12. Jaxon #2
My head snaps up. "What?"
"Major donor to the foundation," Luke explains. "Would look bad to exclude him."
"Great," I mutter. "Just what I need."
"Ignore him," Luke advises. "Focus on the performance, on Vivienne when she arrives. Do your couple thing, ok?"
The narrative. Always the narrative.
As showtime approaches, I feel the familiar pre-performance jitters intensify into something more acute.
It's been too long since I've been on stage.
Too much has changed. What if I can't access that part of myself anymore?
What if fatherhood and domestic life have dulled whatever edge made my music connect with audiences?
I pace the green room, trying to shake off the anxiety through movement. When that fails, I attempt meditation techniques my vocal coach taught me years ago. Nothing helps. My mind keeps circling back to the same questions: Who am I now? Which version of me belongs on that stage?
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Hart," a production assistant calls through the door.
I mumble acknowledgment, heart rate increasing. Sweat beads at my temples despite the room's aggressive air conditioning. This is not normal pre-show nerves. This is something deeper, more existential.
My phone buzzes with a text. Vivienne:
Escaped parental ambush. At the venue now. Where are you?
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by embarrassment at how desperately I wanted her here. I text back:
Green room 3. Down the hall from the main stage, left at the water cooler.
Less than two minutes later, there's a soft knock. When I open the door, Vivienne stands there. She has changed into a midnight blue dress that makes her look like a piece of the night sky, with stars included. Her expression shifts from smile to concern as she takes in my appearance.
"What's wrong?" she asks immediately, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.
"Nothing," I lie. "How was dinner?"
"Terrible, and we'll discuss it later," she dismisses. "You're pale and sweating. What's going on?"
I turn away, embarrassed by my own weakness. "Just... pre-show stuff. It's been a while."
"Jaxon." Her voice is gentle but firm. "Talk to me."
"I don't know if I can do this anymore," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Be that guy—the performer, the rockstar. Everything's different now. I'm different."
She studies me for a moment, then does something unexpected. She takes my hand and places it against her heart. Through the silk of her dress, I can feel her steady heartbeat.
"Feel that?" she asks softly. "That's real. And this—" She places her other hand over my racing heart. "This is real too. The rest is just context."
The simple gesture grounds me instantly, anchoring me to the present moment, to the connection between us.
"Your music comes from here," she continues, pressing gently against my chest. "Not from some image or persona. The guy who plays lullabies for Lily when she can't sleep, who composes at three in the morning because a melody won't let him rest—that's the same guy who belongs on that stage."
Her certainty steadies me, her faith more compelling than my doubt.
"When did you get so wise?" I ask, attempting humor to mask how deeply her words have affected me.
"I've always been wise," she retorts with a small smile. "You're just finally paying attention."
"Ten minutes, Mr. Hart," comes another call through the door.
Vivienne steps back, but keeps hold of my hand. "You've got this. And I'll be right there in the audience, watching the real you—the only you—do what you were born to do."
Something shifts in my chest, a certainty settling into place. I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles in a gesture of gratitude I can't fully articulate.
"Thank you," I say simply.
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Go get ready. I'll find my seat."
After she leaves, I take several deep breaths, feeling centered in a way I haven't since before Andrew's death. I'm not the same person I was then—but that doesn't mean I can't still access the part of me that lives for music, for connection through melody and lyrics.
When I step onto the stage eight minutes later, the roar of the crowd washes over me like a familiar wave. The anxiety doesn't disappear completely, but it transforms into the productive adrenaline that's always fueled my best performances.
The first two songs go smoothly—upbeat numbers that get the audience engaged, that remind my muscles and mind how this all works. I scan the VIP section between songs and spot Vivienne, radiant in her blue dress, watching me with undisguised pride.
The sight of her sends a surge of something powerful through me. Without thinking, I signal to Mike to change the planned setlist, to move to the song I wasn't sure I'd play tonight—the one I've been working on for weeks.
"For our final song," I tell the audience, "I'd like to play something new. Something I've been working on that doesn't have a title yet." I pause, eyes finding Vivienne again. "But it's about finding connections when you least expect it."
I move to the piano and the opening notes are soft, intimate, almost like I'm playing alone in my studio rather than for a thousand people.
I close my eyes, letting the melody carry me, thinking of Vivienne in that blue dress, of Lily's laughter during game night, of the strange family we've begun to form.
When I reach the bridge—the part Vivienne heard this morning—I open my eyes and find her again. She's watching me with such intensity, such open emotion, that the next words come without planning:
"I'd like to ask my fiancée to join me on stage for this part."
A spotlight finds her as the crowd murmurs with surprise and approval. Vivienne looks startled, but after a moment's hesitation, she stands. An usher guides her to the stage steps, and then she's beside me, beautiful and slightly bewildered.
"What are you doing?" she whispers as I guide her to stand next to the piano.
"Improvising," I admit, then address the audience again. "Vivienne hasn't heard this song completed yet. It's actually written for her."
The collective "aww" from the crowd makes her blush, but she remains poised, one hand resting on the piano as I begin to play again. The lyrics flow naturally, words about unexpected connections and second chances, about finding home in another person's eyes.
As I sing, I watch her reaction—the widening of her eyes as she recognizes herself in the lyrics, the soft parting of her lips when she realizes how long I've been working on this, how much of my heart is exposed in the melody.
By the final verse, tears shine in her eyes, though her composure never wavers. When I play the last note, the audience erupts in applause, but I hear nothing except the rapid beating of my own heart as Vivienne looks at me with an expression I can't fully decipher.
Without conscious thought, I stand from the piano bench and cross to her.
One hand cups her face, and then I'm kissing her, right there on stage in front of a thousand people and countless cameras.
Not for show, not for our arrangement, but because at this moment, it's the only thing that makes sense.
Her response is immediate, arms winding around my neck as she kisses me back with equal fervor. The applause crescendos around us, but it feels distant, secondary to the reality of Vivienne in my arms, her lips soft and insistent against mine.
When we finally break apart, her eyes are wide, questioning. I have no answers to give her—only the certainty that whatever line separated our arrangement from reality has just been irrevocably crossed.
I take her hand, turning to acknowledge the audience with a smile and a wave. As we exit the stage together, cameras flash incessantly, capturing what will undoubtedly become tomorrow's headlines.
In the wings, reality crashes back. Luke waits with an expression that mingles approval with calculation. Zackery Dean stands nearby, watching us with narrowed eyes. And Vivienne's hand trembles slightly in mine, the only outward sign of her inner turmoil.
"That," Luke says with satisfaction, "was exactly what we needed."
But as I look at Vivienne, at the confusion and vulnerability she's trying to hide behind her social mask, I know that what just happened had nothing to do with narratives or arrangements or strategic alliances.
What just happened was real. And now neither of us knows where that leaves us.