Page 42 of Giving Chase

The house is packed with the kind of crowd I've spent years protecting Chase from. Dead-eyed models with hollow cheeks and twitching hands. Wannabe producers with predatorysmiles. Parasites in designer clothes, all trying to get a piece of him.

Chase's beautiful Steinway grand piano, usually gleaming, is now littered with empty bottles and cigarette burns. Sheet music lies scattered across the floor, trampled and stained. This isn't a party. It's a cry for help.

I push through the crowd, years of navigating industry events helping me sidestep wandering hands and sloshing drinks. That's when I see him.

Chase stands in the center of his living room, holding court like some fallen angel. A bottle of Jack dangles from his fingers, and his eyes... God, his eyes. They're glassy, unfocused, nothing like the intense green gaze that's haunted my dreams for years. His shirt is unbuttoned wrong, his hair wild, and there's a smudge of something white around his nostril.

A leggy blonde hangs off his arm, whispering in his ear, but I can tell he's not really listening. He's performing, playing the role of debauched rockstar, but there's something desperate in his movements, something broken in his laugh.

His gaze finally lands on me, and for a moment, I seemyChase - vulnerable, brilliant, beautiful Chase. Then his eyes harden.

"Well, well, well," he slurs, stumbling in my direction. "Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence. The big shot VP herself."

I reach for him instinctively as he sways, my hands finding his waist to steady him. He's lost weight. When did that happen?

"Chase, we need to talk. Privately."

He laughs, but it's all wrong - bitter and hollow. "Oh, now you want to talk? After weeks of radio silence?"

I glance around, acutely aware of the vultures circling, phones ready to capture any drama. "Please, Chase. Not here."

Something in my voice must get through to him because he nods, leading me upstairs to his studio. The room that was once his sanctuary is in chaos. Empty bottles everywhere. Cigarette butts crushed into handwritten lyrics. His prized guitar collection gathering dust.

As soon as the door closes, he rounds on me. "What are you doing here, Eliza? Come to check up on me? Make sure I'm not tarnishing the Blackmore brand?"

"I'm here because I'm worried about you," I say softly, fighting the urge to reach out and wipe that white smudge from his nose. "We all are. You've missed every writing session, you're not returning calls..."

"Worried?" he scoffs. "That's rich. You didn't seem too worried when you were accepting that promotion, ready to leave us behind."

I flinch at the accusation. "That's not fair, Chase. I fought to keep managing the band. I never wanted to leave you."

"Leave the band, you mean," he corrects, his eyes boring into mine. "But you've been leaving me for years, haven't you? Always keeping me at arm's length, never letting me in completely."

His words hit too close to home, and I feel tears pricking at my eyes. "Chase, please. You're high, you're drunk. You're not thinking clearly."

"No," he says, suddenly eerily calm. "I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years. You've been playing with my heart, Eliza. Stringing me along. And I'm done."

The pain in his voice cuts through me, igniting something deep inside. All the carefully maintained walls, all the professional distance I've tried to keep - it crumbles in an instant.

"I love you, damnit," I burst out, the words exploding from somewhere deep inside me.

Chase freezes, his eyes widening. "What?"

"I love you," I repeat, my voice rising with a mix of frustration and pain. "Of course I love you. How can you not see that? Every single day, in everything I do. In every fight I've fought for you, every time I've picked up the pieces, every moment I've put your needs ahead of my own. Including right now, standing here in this mess, trying to pull you back from whatever edge you're racing toward."

I run a hand through my hair, years of pent-up feelings spilling out. "Do you think any other manager would be here right now? Do you think this is in my job description? I love you so much it terrifies me, Chase. It always has."

He takes a step toward me, hope warring with disbelief on his face. "Then why-"

"Because it's impossible," I cut him off, my voice breaking. "Because loving you isn't enough. Because there's the band to think about, and the label, and our careers. Because every time we get close to crossing that line, something like this happens." I gesture around at the chaos of his studio. "And I have to be the one to pull us back, to be the responsible one, to keep us both from burning everything to the ground."

"None of that matters," he insists, moving closer. "We can figure it out. Together."

I shake my head, even as every fiber of my being screams at me to give in. "It's not that simple, and you know it. Look at what's happening already. The drugs, the drinking, these people in your house... this isn't you, Chase."

"This is who I am without you," he says, his voice raw with emotion.

"No," I say firmly, reaching out to cup his face. His skin is clammy under my palm. "Don’t you dare pin all of this on me. You don’t get to blame me for any of this. This is yourunning away. From your talent, from your responsibilities. From yourself."

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