Chapter 7
Are you sure youre alright?
I am, Brandon. Promise.
He hesitates. I can feel his tense silence on the other end of the line. He’s wondering about the real reason I decided to stay home instead of attending the business dinner we had planned for tonight.
Of course, I cant tell him its because of a visit from that handsome billionaire he told me to stay away from. Instead, I pretend to yawn and try to give him the right excuses.
I need to make him think I’m just tired.
Ill make it up to you tomorrow, I promise him.
After a long pause, Brandon sighs. Okay. Ill see you early tomorrow morning to continue with the recordings. Try to get some rest, and eat something healthy.
I will.
Brandon cuts the call soon after, so Im finally relieved.
I run over to the decorative mirror on one of the walls in the living room. This apartment doesnt belong to me. It actually belongs to the record label. According to my contract, Brandon manages my money and almost all my assets, but I hope that will change from next year onwards.
When that happens, I plan to buy a much warmer property than this one. I want a place with sunshine streaming through the windows and a terrace with a garden full of plants. Not at all like this modern, impersonal, white-and-gray building with its glass ornaments and colorless abstract art paintings that I barely understand.
I run my fingers through my hair, letting out a frustrated sigh as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The past few months have been a whirlwind of damage control, putting out one fire after another in the wake of my messy breakup with Logan.
The media firestorm was relentless, with every tabloid dissecting the drama and speculating about the sordid details. Brandon worked overtime to spin the narrative, portraying me as the innocent victim while Logan basked in the attention.
Its been an uphill battle to maintain the confidence of the record label, assuring them that Im still the reliable cash cow they invested in. This upcoming tour is meant to be my redemption, a chance to prove that I can still sell out arenas and keep the money flowing.
But deep down, I know its just a band-aid on a gaping wound. The real issue is my music, or rather, the lack of authenticity in the songs Ive been peddling. Theyre hollow, empty shells crafted by a team of hit-makers to appeal to the masses.
I flip open my notebook, the one filled with my own raw, unfiltered lyrics. These are the songs that bleed my truth, the ones that strip away the glitz and glamour to expose the vulnerable woman underneath.
A pang of longing twists in my chest as I trace the words with my fingertips. This is the real me, the artist Ive been aching to unleash upon the world.
But I know better than to bring it up with Brandon. Hell shut it down before I can even finish the pitch, insisting that my personal songwriting is too risky and unmarketable. In his mind, Im a product to be packaged and sold, not a creative force with a voice of my own.
Maybe after this tour, when Ive proven my worth again, I can push harder. Demand more creative control, more input on the direction of my career. Its a dangerous gamble, one that could cost me everything if the label decides Im more trouble than Im worth.
I examine my face in the mirror. My makeup is simple but perfectly in place to highlight my attributes. My big eyes are masked by dark lashes and my loose, straight hair falls over my shoulders and down to my hips in a cascade of auburn that turns red when the sunlight hits it.
I know I cant solve the bigger issues tonight. The battle for creative control, the fight to reclaim my artistic identity, will have to wait. Tonight, I need to focus on the man whose piercing gaze has awakened something long-dormant within me.
The nerves begin to course through me as I arrange my black tank top over my shoulders, continuing to look at my demeanor from every angle. A sharp rap on the door jolts me from my thoughts.
Hes here.
My hands fumble awkwardly for the stereos control so the speakers won’t blare through the apartment. I turn it on in the middle of a low, soft jazz tune, run to the door, take a deep breath, and open it.
Damien stands right in front of me with his black dress shirt, no tie or jacket this time. His shirt is rolled up over to his elbows, exposing a path of tattoos running down his arms. My eyes travel over him until I meet his intense gaze.
I brought dinner, Damien holds up a brown paper bag.
I back away, and he strides into the apartment, heading straight for the kitchen. His presence alone captivates me, and I find myself following him, my feet carrying me there without a second thought.
My stomach growls, and I realize how hungry I am, but its not just the food thats got my attention.
Damien starts taking items out of the bag.
It’s then that I notice he hasnt brought a prepared meal but rather the ingredients to make it.
Youre planning to cook?
He nods without even looking at me, and starts checking my fridge. What are you in the mood for? he asks.
Pasta, I answer without thinking.
Damien turns and raises an eyebrow in mute question but doesnt comment. Instead, he starts pulling ingredients out of my fridge and my cupboards: potatoes, flour, and herbs. He lines them up on the counter and starts to work in a methodical, organized way.
I watch him, fascinated by the subtlety and fluidity of his movements. When did you learn to cook? I ask him.
My grandmother taught me how to do it. I used to visit her in Tuscany during the summers.
Are you Italian? I inquire.
On my mothers side, Damien states in a calm tone. Sadly, I take after my father more than her.
The tone of his voice makes it clear that this is a difficult subject for him, so I decide not to delve deeper, even though I’m curious.
In the meantime, I watch him cook. Damien boils unpeeled potatoes, and when they’re ready, he mashes them and mixes them with flour.
I watch Damien as he works the dough, kneading and folding it with practiced ease. The muscles in his arms flex and shift with each movement. I cant help but stare, transfixed.
So, I say, tearing my gaze away. How did you and your friends end up opening Club Allure together?
Damien glances up at me, a half-smile playing on his lips. Its a long story, but the short version is that weve been friends since college. We all came from different backgrounds, but we shared a love of music and a desire to create something unique.
He begins cutting the dough into small pieces, his fingers moving deftly. Jackson was the one who initially had the idea for the club. Hes always been the visionary, the one pushing us to dream bigger.
I nod, picturing the blond-haired, tattooed club owner Ive seen in magazines. And the others?
Ethans the muscle, Damien says with a chuckle. He handles security and makes sure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes. Landon is our tech genius, keeping us ahead of the curve with the latest gadgets and software.
His expression softens as he mentions the next name. Andres bridges our efforts from the regular clubber to corporate events and brand deals. He plans all the events and makes sure our guests have an unforgettable experience.
I lean forward, intrigued. And what about you? Whats your role?
Damiens eyes meet mine, and for a moment, Im caught off guard by their intensity. I handle the entertainment and marketing. Booking the acts, creating the right vibe, drawing in the right crowd. Its my job to make sure Club Allure is the hottest ticket in town.
He winks, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. It sounds like you all complement each other well.
We do, Damien agrees. Weve been through a lot together, both good and bad. Theyre more than just business partners – theyre my family.
I nod, understanding that sentiment all too well. In the chaos of my childhood, music was the only constant, the only thing that felt like home.
But Ive never felt like family, unless I count Brandon, which I once did, but not so much anymore.
I get that. Music has always been my anchor, too.
Damien pauses in his work, studying me with those intense eyes. Tell me about it. About your journey.
I take a deep breath, not sure where to start. It wasnt an easy road, thats for sure. My parents were... I trail off, memories of their fights and my fathers rages flooding back.
Damien seems to sense my hesitation. You dont have to share anything youre not comfortable with.
I shake my head, determined to push through. No, its okay. My parents were... well, lets just say they werent exactly parent of the year material.
Damien makes the gnocchi, the dough is mixed with basil leaves, and once that’s done he gets to work on a thick, red sauce.
Soon, the kitchen starts to smell amazing.
I braid and unbraid a strand of hair, a nervous habit. My dad was an alcoholic, and my mom was too caught up in her own dreams to really be there for me. Music was my escape, my way of drowning out the chaos.
Damien listens intently, his expression unreadable. I continue, the words spilling out. I started writing songs when I was really young, just little melodies and lyrics in a notebook. It was my secret world, my safe space.
I smile as I recall those early days. I used to perform at school talent shows and open mic nights. Thats where Brandon found me, when I was 13. He saw something in me, I guess, and convinced my mom to let him represent me.
My smile fades as I remember the price of that success. Things moved pretty quickly after that. Record deal, tours, the whole pop star package. But it came with a lot of strings attached.
I glance up at Damien, his olive eyes watching me carefully. Brandon was always in control, dictating every aspect of my image and sound. I went along with it because I was just a kid, you know? I didnt know any better.
Damien nods, his jaw tightening slightly. I can sense his disapproval, and it emboldens me to continue. It wasnt until I met Logan that I started to question things. He was this wild, free spirit, and being with him made me realize how trapped I felt.
I shake my head ruefully. Of course, that relationship was a disaster in its own way. Logan was more interested in the fame and attention than me. But at least it opened my eyes to the fact that I wasnt living my truth.
I meet Damiens gaze, feeling a strange sense of connection. Thats when I started writing my real songs, the ones that come from my heart. Theyre still hidden away in that notebook, but someday... I trail off, not sure how to finish that thought.
Damien surprises me by reaching out and covering my hand with his own. His touch is warm, calloused, and sends a jolt of electricity through me.
Someday, youll share them with the world, he says, his voice low and reassuring. And the world will be better for it.
I swallow hard, overcome by the intensity of his words and the tenderness in his eyes. In that moment, I want nothing more than to lean across the counter and kiss him.
But then the timer on the stove goes off, breaking the spell. Damien clears his throat and withdraws his hand, turning his attention back to cooking.
Damien changes the subject, his tone lighter. Can you cook?
Do instant noodles count? I joke.
Damien barely contains a smile. Ill pass on that.
Hmm. I rack my brain for something more impressive. I can make macaroni and cheese.
From a box, he guesses.
I nod, a little embarrassed. Hey, it doesnt burn. Thats something, right?
Damien clicks his tongue, unimpressed. Come over here and try this.
I step forward, drawn to everything about him. He holds a wooden spoon up to my lips, and I close my eyes, inhaling the mouthwatering aroma. He blows on the spoon, and I cant help but lean in.
The moment our lips almost touch, he pulls back, and I taste the sauce instead. Mmm, I moan, my eyes still closed. This is amazing.
When I open my eyes, I realize Im trapped between the counter and his body. His finger traces my jawline, sending shivers down my spine. I cant move, cant breathe.
All I can think about is how close we are, how much I want to feel his lips on mine.
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. A woman who can play five instruments cant manage to prepare a decent meal?
I cant help but be impressed. Someone did their homework.
Answer me, he says, his voice low and husky, his face inches from mine.
I swallow, struggling to gather my thoughts into coherent words as his unwavering gaze bores into me, making it feel impossible to do so.
My mother, I say, my cheeks flushing, decided it was wiser to nurture my musical talents instead of my culinary skills. I was their meal ticket.
Theres a sad story behind my words, of course, and I know he can read between the lines. I dont delve into it, and Damien doesnt press.
Instead, he moves a little closer to me.
Well have to work on that, or else youll starve to death.
Not if I have you.
Id like to do a lot more than that, he admits, his voice deep and raspy, and I know exactly what he means.
Then do it.