Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] The flight back feels like time travel. Not the physics kind-the psychological kind where you shed identities with each passing mile. Jasmine-the-songwriter who sang karaoke with a man whose eyes saw her dissolves somewhere over Tennessee. Jasmine-the-producer who received career offers evaporates crossing into home airspace. By the time we land, I'm just Mommy again. Just the woman who holds everything together while slowly coming apart. The girls attack me at arrivals.

Twin missiles of need and accusation, small bodies slamming into my legs with enough force to make me stumble. They're crying-both of them, tears and snot and desperate clinging that makes breathing difficult. Zoe wraps around my leg, won't let go. Chloe buries her face in my stomach, fists grabbing my shirt with white-knuckled intensity. "You left us," Zoe sobs, and the accusation lands with devastating accuracy. "I'm back now, babies. I'm right here." The words taste like lies even though they're technically true. I'm here physically.

But part of me is still in Nashville, still feeling the ghost of Elijah's arms around me, still hearing his voice saying I'm more than a mother. Liam appears over their heads. He looks exhausted-hair disheveled, circles under his eyes, shirt wrinkled in ways his shirts never wrinkle. But there's relief in his expression when our eyes meet, something that might be desperation underneath. He scoops me up after the girls release me, kisses me hard enough to bruise. Public display that makes other travelers avert their eyes, but he doesn't care.

Just holds my face and kisses me with the kind of intensity that comes from three days of absence and the terror of permanent loss. "Don't ever leave that long again." Not a request. A demand wrapped in need. "I won't." Another lie, because Capitol Records wants to fly me to LA next month and I'm already mentally calculating whether I can say yes. Home smells like chaos. The particular scent of domestic disaster-laundry piled on every surface, dishes breeding in the sink, something vaguely organic rotting somewhere I can't immediately identify.

The house that usually runs with my obsessive organization has devolved into evidence that three highly competent men become helpless without my constant management. "We survived," Finn announces with the pride of someone who's completed an impossible mission. "But barely." Asher appears from the kitchen, still in scrubs from what must have been a shift straight from hell. He looks at me with exhaustion so profound it's almost physical. "I have new respect for what you do daily." The admission should feel vindicating. Should prove I'm essential, necessary, can't be replaced.

Instead, it just settles with the weight of resumed obligation. Of sliding back into the role that requires constant vigilance and leaves no room for the woman who emerged in Nashville. That night, they're suddenly present in ways they haven't been in months. All three of them focused on me with laser intensity, trying to prove something. Trying to demonstrate they can be what I need if I'll just stop drifting away. Liam runs a bath.

Not just filling the tub but adding the expensive salts I save for special occasions, lighting candles, creating atmosphere I didn't request but apparently require. He washes my hair with gentle hands, fingers working through tangles with the kind of focused attention he usually reserves for contract negotiations. "Missed this." His voice is low, intimate, breath warm against my ear. "Missed taking care of you." Asher massages my feet while I soak. His hands finding pressure points with clinical precision, working out knots I didn't know existed. The touch should be relaxing.

Should make me melt into gratitude for partners who notice I need care. Instead, my muscles stay rigid, unable to surrender to the attention. Finn brings tea. My favorite blend, prepared exactly how I like it. Sets it on the tub edge with a smile that's trying too hard to be casual. They're trying to prove they can be what I need. That three days of absence made them realize how close they came to losing me. That attention and care can paper over months of benign neglect. It's sweet. Genuinely sweet in ways that make my throat tight. It's also suffocating.

Their hovering presence, their determined care-taking, the way they're trying to make up for months of distance in one evening-it presses down with claustrophobic intensity. I want to scream at them to give me space. To stop performing attentiveness that feels more like guilt than genuine connection. But I don't. Just smile and say thank you and let them orchestrate this performance of devotion while I mentally catalog all the ways it feels wrong. Later, dried and dressed in pajamas someone laid out, we gather in the living room. They want to hear everything about Nashville.

Lean forward with genuine interest, asking questions about panels and networking and whether the trip met expectations. I tell them. Mostly truth. The panel went well, I received multiple commissioned work offers, people were interested in my production approach. All facts. All accurate. I'm just careful about which facts to share. I don't mention Elijah's name specifically. Say I made "industry connections" that could lead to collaborations. Say I met producers and songwriters interested in my work. Technically not lies. Technically truth filtered through strategic omission.

"That's amazing, Jazz." Liam pulls me closer, pride evident in his voice. "I told you. You're incredible." Technically. The word echoes in my head. Technically not a lie. Technically just protecting them from information that would complicate without adding value. Technically the first step toward building walls between what they know and what I'm hiding. "Did you sing karaoke?" Chloe asks from where she's coloring on the floor, voice casual, question devastating. My stomach drops. Ice floods my veins, pulse spiking with the particular terror of exposure. How does she know? Did I mention it?

Did I somehow give away- "Daddy Liam said you went to a singing bar." She's not even looking at me, focused on her drawing, completely unaware she just detonated a bomb. Relief and guilt hit simultaneously. Liam must have mentioned the conference had karaoke, innocuous detail that means nothing to him but everything to me. She doesn't know about Elijah. Doesn't know about duets and lingering hugs and connections that felt too significant to be innocent. "Oh. Yes. The conference had a karaoke night." My voice stays steady through the performance. "Very professional. Very boring." Lies.

Layering lies on omissions on half-truths, building architecture of deception one brick at a time. Zoe hasn't left my side since we got home. She's attached to me with barnacle-level commitment, following from room to room, crying when I try to use the bathroom alone. Five years old and regressing to toddler attachment issues because three days of absence convinced her abandonment is imminent. "Mommy, don't go away again." She's in my lap now, thumb in her mouth, something she hasn't done in months.

"Promise." "I promise, sweet girl." Another lie, because Capitol Records wants me in LA and I'm going to say yes. Going to choose myself over her need for constant presence, and the guilt of that intention makes breathing difficult. That night, I lie in our bed with all three men arranged around me. Liam on my left, solid and warm, one arm thrown possessively across my waist. Asher on my right, his breathing already evening into sleep. Finn at my back, pressed close, his presence usually comforting but tonight just suffocating. The bed that used to feel full now feels crowded. Claustrophobic.

Too many bodies, too much heat, too many needs pressing in from all directions. I can't move without disturbing someone. Can't breathe without inhaling someone else's exhale. Can't exist without being aware of how I'm taking up space in ways that impact everyone else. I lie awake. Count ceiling imperfections. Try to calm racing pulse that won't settle. And I'm missing the hotel silence. Missing the empty bed and the freedom to spread out without consideration. Missing the person I was allowed to be for three days-separate, autonomous, Jasmine instead of Mommy-Jazz-partner-glue.

I hate myself for missing it. Hate that I'm lying in bed with three men who love me, who just spent an evening proving devotion, and all I can think about is the relief of being alone. About Elijah's eyes. About the particular freedom of existing without constant awareness of everyone else's needs pressing down. What's wrong with me? The question loops endlessly. What kind of mother misses hotel rooms more than her children? What kind of partner lies surrounded by love and feels only the walls closing in? What kind of woman comes home from three days away and immediately wants to leave again?

Liam's arm tightens around my waist. Asher shifts closer in his sleep. Finn's breath is warm against my neck. They're here. Present. Trying. Everything I claimed I needed for months. And all I can think about is how desperately I want them to let me go. Virgin Dot Com