I lie on my bed and grin, scrolling through our chat history. He sounds exactly the same through text as he does in person. I can almost hear his voice every time I read his messages. Can almost see that dimple in his left cheek. The thought makes my stomach flip.

I sit up in bed. Wait. This could work great as a song lyric. Truthfully, since coming back from Singapore, my free time has been spent texting Alex and daydreaming about Paris Fashion Week rather than songwriting. But now that I know Leah and I are going to be working on a duo album together, I really do have to push myself to try again. There was one song in particular that I think could be great for a sister duet—sweet and full of heart with potential for some killer harmonies.

I open my bedside drawer and pull out my pale blue notebook. As soon as I flip it open, my fingers freeze on the page.

Or at least, what’s left of it.

Someone’s ripped dozens of pages right out of the notebook, leaving nothing but a jagged paper edge. All those lyrics I’ve been working on. Gone. All my outfit sketches. Gone.

I frantically flip through to the remaining pages that are still intact, but find several of them are stuck together. I manage to separate them, only to find that purple nail polish has been spilled all over the paper, so I can’t even read my own handwriting.

Who would do this? The tips of my ears begin to burn in anger. Clutching my notebook, I head out to the living room, where the eight girls are spread out, chatting and scrolling through their phones.

“Guys, who did this?” I demand, holding up the notebook.

The girls glance up.

“What is that, your diary?” Eunji asks, looking back down at her phone.

“It’s my notebook,” I say. “The one I use for sketching and songwriting.”

“It looks fine to me,” Lizzie says.

She’s been making passive-aggressive jabs at me ever since she heard the news about Leah’s and my reality show. I know that would have been a dream project for her and her own sister. But if she’s salty, I’m not the person to take it out on—it was all DB’s decision.

“Really?” I open it up, revealing the ripped and nail polish–stained pages. “This looks fine to you?” I raise an eyebrow at her. Lizzie shrugs and goes back to scrolling through her phone. I’m about to ask the group again—seriously, who would ruin my notebook and what possible reason could they have for doing so? When suddenly, something catches my eye.