Page 23 of Spotlight Hearts

Her voice cracks on the last part. My stomach twists.

I force a breath. “It’s the job. Harry’s pushing the Kuca thing hard. We’re selling the fantasy. That’s literally the point.”

Wrong thing to say.

Her eyes narrow, hurt flashing into anger. “The point? So you’re telling me the whole entire point is to make it look like you’re in love with him? To make me look like the idiot ex who’s still hanging around while you play house with your bandmate?”

“No—that’s not—” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck, Whit, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?” She’s crying now, quiet tears tracking down her cheeks. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re enjoying this way too much. The touches. The whispers. The way you leaned in as if you couldn’t wait to get closer. And I’m just…what? The side piece you call when the cameras aren’t rolling?”

“You’re not a side piece.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “You’re…you’re you. And this is temporary. It’s PR. It’ll die down once the charts stabilize.”

“Temporary,” she repeats, like the word tastes bitter. “That’s what you said last time, too. When the fan-service started ramping up. And now you’re fake-dating him. Holding his lower back. Whispering in his ear. How long is ‘temporary’ supposed to last, Luca?”

I don’t have an answer. Because the truth—the one I’m not ready to say out loud—is that touching Kai last night didn’t feel temporary. It felt electric. Necessary. Like my hand belonged there.

I swallow. “Look…maybe we need a break. For real this time. Until this blows over. I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

She laughs—short and cold. “A break. Right. Because that’s easier than just admitting you like him. That maybe you’ve liked him for a while, and this fake-dating bullshit is just the excuse you needed to get into his pants.”

“That’s not—” I start, but the words die. Because part of me wonders if she’s right. The shower yesterday. The stage last night. The way my pulse jumped when his eyes locked on mine during the sucker pull. The way I almost didn’t want to stop touching him when we climbed into the SUV.

Whitney wipes her face with the back of her hand. “You know what? Fine. Take your break. Take your fake boyfriend. Take whatever the label’s paying you to sell. Just don’t call me when it’s over.”

“Whit—”

She ends the call. Screen goes black. I drop the phone onto the mattress as though it burned me. Stare at the ceiling. Heart hammering.

She’s wrong.

She has to be.

This is just business. Just promotion. Just selling the lust the fans want to see. I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake off the hollow ache in my chest.

But the memory of Kai’s warmth under my palm lingers. The way I could feel his heat through his shirt. The way he looked surprised and flushed when I whispered in his ear. I’d do it again a million times for that reaction alone.

I roll over, bury my face in the pillow again.

Fuck.

Maybe she’s not wrong at all. And that will be a fucking problem, because Kai definitely still hates even the sight of me.

I stay buried under the pillow for another minute, breathing in hotel laundry detergent and my own regret, until a low, sleepy voice cuts through the fabric.

“Bro. You good?”

I freeze. Then slowly lift my head.

Michael’s propped up on one elbow in the other bed, hair sticking up in every direction, phone screen glowing on the bed next to him. He’s not even pretending he wasn’t listening. The room’s small—two queen beds, maybe three feet apart. Of course he heard every word.

I drop the pillow, sit up, and rake a hand through my hair. “How long you been awake?”

“Long enough to know Whitney’s not happy about your new boyfriend.” He smirks, but it’s softer than usual—no real tease behind it. “You okay?”

I force a laugh—short, hollow. “Yeah. Fine. Just…relationship drama. You know how it is.”

Michael studies me for a beat, the glow from his phone lighting half his face. “She sounded pretty hurt. And you sounded… I don’t know. Guilty.”