Page 11 of Spotlight Hearts

Maybe I should’ve crashed with them this stop. Skipped the family detour. But we’re in L.A., and Mom texted three times this morning since I left: Dinner at home? Your dad’s firing up the grill. Like I could say no without the guilt trip.

Traffic’s light for once—perk of rehearsing mid-day. I crank the radio in the car my dad loaned me, some throwback station blasting 90s grunge that sounds too much like Dad’s old hits. By the time I pull into the gated driveway of the house in the Hills—big, sprawling, with the infinity pool overlooking the city—I’m already second-guessing staying another night. The place screams success: Dad’s gold records framed in the foyer, Mom’s garden bursting with roses she tends as if it’s therapy. It’s home. It’s also a reminder of how hard I have to work to get out of his spotlight and into my own.

I park next to Whitney’s car—she beat me here, probably straight from whatever audition she had today. The front door’s unlocked, voices floating from the backyard: Mom’s laugh, Dad’s booming baritone, Whitney’s higher pitch chiming in.

I step through the kitchen—marble counters, always spotless thanks to Nancy, our housekeeper—and out onto the patio. The grill’s smoking, steaks sizzling. Dad’s in his element: faded band tee, jeans, flip-flops, tongs in hand like a scepter. Mom’s setting the table, her hair tied back, smiling at something Whitney said. Whit’s curled up on the lounge chair, glass of wine in hand, looking every bit the girl-next-door-turned-aspiring-actress.

“There he is!” Dad calls, spotting me first. “The prodigal son returns. How was rehearsal, kid?”

I force a smile, dropping my bag by the door. “Solid. We’re tightening up for the next leg.”

Whitney uncurls, padding over in bare feet to wrap her arms around my waist from behind. “Hey, stranger.” She presses a kiss to my shoulder blade, all cuddly and sweet. It’s her thing—clinging like we’re still in high school, like nothing’s changed. She does it every time we make up.

I turn, kiss the top of her head. “Hey. You get here early?”

“Traffic was a dream,” she says, tilting her face up for a real kiss. I oblige—quick, familiar. But my mind’s still stuck on rehearsal, on Kai’s glare when I took that sucker from his mouth, the way his breath hitched just a fraction.

Mom waves me over. “Sit, Luca. You look exhausted. Wine? Water?”

“Water’s good.” I sink into a chair, stretching my legs. Whitney perches on the armrest beside me, her hand playing with the hair at my nape. It’s nice. Comforting. But tonight, it feels…off. Like she’s trying too hard, or maybe I am.

Dad flips a steak, the sizzle filling the air. “So, tell me about this tour. Numbers holding up? Fans still screaming your name like they did mine back in ‘95?”

There it is. The casual prod. Dad’s always been supportive—hell, he’s the reason I picked up a guitar at three—but there’s this undercurrent. Like he’s waiting for me to prove I’m not just riding his coattails. “Yeah, crowds are wild. We’re adding dates in Europe.”

He nods, but his eyes sharpen. “Good. Keep earning it. Fame’s a fickle bitch—gives it easy, takes it easier. Remember that demo you sent me last year? Solid stuff. But you gotta push harder than that. No one hands you the spotlight twice.”

I swallow, nodding as though the reminder that I’m where I’m at now because of him doesn’t sting. “I know, Dad.”

Whitney squeezes my shoulder. “He’s killing it. You should see the clips from last night. Trending everywhere.”

Mom chimes in, bless her. “We’re proud of you, honey. Both of us are.” She shoots Dad a look—the one that says ease up.

But he’s not wrong. I grew up watching him command stages, sell out stadiums. When Eclipse scouted me, it wasn’t just my talent—it was the name. Clark. Doors opened before I knocked. And every late arrival, every casual grin, feels like I’m proving the critics right: the nepotism kid who doesn’t have to try.

I think about the guys back at the hotel. Michael ribbing me without the weight of legacy. Min-ho’s quiet focus. Even Kai—grinding like his life depends on it, no safety net. Maybe I should’ve stayed there tonight. No expectations. No reminders that I’m still earning my place, one viral moment at a time.

Whitney leans in closer, her breath warm on my ear. “You okay? You seem tense.”

I glance at Dad—still at the grill, humming an old riff—and lower my voice. “Yeah. Just…rehearsal was intense. Harry’s ramping up the fan-service. New choreo.”

Her fingers go still in my hair. “What kind of choreo?”

I hesitate. She’s not gonna like this, it might even start our next break. Still, I open my mouth and tell her. “Throat holds. Pinning. And this sucker thing—Kai unwraps it, holds the stem in his teeth. I…take it from his mouth. Slow. For the fans and cameras.”

Her body goes rigid. “You what?”

“It’s fake, Whit. All of it. Just to sell the Kuca thing.”

She pulls back, eyes narrowing. “Taking candy from his mouth? With your lips? That’s not fan-service—that’s practically making out on stage.”

“Keep your voice down,” I mutter, glancing at my parents. Mom’s pretending not to hear; Dad’s focused on the steaks. “You’re an actress, you know what acting is.”

Whitney crosses her arms, not hearing me apparently as she continues, “You know how this looks. To me. To everyone.”

“It’s the job,” I say, echoing what I told her last night. But it sounds weaker now. “We need the buzz. Band’s slipping without it.”

She scoffs, standing up. “Right. The band. Not like you enjoy it or anything.”