Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Annabelle
“It was one night. Two nights. Two… mistakes. Temporary. Absolutely temporary.”
I mutter this to myself while opening my laptop, trying to force my pulse into something resembling normal.
I am a professional. I am composed. I am not thinking about Bryce Blackhorn’s mouth on my neck.
Except I absolutely am.
“Did you say something about necks?” my coworker Jenna asks while passing my doorway.
I choke. “Nope. Definitely not. Have a good morning!”
She gives me a suspicious look and keeps walking.
Kill me.
I sit, inhale, exhale, and open my messages.
My phone explodes.
Notifications. Mentions. Ping after ping after ping.
Texts from Shari:
OMG WTF DID YOU SEE THIS?
ANNABELLE ANSWER YOUR PHONE!
BABE IT’S BAD BUT ALSO HE IS SO PETTY.
I'M SCREAMING!
I scroll.
Then I freeze.
A link.
A thumbnail.
My ex’s stage name.
A brand-new song titled:
“Her Echo.”
No.
No, no, no.
I click it.
The first line hits like a punch to the solar plexus.
“She left me in the doorway of the life we built.”
My stomach drops.
Second line:
“She said she needed space, but she took my heart with her.”
Throat tight.
Third line:
“Now she’s somebody else’s muse.”
I slam my laptop shut like it bit me.
My pulse is a hurricane.
“Oh my god,” I whisper into my empty office.
And then I make the catastrophic mistake of opening social media.
Hashtags are trending:
#TeamMark #HeartbreakerAnnabelle #BryceVsMark
I scroll faster.
People are dissecting lyrics. Half-truths. Guesses. Straight-up lies.
“Was she cheating with Bryce all along?”
“Mark writes poetry. Bryce punches things.”
“Athletes can’t compete with artists emotionally.”
A slow, cold panic runs through me.
I stand.
I sit again.
I bury my face in my hands.
There's a knock on my door.
Of course, it's Bryce.
Because the universe enjoys my humiliation.
“Annabelle?”
His voice is warm. Low. Too gentle for my exposed nerves.
I consider jumping out the window.
“Come in,” I manage.
He walks in, wearing sweats and a backward cap.
He looks unfairly good for someone who just came from the gym.
“Morning,” he says softly.
“Hi.”
He studies my face. “You okay?”
No.
Absolutely not.
I swallow. “Fine.”
He doesn’t buy it.
“What’s happening with your phone?” he asks.
I try to block the screen with my hand, but it lights up.
With his name.
Next to my ex’s.
Trending together.
He goes still.
“Why,” he says slowly, “is my name next to a guy holding a guitar?”
I die inside.
Show him my phone.
He reads.
His jaw tightens.
He scrolls.
Something dark flashes across his expression.
Not anger.
Hurt.
Disbelief.
Then anger.
“How long,” he says, voice low, “was this guy writing songs about you?”
My chest pinches. “Bryce...”
“Just answer.”
I look away. “He always wrote about us. It was part of our relationship.”
Wrong thing.
Bryce laughs once, sharp. “Great. So I’m competing with a damn soundtrack.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“No?” His voice rises. “Because the internet thinks it is.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
Silence.
Thick. Sharp. Painful.
He drags a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t be this pissed. I know that. But I am.”
I take a step forward.
He steps back.
My heart cracks.
“I have practice,” he mutters, then adds under his breath, “ironic how you just became the PR disaster and dragged me with you."
Then he leaves.
No kiss. No touch. No nothing.
And somehow that hurts more than anything he could have said.
I call my best friend because my choices are scream into my desk drawer or scream to her.
She answers on the first ring.
“HELLO? YOU ARE FAMOUS AGAIN. CONGRATS OR SORRY I CAN’T TELL.”
“Shari,” I groan.
She gasps. “Oh my god, you slept with him again.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You didn’t have to! I can hear it in your guilty voice.”
I rub my temples. “You heard Mark’s song.”
“Yeah, babe, I heard. It’s beautiful and manipulative. Ten out of ten artistry. Zero out of ten emotional hygiene.”
I laugh weakly.
“Mia texted too,” Shari adds. “She says the guys think that Bryce may possibly be in love.”
“NO.”
“YES.”
“My father owns the team!”
“Cool, so you’ll have a very exciting Thanksgiving someday.”
I hang up on her.
She calls back.
"Very funny. I'll put you at the kiddie table and make you eat your vegetables." I chuckle and I hang up again.
Then I choke on a laugh-cry into my coffee mug.
***
Now that I’m finally home, trying to decompress, trying to forget everything, a new email arrives.
From Mark.
Subject line:
For you, always.
My heart sinks.
Attached is a raw demo. Just guitar. Just his voice. Just our history.
I listen.
For fifteen seconds.
My throat burns.
A single tear falls.
I close it.
I delete it.
I empty the trash folder.
I stare at my phone for a full minute after deleting Mark’s email.
My pulse is too fast. My brain is too loud. My heart is doing Cirque du Soleil.
I need… something. Someone.
I scroll through my contacts.
And before I can stop myself, I tap:
Dr. Jenkins, Therapist.
It rings. Goes to voicemail.
Her calm recorded voice fills my apartment:
“You’ve reached Dr. Mira Jenkins. Please leave a message.”
BEEP.
Oh God.
I panic-speak.
“Hi! Hello. It’s me. Annabelle. Obviously. You know my voice by now. Anyway, hi.”
I pace the length of my living room.
“So I think I need to schedule, like… an emergency session? Or possibly an emotional exorcism? Whichever is covered by my insurance.”
I rub my forehead.
“My ex dropped a breakup song today. A full emotional ambush. Lyrics. Instrumentals. Feelings. It’s… a lot. And unfortunately it’s also… good? Like Grammy-bait good? So that’s disgusting.”
I stop pacing and flop onto my couch.
“And then there’s Bryce. My coworker. The player I told you I had totally normal professional boundaries with. Except those boundaries are currently in a shallow grave behind a hotel.”
I cover my face with both hands.
“Anyway. Bryce is mad. Or hurt. Or jealous. Or all three. He left the room like he was walking away from a burning building, except I was the building.”
Deep inhale.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. At all. My chest feels weird. Not heart-attack weird. More like oh-no-this-is-feelings weird. Which is worse.”
I groan.
“If you have any open appointments tomorrow, please call me back. Preferably early. Before I do something deranged like… texting him. Or Googling ‘how to date someone you definitely shouldn’t.’”
I hesitate.
Then I whisper:
“Okay. That’s it. Ending message now before I confess actual hotel details.”
I jab the screen to hang up.
Then collapse backward, staring at the ceiling like it might offer life guidance.
It does not.
I whisper into the empty room:
“I am so, so screwed.”
And the terrifying part?
A tiny part of me doesn’t even mind.