Chapter 18
Charlie
He left.
I keep replaying it in my head—the way Taio appeared in the doorway of the pool house while I was mid-sentence with Devon about the bridge section of “Hypnotic.” The way his face looked tight, closed off, nothing like the man who’d had me in his mouth three hours earlier.
The way he said he needed to take a rain check for our date because of a “family emergency” without meeting my eyes.
“Take the jet,” I offered immediately. “Marcus can have it ready in an hour.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It’s a nineteen-hour drive to New York. Or like, three hours if you fly. Just take the jet, Taio. It’s sitting there doing nothing.”
“I already booked a flight.” His voice was clipped. Professional. Like we were back to being client and hired help instead of whatever we’d become in that bedroom. “Red-eye leaves at eleven. I’ll be back in a day or two. Stay safe.”
A day or two. Like he was running to the grocery store instead of fleeing across the country.
I wanted to push. Wanted to ask what was really going on, why he suddenly couldn’t look at me, why he was choosing a cramped commercial flight over the comfort of a private plane.
But the dancers were watching—pretending not to, but definitely watching—and something in Taio’s posture told me this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have in public.
So I just nodded and said “okay, let me know if you need anything.” I watched him walk back into the guesthouse to pack his bag. I got so distracted with the dancers and our new Herculean task, I didn’t even register when he left.
And now it’s two in the morning and I’m lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the last twelve hours, trying to figure out where I went wrong.
It was the date thing. It had to be.
I suggested we order in instead of going out. I basically made it clear I wanted to keep us hidden, keep him secret. I know I hurt him. Something shifted in his face. I felt the distance open up between us like a crack in the earth.
Shit.
I treated him like a dirty little secret. Like an escort. The very thing he doesn’t want to be when it comes to me.
No wonder he left. I bet there’s no family emergency.
I roll onto my side, pulling a pillow against my chest like it might fill the space where he should be. The sheets still smell faintly like him, that cedar cologne, something warm and spicy underneath. There’s a weight on my chest making every breath strained.
This is ridiculous. I’ve known him for what, a few weeks? We’ve shared exactly one sexual experience that didn’t even technically count as sex. He has a whole other life outside of me. For some reason, I don’t like that. Not that he has another life, just that I’m not a part of it.
I stare at my phone on the nightstand, willing it to light up with his name.
It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. He’s probably still in the air, crammed into a middle seat between a snoring businessman and someone’s emotional support animal, deliberately choosing discomfort over accepting anything from me.
God, I’m such a mess.
The thing is, I get it. I understand why he’d be hurt.
Everything people see of me is manufactured—from the boyfriend who exists only in photo ops to the sparkly persona that bears no resemblance to who I am when no one’s watching.
I’ve spent years polishing an image that doesn’t even feel like me anymore.
How could I ask Taio to step into this funhouse-mirror version of a relationship?
What kind of person would willingly sign up for that?
But the alternative is…what? Going public with the escort I hired to pretend to be my bodyguard? Announcing to the world that America’s sweetheart is dating a man whose job may or may not be legal? The headlines write themselves. The scandal would make the balcony thing look like a minor PR hiccup.
I could lose everything.
Then again…what exactly am I holding on to?
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I let it sit there for a moment, examining it from different angles.
What am I so afraid of losing? A career that’s made me miserable?
An image that requires constant maintenance?
The approval of millions of strangers who’d turn on me the moment I stop performing for them?
I think about Claire, pregnant and radiant, building a life that has nothing to do with fame or followers.
I think about my dancers today, the way they lit up when I gave them permission to be more than background decoration.
I think about Taio reading romance novels because he wants to believe in happy endings.
What if I just…stopped?
Not forever. Not dramatically. But what if, after this tour, I actually took the break I’ve been pretending I don’t need? What if I took some time to figure out who Charlie Riley is when she’s not performing for anyone?
The idea is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
I’ve been on since I was sixteen. Nearly a decade of constant visibility, constant output, constant pressure to be bigger, better, more.
When was the last time I did something just because I wanted to?
When was the last time I made a choice that wasn’t filtered through “how will this affect my brand?”
I need to prove to Taio that I’m serious about him. That he’s not just a convenient secret, a safe practice run before I find someone more publicly acceptable. But how do I do that when my entire existence is built around image management?
Maybe I start by dismantling the image.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I lunge for it so fast I nearly knock over the water glass beside it.
Please be Taio. Please be Taio. Please be—
Grayson Hemsley.
My insides twist like I’ve swallowed ice water too fast. Grayson’s name pulses on the screen, demanding attention it doesn’t deserve at this hour. My thumb hovers over the red decline button. It’s two in the morning. What could he possibly want?
I can’t resist the pull of the unknown. My thumb betrays me, sliding to accept.
“Hello?”
“Charlie. Hey!” His voice is bright, energetic, completely inappropriate for this hour. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s two in the morning, Grayson.”
“Right, right. Time zones. I always forget Miami’s three hours ahead.” His words slur slightly at the edges. “I’m in LA. Just got out of this…thing, and I was thinking about you.”
The pause before “thing” stretches just long enough for me to fill it with images of perfume-scented sheets and lipstick on his collar.
“You were thinking about me.” I say it flatly, not bothering to hide my skepticism.
“I saw the clips from your Miami show. The piano thing? That was actually really cool. I didn’t know you could play like that. I didn’t know you could sing like that.”
I blink at my ceiling, trying to recalibrate.
In the three months since our teams arranged this fake relationship, Grayson has shown approximately zero interest in my actual life.
Our interactions have been limited to carefully staged photo ops, the occasional text coordinating logistics, and one deeply awkward dinner where we ran out of things to talk about before the appetizers arrived.
Now suddenly he’s calling in the middle of the night to praise my artistic choices?
“Are you drunk or on drugs tonight, Grayson?”
He laughs, but there’s something forced about it. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m trying to be a better boyfriend here.”
“No need. We’re not actually dating, remember? This is a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial PR strategy. Your words, not mine.”
“I know, I know. But we’re supposed to be selling it, right?
And I’ve been thinking—” He pauses, and I hear ice clinking in a glass.
Of course he’s drinking. “Maybe I haven’t been pulling my weight.
Like, I hear about your tour drama through TMZ instead of from you directly. That’s not very boyfriend-ly of me.”
“Boyfriend-ly.”
“It’s a word. I’m making it a word.” He barrels on before I can respond. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know I’m planning to come out to your Tampa show. Make an appearance. Show some support. Do the whole loving boyfriend routine, really sell the thing.”
My blood runs cold. “You’re coming to Tampa?”
“My publicist thinks it’ll be good optics. Ever since that bodyguard thing, we haven’t been photographed together. People think we broke up and are keeping it a secret. Let me set the record straight at your concert.” He makes a squeaky sound like he’s pushing debris through his teeth.
“Grayson, it’s not necessary—”
“It’s already in motion.” His voice takes on a slightly harder edge beneath the casual veneer.
I close my eyes, feeling a headache forming behind my temples.
“Unless there’s some reason you don’t want me there?” he asks. “You’re not still messing with the help, are you?”
“The help? As in Taio, my friend?”
“Oh come on, Charlie. I know we stay out of each other’s business and stuff, but I know what you were doing on that balcony.”
“I’m not sure if you’re accusing me of something, but I don’t say a word about the parade of women I know you keep lined up at your door.”
He laughs, which is such a bizarre response to that. “But I’m way more subtle. You haven’t had to clean up any of my scandals, have you?”
“Wow, Grayson. Classy. I can really feel the boyfriend-ly support bleeding through the speakerphone.”
“All right, all right,” he singsongs. “I didn’t call to fight. I just called to let you know I’m here. If you need anything. We should be better friends, Charlie. What do you think?”
If Grayson Hemsley is my friend, then I have to stop calling Taio that. They are opposites. They should be kept on different hemispheres. They aren’t even the same species.
“Okay, well, thank you, Grayson. That’s really thoughtful. Always helps to have more friendly faces in the crowd.”
“I mean, I’ll be in VIP, right? I’m not going to watch your concert from the nosebleeds.”
Prince Charmless, everybody.