Chapter 6
6
Amelia
There are days I wonder if the universe is actively trying to see how much stress I can handle before I crumble. Today feels like one of those days and it’s not even nine a.m. yet. Mind you, I’ve always hated Thursdays. The day of the week the universe likes to whisper, “You’re almost there,” only to kick you in the shins and remind you there’s still one more day to go.
I’ve had my mother on the phone to me this morning about the anniversary party this weekend. Asking why I refuse to take James. After that torturous conversation, my agent called about the Velocity Reign contract and some clauses the production company want added that he knew I wouldn’t be okay with. I stood my ground and refused them, but the decision has my stomach in knots. Then, as if those two phone calls weren’t enough, Sarah forgot her homework, which meant an emergency detour back home, making us late for school. If there’s a prize for the world’s most efficiently frazzled parent, I’m in the running for it.
I dash through the school courtyard, mentally calculating the minutes I have before my first work meeting. Sarah skips beside me, chattering about a science project idea involving “music that makes plants grow faster, but not Taylor Swift because Luna’s already tried that, and it didn’t work.”
When we reach the drop-off point, my gaze immediately finds Gage, a habit I’m trying not to analyze too closely. He’s standing near the entrance in a charcoal suit, looking like Wall Street meets runway. He appears calm and composed, making me wonder yet again how he always looks so unruffled by life.
Luna spots us and waves excitedly, tugging on her father’s sleeve to get his attention. I notice the way his expression softens when he looks at his daughter. It always does.
“Good morning,” he greets when they reach us.
I ignore the hint of gravel in his voice that I like a little too much. “Morning.”
After some awkward small talk about the unpredictable March weather, the kind where every word feels too loud and every silence too long, we say goodbye to the girls. I then push past the weird energy between us and direct our attention to the science fair. “I wanted to check about that email draft you were going to send me. I haven’t received it yet, and I was hoping to review it before we send it to Mrs. Liu.”
His voice carries the trace of an amused smile when he says, “I’ll have it to you by noon like we agreed.”
“Right.” I try to leave it at that, I really do, but the obsessive part of me mourns the loss of an extra eight hours to overthink every possible disaster, so I find myself pulling my planner from my bag and flipping to the page covered in color-coded notes. “I want to make sure we’re aligned on some things.” I glance up and find him watching and listening intently. “I’ve drafted preliminary exhibit layout zones based on project categories, available table space, and fire safety compliance. Plus, I’ve made a list of suggested display guidelines to prevent a sensory nightmare. We don’t want glitter bombs and baking soda volcanoes competing for attention.”
The corners of his mouth twitch, and I realize I’m doing that thing I do where I get overly specific and detailed about things most people wouldn’t even think to question.
“Layout zones and fire compliance?” he says, and there’s definitely amusement in his tone now.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I don’t want an actual chemical reaction happening in the corner because two projects got too close together.”
“You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious.”
“Amelia,” Gage says, taking a step closer. “I’ve got it handled.”
“I know, but?—”
“I promised you I’d follow through, and I will.” His dark eyes hold mine with unwavering certainty. “The email will be in your inbox by noon, complete with layout zones, fire safety compliance, and display guidelines, which you can, of course, add to if I miss anything.”
I want to believe him. I desperately want someone else to share this load. But experience has taught me that when someone says, “I’ve got it handled,” what they really mean is “I’ll do the bare minimum, and you’ll end up handling the fallout.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound too skeptical. “But please don’t be late. I have a meeting later this afternoon, and I’d like time to go over everything before sending our ideas to Mrs. Liu by end of day.”
He nods, his eyes still firmly on mine. “I’ll ensure you have plenty of time to go over it.”
I’m still thinking about this when I step inside my studio thirty minutes later, still feeling the echo of anxiety over not knowing if I can count on him. However, my studio is my sanctuary, and the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. This is the one place where I don’t have to be perfect, where chaos doesn’t feel like failure but like possibility.
After I divorced James, I bought and combined two condos, transforming one into a professional recording studio with state-of-the-art equipment and perfect acoustics. It’s totally separate to our living space, but close enough that I can be there for Sarah if she needs me.
I settle at my workstation, pulling up the cues for the big action sequence in Velocity Reign . I haven’t signed the contract yet, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t started working on it. The director wants something that “reinvents tension” for the climactic chase through the streets of Bangkok. I’ve been experimenting with layering traditional Thai percussion and wind instruments over distorted synths, letting the rhythm build and fracture in unexpected ways.
My studio hums with creative mess. Sheet music from yesterday’s session still litters the floor, a scattered map of half-finished thoughts, and my three keyboards form an arc around me. The vintage Moog I splurged on after landing my first big film score, the weighted Yamaha for classic depth, and the cutting-edge Roland for everything digital.
Against the far wall, a battered upright piano waits beside an acoustic guitar and a cello I haven’t touched in weeks. A set of hand drums from a trip to Chiang Mai sits under the window, half-buried beneath film scoring manuals and notebooks filled with jumbled thoughts.
It’s cluttered, but it’s mine. The only place I ever feel fully myself. The version no one else gets to see.
I disappear into the music. Times becomes irrelevant. There’s only the flow of creativity, the satisfying click when a chord progression finally falls into place, the frisson of excitement when a melody line takes a turn that works beautifully.
This is who I am when no one’s watching. Passionate, messy, completely absorbed.
My hair gradually escapes its neat twist as I run my fingers through it in concentration. I kick my shoes off, pace the room, occasionally singing fragments of melody or tapping complex rhythms on any available surface.
In here, I’m not James’s ex-wife, or Sarah’s always-put-together mother, or the quiet woman at school functions. I’m just Amelia, a composer who hears the world in counterpoint and harmony.
My phone chimes at 10:45 a.m., pulling me out of my musical trance. I assume it’s my agent with more contract details, but when I check, it’s an email from Gage.
Holy shit . He actually sent it on time. Earlier, in fact.
When I open the attachment, my jaw nearly drops. This isn’t just a draft for me to add to or improve. It’s comprehensive, thoughtful, and detailed. He’s included everything we discussed, including the things I mentioned this morning, plus aspects I hadn’t even considered like contingency plans for common issues like absences on presentation day.
Without thinking, I text him.
Me:
Did you really write this, or did you have an assistant do it?
His response comes quickly.
Gage:
Hello to you too, Amelia.
I can almost hear his dry tone.
Me:
Seriously, this is extremely thorough.
Gage:
You sound surprised.
Me:
I am. Most people’s idea of “thorough” is not this.
Gage:
I’m not most people.
No, he certainly isn’t.
Me:
The display guidelines are particularly impressive.
Gage:
We can’t have the fair turning into a circus of glitter and vinegar.
I can’t stop the smile on my face and find myself madly texting a reply to that.
Me:
Your sarcasm is noted.
Me:
Thank you. This is excellent. I’ll send it to Mrs. Liu today.
Gage:
Great.
I think our conversation is over, but another text comes through.
Gage:
For the record, I always follow through.
Me:
I’m beginning to see that.
I’m early for school pick-up today and position myself near the playground where I’ll easily spot Sarah. My mind is half-stuck on a particularly tricky transition in the cue for the Bangkok chase sequence, my fingers absently tapping out the rhythm against my thigh.
That’s when I notice Shayla across the courtyard, her designer handbag dangling from her wrist as she gestures emphatically to another mother. She hasn’t seen me yet, which gives me a moment to observe her unnoticed.
Shayla and I became friends gradually over the past year. She’s glamorous in a way I’ve never aspired to be, and beautiful in the kind of way that makes the world pause. Long, sleek dark hair. Flawless, sun-kissed skin. Eyes so vividly green I sometimes forget what I was saying mid-sentence when talking with her. And her face? Don’t get me started. Perfect symmetry, full lips that look designed rather than inherited, not an ounce of lip filler or botox in sight. It’s as if on the day she was born, God decided to outdo herself.
Shayla is an influencer with millions of followers. She posts about beauty, fashion, and a curated version of motherhood, all filtered through a lens of effortless perfection. Her content walks the line between aspirational and unattainable. The kind of posts that show her in a silk robe with a green smoothie, writing captions about balance while her makeup is professionally done and not a single toy is out of place in the background. She’s got a verified checkmark, brand deals with luxury labels, and enough celebrity followers that the gossip accounts regularly speculate about who she’s dating, even though she’s not technically single. Last I heard, she was engaged to Michael Trent, the movie producer who’s as famous for his taste in women as he is for his blockbuster hits.
We have nothing in common. But motherhood has a way of bringing women together, especially when your ex is the kind of man who leaves emotional landmines in his wake.
She’s painted a picture of Gage as controlling and emotionally distant. A workaholic who left her to shoulder the parenting alone while he built his empire. I’ve sometimes struggled to reconcile that with the Gage I’ve seen, but having firsthand experience with an ex who shows one face to the world and another to me, I haven’t questioned her version of events.
Today, however, she gives me reason to.
When she sees me, she smiles and waves me over.
“Amelia! How are you, darling?”
She always calls me “darling.” I always ignore the falseness of it.
“I’m good. You?”
The mother she’s been talking with, a woman I’ve only met once, laughs. “Oh, god, don’t ask her that unless you want to hear all the ways her ex is ruining her life.”
I frown, glancing between them. “Oh?”
Shayla waves a hand, dismissive. “It’s nothing new. You know all about Gage and his bullshit.”
Her friend, Clare, is far less inclined to move on. “This was a particularly asshole move, though, Shayla.”
“Yes,” Shayla agrees but offers nothing further.
Clare, clearly invested, fills the silence. “That man.” She shakes her head like the verdict is already settled. “Last month, he bailed on Shayla when she needed him to take Luna for the weekend so she could be with Michael in LA for his movie premier. And now? He’s refusing again. Shayla’s got an important work event and Gage won’t budge. He’s jealous and using Luna to manipulate Shayla.”
This time, I manage to stop my frown.
None of that matches what Shayla told me last month about that same weekend. Then, she’d told me how amazing her fiancé is and that he was desperate to spend more time with Luna. She talked up how special Michael is. She said they wanted to take Luna to LA for that weekend so they could have a fun family time after the premiere, but that Gage wouldn’t give up his scheduled time with his daughter. She said Gage is doing everything he can to stop Michael being a part of Luna’s life.
I glance at Shayla, catching the moment she schools her features into disinterest, smoothing her expression into a glossy blankness.
I feel the need to defend Gage. “He’s helping me plan the class Science Fair at the moment.”
Clare blinks. Shayla’s mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out.
“What?” Clare huffs her disbelief. “He’s putting his name to it while you do all the work?”
I shake my head. “No. He’s showing up and suggesting some great ideas.” I meet Shayla’s gaze. “Maybe he’s paying attention to your requests for help.”
Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, and her nostrils flare, a subtle, but telling, flash of irritation. “I doubt it. Gage only pays attention to what he wants.”
Clare immediately nods in agreement, but I’m watching Shayla now. Watching the cracks show.
Because nothing she’s said lines up with the man who sent me that email this morning. Who took the initiative and arranged our meeting yesterday. Who did everything in his power to ensure Luna and Sarah had a magical weekend in Nashville.
A cold unease curls in my stomach.
Has Shayla been exaggerating, or outright lying, about Gage?
And if so, why?
Before I can fully process this, Sarah comes running over, her backpack bouncing with every step. Luna follows, just as breathless.
“Mommy! Can we get donuts on our way home?”
I push the question aside for now. “Sure, sweetheart.”
But the feeling lingers. Gage Black may not be the man I thought he was at all.