Page 111 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

Kendrick speaks up quietly, glancing from Emily to me. “Because you let her.”

The truth of it slams into me like a fist. I look away, jaw tight, because I hate that she’s right—they’re all right.

Vince sighs, shaking his head. “Look, I get it. You’re stubborn as hell, and you don’t like dealing with emotions. But you need to figure out what you want, Nate. And if it’s her? You better do something before someone else does.”

His words twist something deep inside me, something raw and possessive that I don’t want to admit.

Before I can respond, a knock sounds at the door, followed by the venue manager popping his head in. “Press is waiting.”

Cass claps me on the back as he stands. “Think about it, man. Don’t let this be another regret.”

They all exit, forced to let the topic drop—for now—but I know it’s only a matter of time before they bring it up again. I lean back against the couch, rubbing a hand down my face as the adrenaline from the performance fades, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

I sit there for a moment, my heart pounding harder than it did onstage. I pull out my phone but just sit there staring at it. I think of my mom and how I let years go by before Lacey convinced me to reach out. Am I destined to repeat the same mistake with Lacey?

Thirty-Five

Lacey

The pain doesn’t fade like people say it will. Instead, it morphs into something deeper—quieter—a constant ache that lives where Nate’s smile used to be. Every morning, I wake up, and for one blessed second, I forget.

Then reality crashes in, and I remember all over again: Nate asked for space. Nate doesn’t want us—doesn’t want me. It’s over. And the worst part is knowing that what we had was real, even if it didn’t start out that way. Somewhere between the fake kisses and real conversations, between the public performances and private moments, I fell in love with him. But I never got to tell him— And now he’s nothing but memories I can’t bring myself to forget.

That first night back in L.A., I curled into a ball on my too-empty bed, clutching a pillow to my chest as if it could fill the hollow space there. But it wasn’t until three nights later that I cried—cried until there were no tears left, until my throat was raw and my eyes burned. But even exhausted sleep brought no peace. I keep reaching for him in the darkness, only to find cold sheets where his warmth should be.

The days blur together in a haze of early call times and endless takes. I throw myself into work, channeling every ounce of hurt and confusion into my character. The director loves it and says I’ve never been more authentic. If he only knew—every line I deliver, every tear I shed—it’s not just acting. It’s the hollow ache of waking up alone, of reaching for my phone only to remember that it’s over.

Each day, I tell myself this will be the day he reaches out. This will be the day he realizes we’re worth fighting for.

But with each day that passes, I realize he hasn’t called, not in the first few days, not in the first few weeks. And now, over a month later, I’ve stopped expecting it.

That’s how heartbreak works, isn’t it? It doesn’t shatter all at once. It dies slowly, fading in pieces until one day, you wake up and realize you’ve given up hope. It’s not a dramatic ending. Just a silent sadness that just replaces the joy that used to be there.

Rachel hovers on set, trying to corner me between scenes, but I’ve gotten good at avoiding her. My new boundaries are clear:I’ll fulfill my contractual obligations, nothing more. No extra publicity. No manufactured moments. No games or PR stunts.

It feels liberating.

“You look different,” my sister says during one of our nightly FaceTime calls. “Lighter, maybe?”

I curl deeper into my couch, considering her words. “I feel different. Like I’m finally playing my own role instead of everyone else’s.”

Mom chimes in from somewhere off-screen. “Have you heard from Nate?”

“No.” The word doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. “And I haven’t tried reaching out either.”

“Maybe that’s for the best, stellina,” she says softly. “Sometimes, space gives people perspective.”

She’s right. With each passing day, the fog lifts a little more. I see now how lost I’d become in trying to be what everyone demanded—the perfect actress, the perfect company princess, the perfect image. Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten how to stand up for myself.

The final day of filming arrives faster than expected. I walk off set feeling simultaneously drained and energized. My co-starsorganize a small wrap party, but I beg off, preferring the quiet of my room.

Emily occasionally texts with updates about the Wild Band. I read them but rarely respond. The guys are doing well, she says. She never mentions Nate, and I’m grateful for that small mercy.

Scrolling through my calendar, I note the movie promotions and press junkets—the last of my obligations. They seem manageable now, almost simple. Show up, smile, and answer questions about the film. No hidden agendas, no complicated pretenses. I’m more than willing to play my part—as long as no one mentions him. That’s my rule.

My phone lights up with another call from Rachel, but this time, I don’t feel guilty hitting ‘ignore.’

Later that night, I stand on my balcony, watching the L.A. lights twinkle below. A familiar song drifts up from somewhere—one of the Wild Band’s hits. My heart twinges, but it’s dulled now, more of an echo than an ache.

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