight.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Meaning doesn’t matter,” Stan snapped. “Reality does. And the reality is: you’re not going back on tour.”

Blaine’s head jerked up. “The fuck I’m not—”

“You’re not,” Stan said. “You’re going to rehab.”

Blaine’s breath hitched. “I already said I’d do rehab. I fucking meant it. But let me finish the last three shows. They’re the end of the leg anyway—Thanksgiving break, Christmas, New Year’s. I’ll go in right after. I’ll stay as long as they want. Just… don’t pull the plug on everything yet.”

Stan stared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Brad stood.

The air changed.

Brad didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Blaine,” he said, “you already pulled the plug on yourself.”

Blaine swallowed.

“You’re not finishing the leg,” Brad continued. “You’re not stepping on a stage. You’re not going back to your hotel, your bus, your crew, or your fans.”

He stepped closer, voice low, controlled, surgical.

“You’re going to rehab the moment you’re stable enough to leave this hospital. And you are leaving this hospital only long enough to get into a rehab facility. We can use one here, or one closer to home if you’re stable enough to fly — but there will be no detours. No stops. No visits. No goodbyes.”

Blaine stared at him, stunned.

Brad didn’t blink.

“Hospital discharge means rehab check‑in. That’s the deal. That’s the only deal.”

He paused.

“And if you fight me on this, I will make sure you never see Lauren or the boys until you complete the program. I’m not negotiating with you. I’m protecting my daughter and my grandsons.”

Blaine’s voice cracked. “Brad—”

“You overdosed,” Brad said. “You relapsed on alcohol. You’ve been using for months. You cheated on my daughter. You contracted Chlamydia. And you nearly died in front of cameras.”

Blaine felt the words like punches.

Stan blinked. “Chlamydia? Fucking hell, what’s next?! The plagues? Water turning to blood? Locusts? Frogs falling from the damn sky? Because at this point, Blaine, I’m not convinced you’re not trying to reenact the Old Testament. I didn’t even know that shit was still around.”

He threw his hands up. “PR is gonna kick my ass if this comes out. Sure, they can spin your tall, dark, handsome bad‑boy rocker image — the mouth like your dad, may he rest in peace — the drunkfests, the paparazzi scuffles, the occasional ‘oops, he partied too hard’ headline. Hell, even a little cocaine is practically a personality trait in this industry.”

He leaned forward, eyes wild.

“But how the hell are we supposed to sell a sex god who’s riddled with STDs? HUH?! That’s not edgy, Blaine — that’s just nasty. Sex sells in this industry, we are selling you as much as we are selling your music, but nobody wants to fantasize about a walking clinic brochure!”

Brad shot him a look.

Stan didn’t stop. “Seriously — every time my phone buzzes, I’m expecting a headline about the part of the country being swallowed by darkness because you decided to take a nap in an ambulance.”

Blaine’s stomach dropped. His vision blurred.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, Stan … Brad, I—”

Brad didn’t flinch at Stan’s outburst. He let it burn itself out, then spoke with the calm authority of a man who had run hospitals, saved lives, and buried people he loved.

“Don’t lie again Blaine,” Brad said. “Don’t minimize. Don’t bargain. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Blaine swallowed hard. “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. I’ll go to rehab. I’ll do whatever Lauren wants. Just—just let me see her.”

Brad’s jaw tightened. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

The words hit harder than the overdose.

Blaine’s breath stuttered. “She—she said that?”

“She said,” Brad replied, “that she loves you. And that she can’t be near you right now. And that she won’t bring the boys anywhere near you until you’re sober. And if any of that genuinely surprises you, then you are an even bigger idiot than I think you are.”

Blaine felt something inside him crack.

Stan looked away, uncomfortable.

Brad didn’t.

“You see, Stan,” Brad said, “we’re dealing with something far more important than PR here. No offense to the work you do — you’re excellent at it — but in my family the hierarchy has always been family first, career second. Ask anyone. The Cunninghams take their careers, especially our family business, very seriously. But family has always been paramount.”

He turned to Blaine.

“And on that note, you’re going to rehab.”

Blaine opened his mouth, but Brad raised a hand — not to silence him, but to remind him who held the reins now.

“Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now. There won’t be any statements, no press conferences, not meet and greets and you certainly will not be finishing the tour. You will go straight to rehab, and that is the end of it.”

Blaine swallowed hard. “I… I need her.”

Brad’s voice softened—barely. “She needed you. So she came to see you. And you did all this.”

The door opened again.

Lauren stood there.

She looked steadier than before—but only barely. Her eyes were swollen, her curls pulled back, her posture straight but fragile. She held onto the doorframe like she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her.

Brad moved toward her. “Lauren—”

“I’m okay, Dad,” she whispered.

Her eyes found Blaine.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

She stepped inside slowly, each movement careful, controlled. She stopped at the foot of his bed.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Blaine’s throat closed. “Laur…”

She held up a hand. “Don’t. I can’t… I can’t do the crying again.”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

She looked at him—really looked—and he saw everything in her eyes: love, fear, heartbreak, disappointment, exhaustion.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she said. “I need you alive. The boys need you alive.”

He nodded again, tears burning.

“But I can’t be with you right now,” she said. “I can’t trust you. I can’t bring the boys near you. I can’t keep pretending everything is fine. We all need a break.”

“Laur, please—”

“You’re going to rehab,” she said. “You are done touring, and you are not coming home right now.”

The words shattered him.

He reached for her—instinct, desperation—but she stepped back.

“I love you,” she whispered. “But I have to protect our children. I don’t know if I can forgive you yet, but if you do not go to rehab, and mean it, really try, then you can forget all about us and our marriage. I am this close to calling an attorney right now. If it weren’t for our children, I might have already.”

He broke.

Right there in the bed, he broke—sobbing, shaking, choking on apologies that didn’t matter anymore.

Lauren turned toward the door, tears spilling.

She paused.

Her hand tightened on the frame.

She didn’t look back at first. When she did, her voice was barely a whisper.

“I wasn’t going to tell you yet,” she said. “I didn’t want to add anything else to this.”

Blaine froze.

Lauren swallowed hard, eyes shining.

“But you need to know why I can’t deal … why I can’t do this with you right now.”

She took a breath that trembled all the way through her.

“Blaine… I’m pregnant.”

The room went silent.

Brad closed his eyes.

Stan’s mouth fell open.

Blaine felt the world tilt under him, felt his heart stop and restart in a single violent beat.

Lauren’s tears spilled again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t… I can’t do this with you until you’re better.”

She turned and walked out.

The door closed behind her.

And Blaine lay there, shaking, the monitors beeping steadily beside him—the only proof he was still alive.

Rehab

He hated the place the moment he saw it.

Not because it was ugly — God, no. The facility looked like a luxury resort someone had accidentally stocked with broken people. Glass walls, warm wood, soft lighting, private suites with ocean views. A chef who plated meals like magazine covers. A meditation garden with koi ponds. A gym nicer than any hotel he’d ever stayed in. A music room with instruments he wasn’t allowed to touch yet.

He wasn’t allowed his phone. Or any phone. Or computers. TV was only permitted in controlled group settings with attendants present.

It was rehab for the rich and famous. Rehab for people whose names were whispered. Rehab for people who had fucked up loudly.

He fit right in.

And he hated that too.

The staff were calm — too calm. They spoke in soft voices, like he was a skittish animal. They didn’t react when he cursed. They didn’t react when he cried. They didn’t react when he hid in his room with the blanket over his head like a child.

They just kept showing up.

“Group therapy at nine, Blaine.”

“No.”

“You still have to come.”

“Fuck off.”

“Breakfast is at eight.”

“Not hungry.”

“You still have to come.”

He dragged himself through the schedule like a ghost. Detox had already hit him hard in the hospital, but the emotional crash was worse here. He felt hollow. Exposed. Like everyone could see the rot inside him.

Detox had been its own kind of hell — not cinematic, not dramatic, just relentless. The heroin withdrawal came first: the shaking, the sweating, the bone‑deep ache that made him curl into himself like a wounded animal. His skin crawled. His legs kicked uncontrollably. He cried without meaning to. He begged without remembering what he said.

Then came the alcohol withdrawal — the dangerous part. The part the doctors watched like hawks.

He hallucinated. Saw shadows that weren’t there. Heard voices he couldn’t place. His heart raced so fast the monitor shrieked. His hands trembled so violently he couldn’t hold a cup of water.

They gave him medication to keep him from seizing. Kept the lights low. Spoke softly. Didn’t leave him alone for more than a minute.

He wasn’t tied down — that was Hollywood nonsense — but there were moments he wished someone would hold him still, because his own body felt like a cage he couldn’t escape.

By the time the worst passed, he felt scraped out. Empty. Raw. Like someone had taken sandpaper to his nerves.

And that was before rehab even began.

The other patients were a mix of celebrities, CEOs, influencers, and people whose faces he recognized from tabloids. A washed‑up actor who kept shaking. A model who cried whenever someone mentioned food. A tech billionaire who stared at the floor like it was the only thing holding him together.

They all looked at him with the same expression: Oh. You’re one of us.

He hated that most of all.

He kept trying to hide — hood up, sunglasses on, sitting in the back of group sessions, answering questions with shrugs or profanity. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to be here.

He wanted Lauren. He wanted the boys. He wanted his life back.

But every time he thought about her face in that hospital room, the way she’d said I’m pregnant, something inside him twisted so violently he felt sick.

He’d ruined everything. He’d ruined her. He’d ruined their family.

And now he was stuck here, in a place where everyone was broken in their own expensive way.

He was sitting in the lounge area, staring at a cup of herbal tea he didn’t want, when an attendant approached.

“Blaine? You have a visitor.”

He didn’t look up. “Stan again?”

Stan had come twice already — damage control, tour fallout, insurance negotiations. Blaine barely listened. He just nodded, signed whatever was put in front of him, and went back to staring at walls.

“Come on,” the attendant said. “Just follow me.”

He stood automatically, shuffling behind the attendant like a sleepwalker. His slippers scuffed against the polished floor. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.

They reached the visitation room. The attendant opened the door.

Blaine stepped inside—

—and froze.

Lauren sat at the table.

She had a coat draped over her shoulders, hair pulled back, eyes tired in a way he’d never seen on her. And beneath the coat, when she shifted, he saw it — a small, unmistakable curve at her lower belly. Not big. Not dramatic. But real. A third‑pregnancy curve. His baby.

He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t move for half a second.

Then he nearly ran to her.

He wrapped his arms around her so tight the attendant cleared his throat sharply.

“Blaine — Mr. Cameron — please, no physical contact until—”

“Fuck off,” Blaine snapped without looking. “It’s my wife. Don’t tell me I can’t hug my own wife.”

Lauren didn’t pull away. She held him — soft, trembling — her face pressed against his shoulder. He felt her breath hitch. Her fingers curl into his shirt. Everything he’d been missing for months.

He didn’t let go until she gently pushed at his chest.

“Sit,” she whispered.

He sat. She sat.

She slid a small envelope across the table.

“I thought you might like these,” she said softly. “You can keep them. We went to the beach the other day.”

He opened it with shaking hands.

Photos. The boys.

His heart cracked open.

“None of you?” he asked quietly.

She tilted her head, shaking it. “Blaine, we went over this. We both need a break from each other.”

He swallowed hard. His eyes drifted — involuntarily — to her belly.

“Were you serious… about being pregnant again?”

Her eyes flashed — hurt, disbelief, exhaustion. “Do you think I would joke about something like this, Blaine? Do you know me at all?”

He closed his eyes. “How far along?”

“Must have happened just before you left for the tour,” she said. “So… just over two months. Around nine weeks, to be exact.”

She reached into her bag and slid another photo across the table.

An ultrasound.

He stared at it.

His hand moved — instinct — toward her belly. He stopped himself halfway, unsure, afraid.

Lauren looked at him for a long moment.

Then she took his hand and placed it gently over the small curve.

He inhaled sharply.

She rested her hand over his, holding it there.

For a moment, the world stopped.

“Do you know the gender?” he whispered.

She gave him that look wives give when husbands ask a stupid question they should know better than to ask.

“Blaine, that’s not until at least the three‑ or four‑month mark. We’ve been through this twice. It’s a healthy baby. That’s all we know.”

“Right. I remember. Sorry. My brain is not thriving here. Nor am I. I wanna come home.”

“Blaine…”

“Please, baby. You’re a doctor. You can rehab me at home. I’ll be good. I’ll do everything you tell me to.”

“Blaine, I am a working woman. I have a demanding career, and I am a mother of two very small children.” She stopped, inhaled, looked down, then pulled something else from her bag. A large envelope. She paused, then placed it on the table and slid it toward him.

He watched her, looked at it, then at her.

“What is this?” His hands reached, fingertips brushing the edges.

“Divorce papers.”

His hands jerked away as if burned. Panic rising.

“No. No, Lauren, no.”

It felt like watching the ending credits of the movie of their life together — except his name wasn’t listed anymore. He wasn’t part of the cast. He wasn’t part of the story. He wasn’t part of the future.

Panic clawed up his throat.

“Lauren,” he whispered. “Please. I beg you. I will do anything and everything for one more chance. Please, baby, you know I love you. Whatever else happened was meaningless. It was my feelings being too loud and me trying to quiet them. I didn’t know I could miss you and the boys so much. It was killing me.”

She looked away, blinking fast.

She was affected. She was hurting. She was not ready to pull the plug. He could see it. He could feel it.

But she didn’t say it.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “Aren’t I?”

He nodded, tears spilling. “You are. Thank you, baby. This is hard. This place looks great, but it is driving me insane. I want out of here so bad, but I am staying, I am trying, all those really stupid things they make us do, I am doing them. For you. For the boys. For us. For the unborn baby. Please, baby, do not give up on me now. I am begging. On my knees begging.”

He slid off the chair, dropping to his knees in front of her, holding her hands, forehead pressed to her fingers.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t leave me.”

Lauren gasped softly, tears spilling down her cheeks. She slid off her chair too, kneeling with him on the floor. She pulled her hands free only to wrap her arms around him, holding him tight, both of them crying into each other’s shoulders.

For the first time since the overdose, Blaine felt something break open inside him — not panic, not fear, not guilt.

Hope.

Small. Fragile. But real.

And he held onto her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.

Visitation

They let them walk.

It wasn’t the first time Lauren had come — the staff knew her now. Brad’s daughter. A doctor. Calm, composed, respected. And Blaine, despite everything, had been compliant, quiet, never a flight risk. So when she asked if they could walk the grounds, the attendant hesitated only a moment before nodding.

“Stay within the marked paths,” the attendant said. “No secluded areas. If anything feels off, come straight back.”

Lauren nodded. “Thank you.”

Blaine didn’t speak.

They stepped onto the gravel path, the ocean wind tugging at Lauren’s hair, carrying salt and eucalyptus. Blaine kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, head down — a man trying to make himself smaller.

A breeze swept across the path. Lauren shivered.

“You cold?” Blaine asked quietly. “Want my hoodie?”

She glanced at him. “And then you freeze?”

He shrugged. “I deserve it.”

“I won’t argue with you,” she said softly. “But no. I’m okay. Just a chill.”

He reached for her hand — instinct, longing — but she pulled away instantly.

The rejection hit like a physical blow. He swallowed. “Sorry.”

They walked a few more steps before Lauren stopped abruptly and turned to him.

“Blaine,” she said, her voice steady but trembling underneath, “I need answers.”

His stomach dropped. “Okay,” he whispered.

“How many times?” she asked.

He blinked. “Lauren—”

“How many times did you cheat on me?” she pressed. “You want me to not divorce you, even though I know I should? Then this is what it takes. Complete honesty. The moment I sense smoke and mirrors, I’m leaving. And I won’t be back. When you get out, you can check when your court date is.”

He raised his hands. “Okay. Okay. Anything you want to know.”

“Alright,” she said. “How many times?”

He felt the question like a blade. “I… I don’t know.”

Her jaw tightened. “You don’t know? Wow. That many?”

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t know how many. They were… nameless. Faceless. I don’t think I ever knew their names. I don’t remember their faces. I don’t remember anything. I don’t even know where they came from. I wasn’t—” He swallowed hard. “I wasn’t present. I wasn’t myself.”

She looked sick.

He looked worse.

“Did this happen before the tour?” she asked.

“No. Not once,” he said. “At first I was okay — just exhausted after each concert. Then I got into my head and couldn’t find my way out. I did anything to dull the pain.”

“Like the whiskey?” Lauren asked. “After everything we went through to get you off it before the tour?”

He winced. “Yeah. Like the whiskey. I thought I could handle it. I thought one drink would calm me down. I thought I was stronger than I was. I was wrong. I got too drunk and it happened. The… women.”

“And the heroin?” Her voice cracked. “Why that?”

He flinched. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t seek it out. I felt so guilty about the whiskey and the… other stuff. Someone offered it backstage after a show. I was exhausted. I was spiraling. I said yes. And then I kept saying yes.”

Lauren’s eyes burned. “You injected it and didn’t even second‑guess it. Not one thought wasted on me or our sons.”

He nodded, shame flooding him. “It’s not like that. You don’t think like that. That’s what makes the addiction so bad.”

“How many times before you overdosed?” she demanded. “And don’t lie — I already know this wasn’t new.”

“I’d been on it for about… I don’t know. Month and a half.”

She inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. “And you contracted chlamydia. What sort of whores have you been sleeping with?”

He swallowed. “The kind who want a married, strung‑out, sweaty, drunk rock musician. Low‑hanging‑fruit groupies. I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

She didn’t ask anything else. She didn’t need to.

He nodded, throat tight. “They said the treatment worked. It’s gone.”

“Yeah, I know,” she whispered. “That’s not the point. If all this hadn’t happened, you would have come home to me and given it to me — and to our unborn child, Blaine.”

He lowered his head, shame crushing him. “I know.”

Lauren looked away, blinking fast. “I don’t understand how you could do this to us. I thought you loved me as much as I love you. I thought family was all you wanted. That’s what you kept saying — a big, happy family, close‑knit, always there for each other. You think doing what you did gets us anywhere near that?”

He opened his mouth — then closed it. There was no excuse. No explanation that didn’t sound pathetic.

His hands shook as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. He lit it with trembling fingers, inhaling like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Lauren stared at him.

Then she moved.

Fast.

She snatched the cigarette from his hand, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under her heel. Before he could react, she reached into his pocket, grabbed the pack, and shredded it in her fist.

“Are you kidding me?” she snapped — the first time he’d heard her raise her voice in months. “You’re in rehab, Blaine. Rehab. And you’re still reaching for something to numb yourself? I hate smoking. I hate it even more that you do it. Quit this.”

He stared at her, stunned.

She wasn’t calm. She wasn’t composed. She wasn’t gentle.

She was furious.

And she was right.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She shook her head, tears spilling. “I don’t want sorry. I want you to stop destroying yourself. I want you to stop destroying us. What are you doing, Blaine? It’s like you can’t wait to die — one coffin nail at a time. Liquid, fuming, injectable, and fuckable. Seriously?”

He froze. Lauren didn’t curse. Especially not like that.

He stepped closer — slowly, carefully.

“Lauren,” he whispered. “I’m not asking you to forgive me today. I’m asking you to let me keep trying. To let me earn my way back. To let me prove I can be the man you married.”

“I don’t even know who that man is,” she said. “I thought I did, but clearly — CLEARLY — I couldn’t have been more wrong. That’s why the divorce. I keep finding more awful things. It’s one step forward and two back with you. That’s not grounds for a healthy family. That’s how you screw our kids up for life — and their mother. I’ve had it with you, Blaine. Up to HERE.”

He grabbed her and pulled her close. She fought him — briefly — then sagged against him, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him tighter as both of them cried.

“I hate how much I still love you,” she whispered.

“And I love you more than ever because you don’t hate me,” he said. “I know I gave you plenty of reason.”

Eventually she pulled away, inhaled, wiped her eyes, then looked at him, swallowing.

“Promise me.”

“Always and forever, babe,” he whispered. “I will get better. I will be better. I will be the husband you want and deserve — and the father our boys need.”

“Boys and girl,” she corrected softly.

“I thought you didn’t know the gender.”

“I don’t. Nobody does. But I gave you two boys — can this one please finally be a mini‑me?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. She smiled.

And for the first time in months, something warm flickered between them — small, fragile, but real.

The divorce papers didn’t come up again. And Lauren visited several more times.