Page 47 of Giving Chase

I'm halfway to the door when Chase calls after me. "Eliza."

I pause but don't turn. Can't turn. Can't look at him right now.

"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I think the beard makes me look distinguished."

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Trust Chase to know exactly how to break the tension. "Distinguished might be pushing it," I say over my shoulder. "But it's not terrible."

His answering chuckle follows me out of the studio. In the hallway, I lean against the wall, taking deep breaths.

That photo. God, that photo. It's going to be everywhere - magazines, websites, the ceremony program. Evidence of everything I've tried so hard to hide, captured in perfect high-resolution.

My phone buzzes - a text from Michelle.

MICHELLE: Saw the proofs. Girl, we need to talk.

That was fucking quick. I close my eyes, remembering the silver in Chase's beard, the warmth of his hand on my waist, the way he looked at me like no time had passed at all.

Distinguished, indeed.

I am in so much trouble.

November 18, 2018

The conference room feels too small for this conversation. I sit at the head of the table, my expression carefully neutral as Will finishes explaining their decision. Twenty years of practicekeeps my hands steady as I make notes, even as my heart pounds painfully against my ribs.

"A farewell tour," I repeat, my voice professional, detached. "And one final album."

"We thought it was time," Will says gently. His eyes flick to Chase, who's been studying his hands since the meeting began. "Go out on our own terms, you know?"

I nod, like this is just another business decision. Like they're not telling me my world is about to end. "Of course. That's... that's very wise. We'll need to plan this carefully. Make it special for the fans."

Mark shifts in his seat. "Chase said you'd understand."

At his name, Chase finally looks up, but not at me. Never at me. "We've got the songs," he says, his voice slightly too bright. "Best stuff we've written in years."

Something's off about him. His movements are too sharp, his smile too wide. I've spent two decades learning Chase's tells, and right now, every instinct I have is screaming that something's wrong.

"Well," I say, shuffling my papers to hide the tremor in my hands, "we should start planning immediately. I'll have my team put together some preliminary tour routes, and we'll need to book studio time-"

"Actually," Chase interrupts, still not meeting my eyes, "we were thinking of using Revolution Studios. Fresh start, new sound."

Revolution Studios. All the way across town from my office. Away from my oversight.

"I see." I make another note, my pen pressing too hard into the paper. "That could work. Though their rates are-"

"We'll handle it," Chase says quickly. "You don't need to worry about any of that."

Finally, he looks at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my blood run cold. His pupils are pinpricks, and there's a feverish sheen to his skin that I recognize all too well.

"Well," I stand, needing to end this meeting before my composure cracks completely. "Send me the demos when you have them. We'll set up a proper production schedule."

The band files out, but Chase lingers. I busy myself with my laptop, not trusting myself to look at him directly.

"Eliza," he says softly. "Can we talk?"

I should say no. Every instinct is telling me to maintain professional distance. Instead, I hear myself say, "Close the door."

He does, then leans against it, running a hand through his hair. "Are you okay?"

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