Page 24 of Royal Bargain
“No, you talked. I feel like I was steamrolled. Don’t you care about the danger you’re putting yourself in? I’m not okay with this, Annika.”
I turn to face him, hands still gripping the bathroom counter. “Liam, I’m not asking for permission. I need this.”
His eyes flash with anger but he reins it in fast. “Then I’m going with you.”
“What?”
“I don’t trust that venue. I don’t trust their security. And I sure as hell don’t trust Ingrid Gunnerson to look after you properly.”
“You’re not my?—”
“I know I’m not,” he snaps. Then lowers his voice. “But until this blows over with your people, I’m not letting you walk into a club alone when half your father’s men are out there looking for you.”
I cross my arms. “I’ll have bodyguards.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “They’re not bulletproof.”
Silence stretches between us like a frayed wire, brittle and waiting to snap. Finally, I sigh.
“Fine,” I say. “You can come. But you don’t get to tell me how to do this.”
He meets my gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “Wasn’t planning to.”
The rideto the venue is quiet.
I try to focus on the streets passing by outside the window, the way the evening sun casts golden light over the rooftops, but all I can feel is the flutter in my chest. Not the good kind. The“Oh, God, what am I doing, I can’t do this!”kind. My fingers are clenched in my lap, twisting the hem of my jacket.
Liam sits beside me, silent. He hasn’t looked at me since we got in the car. I don’t know if it’s the tension still lingering from this morning or if he’s just preparing himself for tonight, scanning for danger behind every shadow.
Probably both.
When we get to White Swan Cafe, Ingrid’s already waiting for us, clipboard in hand, sharp heels clacking against the pavement. She barely spares Liam a glance as she sweeps over to me with a smile that’s a little too polished.
“There’s our songbird.” Her eyes sweep over my outfit approvingly. “You look incredible. Your mic check is in twenty, and we’ll do a dry run of your setlist right after. You’re going to kill it.”
I smile, but it’s forced. “Thanks.”
She leans in, lowering her voice. “Nerves are normal. Just don’t let them eat you alive.”
Too late.
The butterflies in my stomach have turned into full-blown giant moths. As I’m ushered backstage for soundcheck,everything suddenly feels too big. The stage. The lights. The idea that people are going to sit in that dark space, staring up at me, waiting to be moved by something I wrote.
What if they hate it?
By the time they call me to my mark, I feel like I’m six feet under already. My palms are slick with sweat, and my throat’s gone dry, tight with panic. I make it through the mic check somehow, but my hands won’t stop shaking. Ingrid gives me another reassuring nod, but it barely registers.
Then the lights dim.
The audience shuffles in, chatting and laughing, settling into their seats.
And suddenly it’s time.
The first few notes of the song echo through the room. I step out into the spotlight, and everything slows down. My heart thunders in my ears.
Then I open my mouth and start to sing.
Oh, God. What’s going on? This isn’t like how we rehearsed! I’m too flat.
