Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Cam
I’m standing too close to the stage.
I know it the second Manny shoots me a look from the soundboard. The kind that says you don’t have to be right there.
He’s right.
I could be in the hallway. The green room. Literally anywhere that isn’t close enough to hear her inhale before a note.
But here I am.
Lila stands center stage, mic in hand, ponytail loose, shoulders relaxed in that way she only gets when she’s working. Not performing. Working. The band runs the intro again and she closes her eyes, counting under her breath.
Three. Four.
Her voice fills the space, warm and precise, hitting places in my chest I didn’t know were hollow until she found them.
I tell myself I’m here because Manny insisted.
There was a small security concern this morning. Nothing major. Enough to make hovering sound responsible instead of what it actually is.
I shift my weight and fold my arms, trying to look casual. Like I’m not tracking every movement. Cataloging exits. Clocking the way she rolls her shoulders between takes, or tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear when she’s thinking.
The song ends. The last note hangs.
Silence.
Then a tech calls, “Resetting the mic.”
Lila exhales and smiles, easy and unguarded, laughing softly as she steps back from the stand.
That smile still does something to me.
But this isn’t my world.
I’m supposed to be the steady presence in the background. The quiet support. The guy who makes sure nothing goes wrong.
Not the guy planted at the edge of her stage.
I tell myself to move.
I don’t.
Then the side door swings open.
A guy steps in with a guitar case slung over his shoulder, beanie pulled low, smile already in place like he expects to be welcome.
Lila spots him instantly.
Her whole face changes.
Not stage-bright. Not polite. Not careful.
Real.
“Bas!” she calls, voice lifting in a way that hits me sideways. “You made it!”
She jogs down the steps without hesitation, ponytail swinging, and pulls him into a quick hug.
Easy. Familiar. Like her soul already knows the shape of him.
Bas laughs, arms loose at his sides. “Someone’s gotta keep your bridge sections from turning into emotional chaos.”
She swats his arm, grinning. “Hey. Those bridges are earned.”
The crew chuckles. The sound is light. Comfortable.
I don’t move.
I watch.
Bas sets his guitar down and leans in to listen as she starts explaining something about a melody, hands moving as she talks. Her eyes light up. She talks faster. Freer.
I’ve never heard that tone aimed at anyone else but me.
He nods along, focused. “Yeah, I hear it. You’re stacking tension too early. Mind if I take a look?”
“Please.”
The word comes out eager.
Something sour twists low in my stomach.
This is normal. Creative partners. History. Comfort.
But logic shuts down when my brain smells threat.
She shares her music with him. Not with me.
She smiles like that for him.
I glance down at my hands and realize they’re clenched.
Of course, she has a world that existed before me.
There are people who fit into it without effort.
Bas strums a chord softly, testing. Lila hums along, instinctive, their timing already matched.
They finish each other’s thoughts without trying.
My chest tightens.
I don’t belong here.
I’m temporary. He isn’t.
The thought lands with brutal clarity.
I let myself want something that was never mine to keep.
And now I’m paying for it.
They drift toward the far corner of the studio like gravity is optional for them.
Bas and Lila. Heads bent together. Hands moving in the air as if the chords are visible, hanging between them. He hums a progression. She answers with a lyric, adjusting the melody mid-sentence like it’s second nature.
I stay where I am.
I tell myself it’s polite. Professional.
The truth is, I don’t trust my feet to move closer.
A photographer slips in from the side. Not paparazzi. Label badge. Clean lens. Permission granted.
He lifts the camera.
Click.
Bas laughs at something Lila says, shaking his head. She grins up at him, bright and unguarded, eyes crinkling at the corners. He leans over her shoulder to read a line on the page, close but not invasive. Familiar.
Click. Click.
“These are perfect,” the photographer murmurs, already checking the screen. “Fans love when you two work together.”
My chest goes hollow.
This is where she belongs. Music. Creation. Someone who speaks her language without translation. Someone who meets her where she lives instead of orbiting the edges.
I’m not a collaborator here.
I’m a stabilizer.
The husband-for-hire. The shield. The headline.
I think of the meeting. The charts. The relief in the room when the numbers went up.
I think of the kiss and how badly I wanted it to mean something pure.
I should’ve known better than to confuse intensity with permanence.
Bas points at the page, says something that makes her laugh again. She nudges him with her elbow, playful and easy.
I don’t think she even knows I’m watching.
That’s the part that hurts most.
I take a step back.
Then another.
The lights dim slightly as I move into the wing, the edge of the room where sound softens and faces blur. The shadows feel cooler. Safer. Like a place I can breathe without pretending I belong.
Distance has always been my defense.
I tell myself I’m being respectful.
What I’m really doing is leaving before I’m asked.
Because standing out here, watching her glow in a world I don’t fit into, it’s easy to believe the kisses were just a moment.
A beautiful one.
But not meant to last.
The rehearsal ends. The last chord fades and the room exhales.
People start moving at once. Techs coil cables. Someone claps twice. Manny checks his phone.
I stay where I am, half in shadow, like I might dissolve if I step fully back into the light.
Lila turns, scanning the room.
Her eyes land on me.
“Cam?” she calls lightly. “Ready to head out?”
Her voice is normal. Easy.
Like nothing fractured today. Like she didn’t glow for someone else right in front of me. Like her world never needed me in the first place.
I nod once.
I can’t make myself look at her.
Footsteps echo as she walks closer. She slows when she reaches the edge of the stage, sensing something is off.
“Hey,” she says, softer now.
I keep my gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. A light rig. A speaker. Anything neutral.
She hesitates.
Just a beat.
Long enough for confusion to flicker across her face. Then concern. The kind she doesn’t fake.
It guts me.
Before she can ask, before she can say my name again and pull me back into wanting, I cut in.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
The words come out flat. Controlled. Final.
Her brows knit together. Hurt blooms across her face, quick and unmistakable. Like I struck something fragile without meaning to.
“Cam, I—”
I walk toward the exit, each step feeling heavier than the last. The echo of her voice stays lodged in my chest, right next to the image of her smiling up at someone else like the world finally made sense.
The old wound tears open.
The one that says: You were useful. Not chosen.
I clench my jaw and keep walking.
I don’t look back.