2. Lucille
— ? —
Lucille
I wake up alone.
The sheets beside me are cold, which means Hugo has been gone for hours.
The indentation of his body is barely visible, smoothed over by time or by my own restless tossing, and for one disorienting moment I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing, the pizza on the floor, the piano lesson, the way he said my name like it mattered.
Then I see his shirt crumpled at the foot of the bed, the one I was wearing last night, and I remember.
I also remember the phone. The article. The photograph of my husband with his arm around a red-haired girl, both of them laughing like the world was a private joke only they understood.
I spent four hours reading everything I could find about Ginny Davies after Hugo fell asleep.
Four hours of archived interviews and old social media posts and fan forums dissecting the leaked duet like it held the secrets of the universe.
Four hours of learning about a woman who apparently knew my husband better than I do, who collaborated with him and dated him and inspired music I’ve never heard him play.
Four hours of torturing myself with a past I have no right to be jealous of.
It was college. It was years ago. People have histories, and Hugo never promised me his.
But he also never mentioned her. Not once in two years. And the way he was singing in that demo, the raw aching tenderness of it… that’s not how you sing about a class project.
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water pound the exhaustion from my shoulders. By the time I make it downstairs, it’s nearly ten, and I can hear Hugo’s voice drifting from his study.
He’s on the phone, his tone clipped and professional in a way that tells me it’s Derek.
His manager calls at least three times a day when Hugo’s between tours, always with an urgent issue, always with a crisis that can’t wait.
I’ve learned to recognize the particular tension in Hugo’s shoulders when he’s dealing with label business, the way he holds himself like a man bracing for a blow.
I pause in the hallway, not quite eavesdropping but not quite walking away either.
“I don’t care how it got out,” Hugo is saying. “What I care about is making it go away.”
A pause. Derek’s voice buzzes through the phone, too muffled for me to make out words.
“No. Absolutely not.” Hugo’s laugh is hollow and humorless. “I’m not doing interviews about a song I wrote when I was twenty-one, Derek. It was a class project. It wasn’t supposed to exist outside of a grade.”
More buzzing. I press my back against the wall, my heart thudding.
“Ginny and I dated for a semester. One semester, seven years ago. We wrote that song for a composition class because we were assigned to collaborate, and then we broke up and I haven’t spoken to her since graduation.
” His voice tightens. “I don’t care what the fans want.
I’m not revisiting ancient history for clicks. ”
I should walk away. I should go to the kitchen and make coffee and pretend I didn’t hear any of this, pretend I’m not cataloging every word like evidence.
One semester. Seven years ago. Composition class. Broke up. Haven’t spoken since.
It should make me feel better. It doesn’t.
Because I heard the song. I heard the way their voices wound together, the intimacy of those harmonies, and no amount of reasonable explanation can erase the image of them in that photograph, young and laughing and so clearly, painfully in love.
Hugo never looks at me like that.
I finally force myself to move, padding into the kitchen and starting the coffee maker with hands that aren’t quite steady. A few minutes later, Hugo appears in the doorway, phone still pressed to his ear.
He glances at me once, distracted, distant, and mouths “sorry” before disappearing into his study.
The door clicks shut behind him.
And just like that, the Hugo from last night evaporates. The one who played piano for me, who asked about my work, who said he missed me in hotel beds. That Hugo is gone, replaced by the familiar stranger who moves through our house like I’m furniture he’s learned to navigate around.
I pour my coffee and drink it standing at the counter, staring at the closed study door, and I tell myself this is fine. This is normal. This is the marriage I signed up for.
I almost believe it.
He emerges three hours later, and I’m still in the kitchen because I didn’t know where else to go.
I’ve been sketching, or trying to. My pencil keeps drifting toward shapes that look like piano keys, like wild red hair, like the curve of a laughing mouth. I’ve torn out four pages already and started fresh each time, but my hands won’t cooperate.
“Hey.” Hugo stops in the doorway, running a hand through his hair. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday. “Sorry about that. Derek’s been…” He shakes his head. “It’s been a morning.”
“I heard.”
His eyes narrow. “What did you hear?”
“Enough.” I set down my pencil and meet his gaze, keeping my voice level even though my hands want to shake. “You never told me about her.”
For a moment, guilt flickers across his face, or maybe surprise. Then the wall comes down, that careful blankness he wears like armor.
“It was college,” he says. “It ended.”
“The internet seems to think it was more than nothing.”
“The internet thinks a lot of things.”
“They’re calling it the love song of the decade, Hugo.
” I stand up from the counter, needing to move, needing to not be sitting down for this conversation.
“They’re analyzing the lyrics like they’re a roadmap to your soul.
There are fan edits set to our wedding photos with captions about how you settled. ”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” The question comes out with more edge than I intend. “You wrote a song with this woman that’s more intimate than anything you’ve ever played for me, and you never once mentioned she existed. In two years of marriage, her name never came up. Not once.”
Hugo’s jaw tightens. “Because she wasn’t relevant. We dated for a few months in college, we wrote one song for a grade, and then it ended. There was nothing to tell.”
“You were in love with her.”
“I was twenty-one. I didn’t know what love was.”
“And now?”
The question hangs between us, with more weight than I meant it to carry. I watch his face for any crack in the armor, any sign of the man who held me last night and said he missed me, but all I see is the wall.
“Now I’m married to you,” he says finally. “Whatever I felt for Ginny Davies ended seven years ago. I don’t know how that song got leaked, but it has nothing to do with my life anymore.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it aches.
But I can still hear their voices in my head, twining together like they were made for each other, and I can still see the photograph of them laughing, and I can still feel the cold sheets this morning where his body should have been.
“The label wants you to re-record it,” I say, because I need to know. “With her.”
Hugo’s expression darkens. “How do you know that?”
“I told you. I heard enough.”
“They pitched it this morning. Derek thinks it’s an opportunity.” He practically spits the word. “The song is trending, fans are demanding the full version, and the label sees dollar signs. They want Ginny and me in a studio together, recreating our college magic for the masses.”
My stomach drops. “And?”
“And I said no.” He crosses the room to the coffee maker, pours himself a cup with quick, angry movements. “I told Derek to tell them I’m not interested in exploiting ancient history for a publicity stunt. Whatever Ginny and I had is over. I’m not pretending otherwise for album sales.”
A knot loosens in my chest, one I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
He said no.
He said no, and he sounds furious about being asked, and maybe that means last night wasn’t a fluke, wasn’t just tour-exhaustion and proximity. Maybe he actually meant it when he said he wanted to be here.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
Hugo turns, coffee cup in hand, and frowns. “For what?”
“For saying no. You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.” He sets down the cup and closes the distance between us, stopping just short of touching me.
“I know I’m not good at this. I know I disappear into work and I forget to be present and I’ve given you every reason to doubt me.
But I meant what I said last night. I want to be here. I want to try.”
“Hugo…”
“The song with Ginny was a lifetime ago. It doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.” His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “You’re my wife. You’re the one I chose.”
You didn’t choose me, I think. Your father chose me. This whole marriage was a business arrangement dressed up in white tulle.
But I don’t say that. I lean into his touch and let myself believe, just for a moment, that we might actually be okay.
Florence calls while Hugo is in the shower.
My mother-in-law’s name flashes across my phone screen, and I answer without thinking, expecting the usual pleasantries, how was the tour, how are you holding up, when are you coming for dinner.
“Lucille, darling.” Florence’s voice is warm and conspiratorial. “Tell me you’ve seen this mess with the leaked song.”
I sink onto the couch, phone pressed to my ear. “I’ve seen it.”
“Hideous, isn’t it? I’ve had three calls already from women in my book club wanting the inside scoop.
Apparently the internet has decided my son is tragically pining for his college sweetheart while trapped in a loveless arranged marriage.
” She snorts delicately. “As if Hugo has ever pined for anything in his life. That boy wouldn’t know a grand romantic gesture if it bit him. ”
Despite everything, I find myself almost smiling. Florence Kensington is a force of nature, old Hollywood money married to new Nashville royalty, with opinions on everything and the social capital to voice them. She’s the only member of Hugo’s family who’s ever made me feel like I belong here.