Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Grace
The arena was packed, thousands of fans screaming in unison, their voices blending into a deafening roar that vibrated through the air.
The entire stadium pulsed with anticipation, lights flashing in rhythmic waves, banners waving in the air with Dominic’s name printed across them.
It was chaos, but it was controlled chaos, the kind that only came with meticulous planning, expensive production, and years of experience in the industry.
I stood backstage, arms crossed, watching the crew move like clockwork, checking lighting cues, adjusting sound levels, making last-minute changes.
Every movement was calculated, every detail fine-tuned to create the illusion of perfection.
And in the middle of it all was Dominic Beethoven.
He stood just beyond the curtain, waiting for his cue, completely still despite the storm of activity around him.
A stylist made a last-second adjustment to his mic pack, a crew member murmured something into his earpiece, but Dominic barely acknowledged them.
His focus was locked on the stage, on the blinding lights beyond the curtain, on the energy building in the crowd.
He was calm. Almost too calm.
I had seen him in plenty of different environments—at exclusive events, in corporate meetings, at late-night gatherings where he played the role of the charming golden boy.
But here? Here, he was something else. He wasn’t performing yet, but he wasn’t himself either.
It was like watching a predator just before it moved, coiled energy waiting to be unleashed.
The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, the crowd exploding into deafening cheers. The stage lights shifted, the cue was given, and Dominic stepped forward.
And just like that, he transformed.
He walked onto that stage like he owned the world, confidence dripping from every step, his signature smirk playing at his lips as he lifted the mic to his mouth.
The second he spoke, the crowd lost their minds, screaming, reaching, desperate to touch him, to get even the slightest acknowledgment.
He gave them exactly what they wanted, his voice smooth, effortless, teasing as he greeted them.
Then the first beat dropped, and the world exploded.
The entire stadium seemed to come alive, the bass thrumming through the floor, the crowd jumping, hands waving in perfect synchronization. And Dominic? He controlled it all. Every movement, every note, every shift in the music—it was his kingdom, and they were all under his spell.
I had seen performers before. Seen how artists fed off the energy of the crowd, how they let the music take them. But Dominic didn’t just perform. He commanded.
His voice was flawless, rich and smooth as it echoed through the speakers.
He moved across the stage with effortless precision, every glance, every smirk, every flick of his fingers sending the crowd into a frenzy.
They worshipped him. They screamed his name like a prayer, held onto every lyric like it was meant just for them.
And for the first time, I understood.
It wasn’t just about the music. It wasn’t just about fame.
It was him.
He had something that couldn’t be manufactured, something beyond the industry and its carefully crafted image. He had a presence. A power that couldn’t be faked.
I was supposed to be focused on security, supposed to be scanning the crowd, looking for threats, watching the exits. But for the first time, my attention wavered.
Because I was watching him.
The way he held the microphone close, voice dropping lower, sending shivers through the stadium. The way he reached for the crowd, his smile teasing, his confidence absolute. The way he let the music consume him, making the performance look effortless, even though I knew it wasn’t.
Dominic Beethoven was built for this.
The song swelled toward its climax, the entire arena shaking with energy. The fans screamed, reaching for him, hanging onto every note like it was oxygen. And then, with one final beat, the song ended, the lights plunging into darkness.
Silence.
For half a second, the world held its breath.
Then the entire stadium erupted, the applause deafening, the screams rising so high they nearly shattered the air. Dominic stood there, breathing hard, sweat glistening under the stage lights, staring out at the crowd like he was taking all of it in. Like he was memorizing the moment.
And just like that, he gave them one last smirk, one last glance, and disappeared into the shadows of backstage.
I followed.
Backstage was chaos, but Dominic moved through it like he didn’t feel any of it.
Crew members congratulated him, stylists rushed forward with towels, managers whispered updates about press waiting outside.
He nodded, thanked them, played his part.
But the second he was out of sight from the cameras, something in his posture shifted.
His shoulders lowered slightly. The smirk faded. He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling quietly.
No one noticed.
No one ever noticed.
Except me.
I wasn’t sure why I followed him, wasn’t sure why my feet moved before I could think better of it.
But before I knew it, I was stepping through a door that led up to the rooftop of the arena.
The city stretched out below, skyscrapers glowing against the dark sky, the distant hum of life still buzzing beyond the stadium walls.
He leaned against the railing, silent.
I hesitated in the doorway, about to turn back, but his voice cut through the quiet.
"You still think I’m fake, don’t you?"
I exhaled slowly. "I don’t know what I think."
He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. "That’s progress."
I watched him, trying to read him. Trying to piece him together. He was always in control, always playing the role he was expected to. But right now? Right now, he looked tired. Not just physically, but in a way that settled deep.
"You like this," I said after a moment. "The stage. The energy. The way they look at you."
He didn’t deny it.
"But it drains you too," I added.
His fingers tapped against the railing, thoughtful. "It’s the only thing that makes sense sometimes."
I frowned. "What does that mean?"
He turned his head slightly, meeting my gaze. "Out there, everything is clear. Everything is loud, but it makes sense. I know what they want. I know how to give it to them. But offstage?" His jaw tightened briefly. "Offstage, things get... complicated."
I understood more than I wanted to admit.
I leaned against the opposite side of the railing, the space between us small, but not uncomfortable. "You ever think about walking away?"
He studied me for a long moment before answering. "No."
I wasn’t sure if I believed him.
He exhaled, looking out over the city again. "You judge me a lot, Dauntless."
I didn’t look away. "Because you give me a lot to judge."
He smirked, but there was something softer in his expression now. "You want me to be shallow. To be everything you’ve decided I am."
I stayed silent.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. "One day, you’re going to realize I’m more than you ever expected."
The space between us was small now. Too small. I could hear the quiet steadiness of his breathing, could see the way his gaze flickered over my face, searching for something. I should have moved. Should have stepped back. But I didn’t.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t so sure.