Chapter 32
MADDIE
After a day spent traveling, I step onto my mother’s street.
Nothing has changed.
The white picket fence still leans slightly to the left. The rose bushes need trimming.
“Mom?” I call, pushing the front door open.
The handle jingles the way it always has.
“Mom?”
“Back here, sweetheart!”
I step inside and inhale the familiar scent of lavender laundry soap. I find her on the sofa, folding clothes with careful, deliberate movements.
I drop my bag and cross the room in two strides.
“Hey,” I say, wrapping my arms around her.
She laughs softly as we tumble back onto the cushions, still holding each other. Her wool sweater is scratchy against my cheek. Comforting. Real.
Snorty leaps up beside us, determined to wedge himself between our bodies.
“And who’s this little fellow?” Mom asks, smiling as she scratches behind his ears.
“Snorty,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Well hello, Mr. Snorty,” she says, offering him her hand.
He yips once, short stub of a tail wagging, and I know instantly that he’s claimed her.
Mom studies my face. “You look tired, honey.”
I open my mouth to answer.
Nothing comes out.
Mom’s gaze softens. She doesn’t press. She never does.
“How are you?” she asks instead.
She says it lightly, but I catch the flicker in her eyes before she masks it with a smile. “I’m holding up.”
Then she tries to joke. “Don’t look at me like that. We all come with expiration dates. Mine’s just feeling a little stamped right now.”
“Mom.” My voice cracks despite my effort to stop it. “Don’t say that.”
I fold into her, the tears coming fast. She holds me the way she always has, firm and steady.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “I know you’re upset about my health.”
I shake my head against her shoulder. “It’s everything,” I admit. “Vegas. Work. Life.”
She waits. Patient. She always lets me find my own way to the truth.
But I can’t say his name. I can’t explain the tabloids, or the way Rio's certain I betrayed him.
So I cry quietly until the shaking passes.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she says finally. “That’s what matters.”
Snorty noses my hand, concerned. I manage a weak smile.
After a moment, I glance at the clock. “The concert starts in an hour. It will be televised. We can watch Steven onstage.”
Her face brightens instantly.
She pushes herself up from the sofa with renewed energy. “Someone at work gave me a bottle of Prosecco last Christmas. Let’s celebrate Steven properly.”
I smile despite everything. “Popcorn, yes. Prosecco, absolutely not. Doctor’s orders.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’ve become very bossy.”
“I learned from the best.”
In the kitchen, I move on autopilot. Popcorn goes into the microwave. Water heats for her tea. Snorty skids across the tile, batting stray kernels like they’re prey.
I set the coffee table in front of us with our treats.
Mom and I both sit down to watch the show.
Rio struts on stage.
Larger than life. Impossible to ignore.
As soon as he sees him, Snorty bolts off the sofa.
“What on earth—” Mom says, startled.
But my dog returns a moment later with Rio’s bandana in his mouth, looking at me to properly accessorize him.
“Oh, Snorty,” I say, tying a lose knot around his neck. “You miss him, don’t you.”
So do I. Though I'd never admit it to anyone.
Rio and the band have barely launched into their first song when women in the front row scream like they’ve lost their minds.
A sharp twist of jealousy hits low in my stomach. Irrational, I know, but I still feel it.
Then Rio lifts the mic and sings. His voice pours through the speakers, rich and controlled, every note landing exactly where it should.
All that rehearsal. All that pressure. It’s paid off.
Mom exhales slowly. “They’re good,” she says. "Really good."
She’s right. They're not merely performing. They own the stage.
Song after song, the show builds. Fire shoots upward. Lights strobe. The band feeds off the crowd’s energy, growing bigger, bolder.
Steven looks electric. I cheer like I’m right there with my brother and his best friend.
When the final song ends, Rio steps back from the mic, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. He bows once.
The audience explodes.
Encore. Encore. Encore.
The chant rattles the room.
Then something shifts.
The camera cuts to the front row. Center seat. A man in a sleek black suit stands, clapping slowly. Purposefully.
He doesn’t cheer.
It looks like he's evaluating.
My pulse spikes.
“That must be him,” I murmur. “Derek Ward. The head of Midnight Records.”
Mom squints. “He looks important.”
Onstage, Steven and Keith exchange a look. A long one.
Then Keith counts in.
It’s not a song I recognize.
The beat is deeper. Heavier. Primal.
Rio turns away from the mic.
“What’s he doing?” Mom asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
The camera cuts wide.
And whatever’s happening next—
it’s bigger than the setlist.