From months of experience, I know she’s kicking off her roper boots and slipping into the rhinestone ones.
“Every idea I gave him, he stole—just twisted enough to make it seem like he was this visionary genius. Everything I did was ‘too rough.’ But it was all me. He stole my look, my mannerisms?—”
“The way you hold your arm over your head!” she interrupts, and I glance behind me to see her eyes go wide. “The way you always wear a white T-shirt! Your freaking hair color!”
“Exactly.” I force a humorless chuckle. “He said we’d be opposites, but instead, he was in the spotlight and I was always hiding. He couldn’t let me be seen as the brains behind anything, couldn’t let people know all our songs were written by me. Even our tattoos …”
“Hegot the fermata! He was waiting. Plotting, even then.”
“Exactly. I’ll never know for sure, but I think he’s the one who slipped something into my drink the night of the accident.” My throat tightens around the words. “I bet he was hoping my laptop would be destroyed. And it was. He just didn’t know about the backup flash drive.”
“Oh, Patty,” she says, heartbreak woven through every syllable.
She’s in full wardrobe now, and it’s time for her to take the piano. But as she rushes by, she doesn’t blow me a kiss or flash me a playful smirk.
She just looks at me.
A soft, piercing, devastating look that cuts cleaner than a blade.
And then she’s gone.
But right before she steps onto the stage, the record exec grabs her arm.
I can’t hear what she’s saying, but the woman is pointing toward the opposite side of the stage, gesturing?—
And then Lou’s icy blue eyes meet mine.
My stomach plummets.
I know what this is about.
My blood feels sluggish, like my poor, battered heart can’t pump hard enough to keep the blood moving.
I watch her take the stage, watch as the fire in her eyes burns hotter, stronger. The first note rings out, sending a hush over the audience. She plays the piano like it’s an extension of herself, her fingers moving with fierce precision, weaving delicate arpeggios into thunderous chords as she layers the melody with depth and heartache. Her voice carries each note to the heavens, lingering in the air like smoke. The crowd is mesmerized, hanging on every keystroke, every flicker of emotion that flashes across her face.
And when the final note fades and the crowd erupts in a thunderous ovation, she straightens. “Now it’s my turn to tell you something,” she tells me on our private line, speaking clearly into the headset mic. “And I hope you’ll understand.
“I’m going to kiss Connor Nash.”
The strength drains from my body, my muscles and sinews stripped of power as I watch.
Nash enters from the opposite side of the stage, holding another bouquet of roses—not daffodils—his face so angelic and sincere, no one but me can see the smugness underneath. It’s a winner’s smile. The guy always gets what he wants, and whether he actually cares about Lou or just the publicity, he wants her.
Who wouldn’t?
Lou is standing in the middle of the stage in that black ball gown that shimmers like liquid ink, penning lyrics of hope and heartbreak with every swish. She’s dazzling, and I’m watching her slip through my fingers.
And it’s killing me.
Lou fought against it, but I understand why she’s done fighting now. The label pressure coupled with Nash’s full court press after what must feel like intense betrayal on my part? What else could I expect but her going along with the “golden couple” angle?
What else couldIexpect?
This will be great for both their careers. It will cement them in the highest echelons of stardom.
The feeling I’ve had since I met her—of my heart cracking open—returns in full force.
Except now, I’m bleeding out.
