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“Solene?” Abby’s voice reaches me, “You went pale.”
“I... I’ll be okay.” I stumble toward the dresser, grab the package, take a breath, then another.You’re going to be fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
I pull the wrapper apart, then open the black velvet box, and stare at the piece of jewelry.
"Solene, what is it?”
I hold up a tiny rabbit-shaped figure attached to it between my fingers.
"He sent you a charm?" Abby’s voice rises in excitement.
The box slips from my fingers. I fix the charm to the bracelet around my wrist—the bracelethe’dgiven me with an unsigned note which had simply said ‘wear this’ and I had, of course. I hold up my hand for her perusal.
"OMG, he’s thinking of you,” she cries out.
"Maybe." I rub my finger over the exquisite little bauble. The beating of my heart slows, and my pulse settles closer to its normal pace. My stomach, too, is behaving itself. Huh, seems the good luck charm is doing its job.
There’s another knock on the door, then a voice calls out, "It’s time, Ms. Sabatini."
40
Declan
"Why the fuck can’t you tell her that you’re here? She’d have wanted to know. She’d have felt reassured that you were here to support her."
"And that’s exactly why I can’t afford it." I peer through the floor-to-ceiling window of the VIP room. It’s positioned above the cheering crowds that react to her every move, that sing along to the chorus of her song that went viral online. She prances about on stage in that silvery dress that hugs her every curve. And when she kicks up her leg, the strip of skin between the hem of the dress and the thigh-high boots she’s wearing has the crowd going crazy. I curl my fingers into a fist and press my knuckles against glass.
With the lights focused on her as she moves, she’s exquisite. And shimmering. A spark, a star, a flare of light that’s a beacon in the dark night. She's entrancing, enticing, and after tonight, she's no longer mine. She belongs to the world, to her fans. She’s going to go straight to the top, and I’ve always known it. She’ll be the story that critics talk about whenever they want to refer to an overnight success.
She’s the kind of woman dreams are made of. The kind who was never meant to be hidden away. All that talent, that stage presence, that ability to keep gazes fixed on her as she throws back her hair and belts out the song. With her hands clasped together in front of her, she’s both demure and a seductress. A virgin and a whore. My whore. My cunt. My woman. No longer.
She belongs to them—the fans. And I did my bit in bringing her here. I allow my gaze to dwell on her features. Even at this distance, I think I can make out the curve of her lips, the sweep of her eyebrows, those luxurious eyelashes that she raises…And fixes her gaze on me.
I freeze. With the lights in her face, I know she can’t see me. I’m sure of that. And yet, she tilts her head as if sensing my presence. She moves forward in my direction, arm outstretched.Fuck, fuck, fuck. Impossible; she can’t see me.
"She can’t see you," Rick confirms.
But her instinct must tell her I'm here. I can almost see the moment she changes her mind and turns away from me. She struts over to the guitar player. She places her hand on his chest, leans in, and he joins her in the chorus.
"Fucking hell!" Anger burns a trail down my gullet. My stomach ties itself in knots. Of course she’s found someone else. That was the plan all along. But moving onto someone else so quickly… is not something I thought would happen.
I grab a bottle of water and throw it against the wall. The bottle bounces off and hits the floor, then rolls away. Goddamn, even my anger doesn’t have an edge to it anymore. How pathetic have I become? Hiding here and watching her, then unable to give vent to my rage. I pivot and stomp toward the exit, Rick in tow.
He, mercifully, stays quiet as I head up the stairs and toward the heliport on the roof of the performance center. It’s the only way I could make it here without losing time in transit. The helicopter will take me back to the private landing strip and then, from there, I’ll take the plane back to New Zealand, with one more stopover.
I reach the door that opens onto the helipad, when Rick touches my arm. "You okay, Dec?"
I shake off his hold. "Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?"
"It meant nothing what she did; probably just caught up in the performance."
"What-fucking-ever," I snap.
"Keep telling yourself that. You could prevent all this. Just let her know you’re here, meet her once—"
"I need to get back."
"You made it all the way here. You just need to stay another half an hour, and the performance will be over," he says in a low voice.
