Page 15 of Giving Chase

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Chase, we agreed. No strings attached, remember? This," I gesture at the gifts even though he can't see me, "This is strings. This is a fucking spider web. God damnit, this is a whole damn rope."

"It's just flowers and chocolates, Eliza," he says, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

But it does. It means everything, and that's the problem.

"We can't do this," I say, hating the tremor in my voice. "We can't blur the lines like this. It's too complicated."

"What's complicated about it?" Chase challenges. "I care about you. You care about me. Why are we pretending otherwise?"

Because caring isn't enough. Because I'm your manager and you're my client. Because I have a son and responsibilities and a career I've worked my ass off for. Because I'm terrified of how much I feel for you.

I don't say any of that. Instead, I say, "You have a show tonight. You should be resting your voice, not... whatever this is."

Chase sighs, frustration evident. "Fine. Forget I did anything. I'll see you at soundcheck."

The line goes dead, and I'm left staring at the gifts on the bed. Part of me wants to throw them away, to erase this moment of weakness. But a larger part, the part I've been trying so hard to ignore, wants to cherish them.

I sink onto the bed, burying my face in my hands. This is exactly what I was afraid of. The lines are blurring, and I don'tknow how to stop it. Or if I even want to. What about the rules we set into place? What aboutmyrule?

For a long time, I just sit there, letting the emotions wash over me. I think about Justin waiting for me back home. What would he think if he knew about this... arrangement I have with Chase? What kind of example am I setting?

Then there's my career to consider. I've worked too damn hard to get where I am. I've seen too many women in this industry sidelined because they got involved with artists. I swore I'd never be one of them. Not again. And yet here I am, teetering on the edge of exactly that.

But God, when I'm with Chase... it feels right. Like all the pieces of my life finally fit together. His laugh, his touch, the way he looks at me like I'm the only person in the world – it makes me feel alive in a way I haven't before in my life.

I stand up abruptly, pacing the room. This is insane. I'm acting like a lovesick teenager, not a grown woman with responsibilities. I need to end this, draw a clear line. It's the only way to protect myself, to protect the band, to protect Chase's career.

My eyes fall on the roses again, and I'm hit with a memory. Chase, backstage after a show, his eyes shining with adrenaline and something else. The way he pulled me into a dark corner, his lips on mine, whispering "I need you" against my skin. The thrill, the danger, the overwhelming rightness of it all.

I shake my head, trying to clear the image. This is exactly why we can't do this. The intensity between us is too much. It'll consume everything if we let it.

With a deep breath, I reach for the roses, intending to throw them away. But as my fingers touch the soft petals, I hesitate. Maybe... maybe I can keep them. Just for today. A small indulgence before I do what needs to be done.

A knock at the door startles me out of my thoughts, and I instinctively throw the roses into a corner out of view. I open it to find Will, Incendiary Ink's bassist, looking uncomfortable.

"Hey, Eliza. Uh, have you seen Chase? He's not in his room, and we've got that radio interview in twenty."

I straighten, realizing how much time has passed while I drowned in my own selfish existential crisis, and slip back into manager mode, grateful for the distraction. "I'll find him. You guys go on ahead, we'll meet you there."

Will nods, then hesitates. "Everything okay? Chase seemed... off earlier."

"Everything's fine," I lie smoothly. "Just pre-show jitters. It’s a big one tonight, right? I'll talk to him."

As soon as Will leaves, I grab my phone again, texting Chase.

ME: Where are you?

It takes a few minutes, but he finally replies.

CHASE: Hotel bar

Of course.

I find him nursing a whiskey, looking every inch the brooding rockstar. He doesn't look up as I slide onto the stool next to him.

"You have an interview in fifteen minutes," I say, keeping my voice neutral.

Chase takes another sip of his drink. "I know."

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