The stadium lights burned hot and golden, washing the crowd in a haze of smoke and neon. Jaxon Creed stood center stage, guitar slung low, his voice a honey-soaked drawl pouring heartbreak into the microphone. To the thousands screaming his name, he was the outlaw sweetheart — the kind of man who sang like every word was meant for them. He tipped his hat, smiled like sin made tender, and the audience roared like thunder. But then his eyes caught on a figure in the front row. A face he hadn’t se...