Chapter 11 （Noah）
NOAH
My mouth is dry, like it’s full of sand, and swallowing is next to impossible.
That kiss Rhett and I shared outside the bar reminded me of everything I lost. I let him believe that I willingly chose Bradley when it’s merely a facade.
A means to an end. And it kills me. I told Rhett to find his happiness.
But a part of me hopes he waits, even though it’s unfair to him.
Squirming as a flash of my earlier dream slams into me, I shift uncomfortably on the leather seat.
I’m haunted by the scene my mind played for me like a movie.
I can practically feel the way the wood planks that make up the walls of the old stable would have scraped my skin as Rhett and I lost pieces of ourselves to each other.
Every detail is imprinted on my soul, and even though it was all in my head—it doesn’t matter.
It felt so real because every touch mirrored the life we once lived.
A sleek black sedan carries me through the streets of LA, back to the penthouse I’m sharing with Bradley for the duration of our contracted relationship.
My scattered thoughts bounce back to the beginning, to the night that started the butterfly effect that brought me to where I am today.
At eighteen, I’d thought Bradley hung the moon.
He’d seen a social media video of one of my songs, which prompted him to come to Black River to watch me perform live.
That night changed the trajectory of my life.
Within a few weeks, he’d handed me the world on a silver platter, serving dreams I never believed I could achieve.
From that point, everything happened so fast. I was caught in a whirlwind, blinded by fame and glistening lights. If only I’d known his true intent.
Drawing in a breath, I quickly glance down at my phone, revealing no communication since I told Bradley I’d landed.
Funny how now that I’ve reached out to him on my own terms, he chooses to ignore me.
In the back of my head is a whisper of truth: This is yet another demonstration of the control he feeds on.
What I want has never mattered—a lesson I’d learned rather early on in our business relationship.
I still recall the night of my debut album release party.
It was a bittersweet victory. My first single had soared to the top of the charts, but when I looked around the room at all the faces sharing my success, I felt so alone.
Nobody from Black River was there, and it was my fault.
In my haze of self-deprecation, I’d accepted the drinks Bradley supplied, hoping to drown out the emptiness.
Too naive to recognize there was a motive to his consoling comfort, I’d let him lower my defenses.
When his touches became heated, I put a stop to them immediately.
Unbeknownst to me, that was the one thing he’d never let me get away with.
I’d publicly humiliated him in front of executives and peers within the industry.
My refusal set off a chain reaction, and things got progressively worse from there.
For a while, I dealt with Bradley’s growing obsession because I didn’t see another option.
Hemstock Holdings, run by Bradley’s father, Harold, is the biggest music label on the West Coast. In my stupidity, I neglected to realize that my first contract stated that HH would own the masters to the first five albums I produced.
This includes all recorded and future music, as well as the ability to license, distribute, and monetize.
Even if I were to walk away, leaving the contract unfulfilled, I couldn’t release new music because they’d own that too.
I’d have nothing. I’ll have done all this for nothing.
I’d be giving up my entire life’s work. Everything I’d lost would be in vain.
Breaking Rhett’s heart, shattering my own—it all would’ve been for nothing.
I purse my lips, gazing out the window as the driver comes closer and closer to my harsh reality.
I know things are bad. And I hate what my life has become.
A black ugliness swirls inside me. My heart stutters in despair as the sedan glides to a halt at the curb outside our building.
I hate myself for letting things get so out of hand and feel nothing but soul-shattering regret.
In a flurry, the doorman hurries over to assist, as do a handful of security personnel.
These are people I rely on for my safety, my sanity.
I bite my lip. Black River is synonymous with small-town living.
It lacks both the bustle of city life and the interference from reporters and paparazzi.
It’s home, and I’m just Noah, not country music’s sweetheart, Noah Lane. Fuck, I wish I could have stayed.
As of this morning, Rhett’s anger at seeing me again had cooled, but it’d still simmered beneath every word that’d fallen from his lips. He made it clear that mine was a betrayal he may never forgive. And the hell of it is, I don’t blame him.
Waiting until security gives me the signal that they’re ready to escort me from the car, I quickly don a pair of big sunglasses and plunk my favorite black hat on my head.
The door pops open, and I’m ushered from the vehicle.
With a smile firmly in place, I put one booted foot onto the pavement and let the paparazzi do their thing.
Holding my composure, I wave at a group of people excitedly watching me traverse the distance from the car to my residence. The way people gather to observe my everyday movements still astounds me. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.
Inside the lobby, I’m immediately sequestered in an elevator, and one of the guards uses his key card before punching the button for the top floor.
Then I’m left alone with all the thoughts that’ve been crashing through my head for days now, and as I’m whisked upward, Rhett’s words ring in my ears.
Go back to your penthouse with a view, Noah.
If only he knew this is the last place I want to be, or what I’m returning to.
The NDA Harold forced on me prevents me from telling Rhett the truth.
A derisive chuckle huffs from my chest at the memory of the day I signed my life away a second time.
I’d stood before Mr. Hemstock, begging him to drop me from the label, pleading for an out, anything that would allow me to go home.
But he’d just laughed in my face. I was making them too much money.
When I brought Bradley’s unsolicited behavior to his attention, thinking it would play in my favor, it backfired.
His words still ring in my ears. This is show business, baby.
The elevator gives a jolt as it reaches the top floor, yanking me from my thoughts. The door opens, and then there’s nothing left for me to do but face Bradley. I tamp down the riot of emotion that’s twisting inside me like a writhing snake.
Pressing a hand to my stomach, a sick sensation barrels into me.
There’s nothing I can do to calm the rising nerves.
My gut rebels angrily. I spent this weekend with friends and family.
I had a bachelorette party. I picked out a wedding dress.
My family is making travel plans. And every word I’d uttered about how happy I am was a fucking lie.
Squeezing my eyes shut, my breath comes shallow and unsteady. Bite the bullet, Noah. This was your home first. Don’t let him take that from you, too.
With clammy hands and a battered heart, I’ll face the music, however the tune plays out.
Traveling farther into the spacious penthouse, I scan the length of the apartment in hopes that Bradley’s not here.
A shaky sigh departs my lungs as relief eases the tension in my shoulders.
Thankfully, there’s no sign of my husband-to-be.
Maybe I’ll have a chance to get settled in before I’ve gotta deal with him at rehearsals later on.
I’m playing for a sold-out venue in a day’s time, so I’ll hardly have a second to acclimate to being thrust back into this fictitious world.
Frankly, I could use the time alone to sort through the mess inside my head.
My heart lurches in surprise as I stop short in the entrance to the living room. Cautiously, I set down my guitar and shoulder bag. Words yank free from my chest before I have a second to think about them. “Holy fuck! I didn’t know you were here.”
Bradley eyes me from the couch, completely still with venom in his beady gaze. “Glad to see you’ve finally graced me with your presence, Noah. What does my little whore have to say for herself?”
Pulse quickening, I press a hand to my chest in hopes of calming the furious thrumming behind my rib cage.
“I’m sorry, what? Did you just call me a whore?
” My first instinct is to back up a step, but I don’t.
Confusion lodges in my throat as I scramble to get a handle on the shitstorm of unknown origins I’ve apparently returned to.
Bradley eyes me with a shrewd hawklike gaze. “I said”—his speech slows, delivering each word with a precise bite—“what do you fucking have to say for yourself, whore?”
Anger spikes in my blood. The rigidness of his posture and the sneer on his face mean trouble, but the reason for his animosity hasn’t made itself clear yet.
Dread hits me square in the chest, but I stand my ground.
“I’m entitled to go see my family, Brad.
How am I supposed to convince them this is real when you’re breathing down my neck every five minutes? ”