The studio smelled like an expensive vanilla diffuser, something inexplicably sterile, and vodka – coming off Travis’ half-conscious body in waves. Minimalist posters bearing the emblem of Bad Luck – the legendary rock magazine of every single fucked-up generation – hung on the walls like battle flags.

If someone had told Joel months ago that he and his band would be gracing the cover, he would have pissed himself with joy. But now? Now it felt like his soul was being scraped with rusty nails.

He sat in the black makeup chair, tilting his face upward as the sweet makeup artist gently brushed a large powder brush across his cheekbones, murmuring about "enhancing their definition." But Joel was scowling. Because what he had been hearing for the last ten minutes? It was pissing him the fuck off.

"Take off the necklace, buddy." Leon, the photographer, sounded like he was seconds away from dropping to his knees.

"No."

Jennifer, sprawled out on a chair across the room flipping lazily through a magazine, let out an amused hum. "Oh, come on, Joel. It's just for the shoot. What? Afraid she'll have a heart attack if you take off the chain?" She especially emphasized the last word like it was dripping with poisonous sarcasm.

Travis lifted his black sunglasses, covering half of his face. His eyes looked like he'd been snorting and fuck all night – which he probably had – and clicked his tongue. "You're acting like a real dick right now. You're our frontman, not a fucking pussy."

Eric sipped his coffee, side-eying the bassist and guitarist. "How about you two go fuck yourselves? You know how much that necklace means to Joel. That 'it doesn't fit the aesthetic' bullshit can take a trip straight up my fat ass and die there."

Leon sighed, leaning against the vanity. "Joel, listen. We can't keep the necklace in. It doesn't match the outfit – either you take it off now, or we Photoshop it out later. The only thing at stake here is your stubbornness."

Joel's tattooed fingers instinctively went to the lock resting against his throat, rolling it between them. The weight, the worn edges – it was all so familiar. A promise of forever with his wife. When he proposed, instead of a ring, he gave her a chain with a lock – and only she had the key. He had bowed his head so she could clasp it around his neck, whispering, "Until you decide to take it off yourself, I'm yours forever. My heart's in your hands, baby. Forever."

And that's exactly how it was. She was the missing half of his heart – the woman he would walk through hell for and come back again. They'd been together for ages – high school sweethearts turned married couple. He carried her love like a fucking treasure.

"The necklace stays." he stubbornly said, leaning back against the chair.

The photoshoot was like a suffocating hell. That was a slight exaggeration – in reality, everything would have been fine if not for the request about the necklace and damn Jennifer. She stuck to Joel like a leech – hanging on his waist, resting her head on his shoulder, and constantly touching.

Joel kept asking to switch poses, but Leon only shook his head with an infuriating "The chemistry is insane!" or "Fans are gonna eat this up!" or worst of all – "Are you nuts? Everyone's been waiting for this!"

Joel felt like his soul was being sucked out by a fucking dementor.

Sighing, he pushed open the door to their home, shrugging off his coat and tossing it into the closet before trudging toward the kitchen.

"Fuck, I need to wash this day off." He muttered under his breath, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the cabinet, pouring it into a glass with a splash of orange juice.

His wife was home – he saw her phone sitting on the counter. But...it wasn't locked. The screen was still lit up like it had been placed there just moments ago. He frowned and looked closer. And – fuuuuck. The latest photos from the shoot had already hit the internet – racking up likes, comments flooding in under the godforsaken "Joelifer" ship tag. He knew they'd photoshop his necklace out and was "kind of" prepared, but it still cut deep. And all that crap with Jennifer clinging to him... It looked very shitty. He took a few sips and, picking up her phone from the counter, walked into the living room.

"Baby... Baby, I know how this looks." His voice was already heavy with guilt. "Please – let me explain this shit. I feel fucking awful."