Page 108 of At First Dance
I’ve tried everything. Pacing the penthouse suite. Hot tea. My old playlist. A bubble bath that only made me cry.
Nothing.
Not a single verse. Not a line of melody. Not even a clever metaphor. Because my notebook—the one that holds everything—is with Rowan.
I clutch my mug tighter, ignoring the rising ache in my chest. I don’t want to admit it, but that notebook held more than songs.
It held confessions. Memories. The way his voice sounded in the morning. The color of his eyes during storms. The ache in my ribs when I laughed too hard around him. Every single thing I was too scared to say out loud.
And now it’s in his hands.
God, I was stupid to leave it, I had that weird hope that maybe he wouldn’t find it, but would flip through the pages if he did.
A knock sounds at the door. Before I can answer, it opens, of course. Celeste doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Not when she thinks she has the upper hand.
She sweeps in wearing a fitted ivory pantsuit, heels clicking like a warning shot. Her assistant trails her, head down, carrying a folder thick with press clippings.
“You canceled two interviews,” she says without preamble, snapping her fingers for the assistant to drop the folder on the coffee table. “The label is panicking. They think you’re going soft.”
“I needed space,” I reply flatly.
“Evangeline, space is for has-beens. Not headliners.”
I stare at her, jaw locked.
She begins flipping through the articles, red manicured nails tapping with each turn. “You want to know what the world’s saying while you’re hiding in your robe and drinking tea like a debutante in mourning?”
“No,” I mutter.
She reads anyway. “Celebrity Pagesays ‘America’s Sweetheart Torn Between Two Cowboys.’BuzzBeatran a poll asking who’s more her type—Crew, the golden boy, or Rowan, the rugged recluse.”
My stomach twists.
Celeste tosses the papers on the table. “You’re trending for all the wrong reasons, Ivy.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.” Her voice turns cold. “You think this is about you and your little farm fling? This is your career. This is everything we built.”
“No.” I rise from the couch. “This is everything you built. I just kept performing.”
Her mouth hardens.
“I don’t want to be part of the machine anymore, Mom. I want to live. I want to create on my own terms.”
“And what?” she sneers. “Grow tomatoes and braid horsehair? Let some farmhand ruin what we spent a decade building?”
“He’s not a farmhand.” My voice shakes. “And this—this brand you cling to like a lifeline? It’s not living. It’s suffocating.”
Silence falls, sharp and dangerous.
Celeste’s eyes narrow. “You’d throw everything away for a man who hasn’t even come after you?”
I flinch.
Because she’s right. He hasn’t. Except he doesn’t have to. We have an understanding.
There is something smarmy in her grin, though. Something I’m afraid to question.
