2. Lucille #3
Hugo has spent two years making it clear where I rank in his priorities. His music comes first. It always has. It’s the one thing he actually loves without reservation, without walls, without the careful distance he maintains with everything else.
If it comes down to his album or my comfort, there’s no competition.
I watch him standing at the window, shoulders bowed, and I feel a fracture open in my chest. Not my heart, that would be too dramatic, too clean. This is messier than heartbreak. This is the slow erosion of hope, the quiet understanding that I will never be enough.
He’s going to do the duet. He’s going to stand in a studio with Ginny Davies and recreate their college magic and pretend it’s just business.
And I’m going to watch.
I turn and walk back to my sewing room, closing the door softly behind me.
The burgundy silk blurs in front of my eyes, and I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear lands on the fabric, leaving a dark stain I’ll have to cut around later.
I don’t go back downstairs. I don’t offer comfort or support or understanding.
I just sit in the growing dark and wait for the other shoe to drop.
An hour later, Hugo knocks on my door.
“Lucille?”
I wipe my face quickly, straightening in my chair.
“Come in.”
He opens the door and stands in the threshold, backlit by the hallway light. I can’t see his expression, but I can read the tension in his body, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands hang at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“I’m not going to do it,” he says quietly.
I blink. “What?”
“The duet. The press tour. Any of it.” He steps into the room, and now I can see his face, determined, almost angry.
“I don’t care what they threaten. I’m not going to perform some fake romance with my ex-girlfriend while my wife sits at home wondering if any of it is real. That’s not who I want to be.”
Hope flutters in my chest, fragile and terrified.
“Hugo, your album…”
“Can wait. Or not. I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe I’ll find another label. Maybe I’ll release it independently. Maybe I’ll just… not release it at all. But I’m not doing this. I’m not sacrificing our marriage for a promotional strategy.”
Our marriage. He said our marriage.
I stand up from my chair, legs unsteady.
“You’d really walk away from your album?”
“If that’s what it takes.” He closes the distance between us, taking my hands in his. “I know I’ve been terrible at showing it, but you matter to me, Lucille. More than music. More than any of this.”
I want to believe him. I want to so badly it hurts.
But before I can respond, his phone buzzes. Then again. Then again.
He glances at the screen, and his face goes pale.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
“It’s Derek.” Hugo’s voice is hollow. “The label didn’t wait until Friday. They just announced the duet officially. Ginny’s already posted about it. They’re saying we start recording next week.”
My hands go cold in his grip.
“They announced it without your consent?”
“They’re forcing my hand. If I back out now, I look like the villain. Like I’m the one who broke my word.” His laugh is bitter, broken. “They played me, Lucille. They played me perfectly.”
The hope in my chest gutters and dies.
Because I understand now. It doesn’t matter what Hugo wants. It doesn’t matter what he chooses. The machine is already in motion, and we’re both just caught in its gears.
I pull my hands from his and take a step back.
“Lucille…”
“I need a minute.” My voice sounds strange, distant. “I just need a minute.”
I walk past him, down the stairs, into the kitchen where a bottle of wine sits on the counter from two nights ago, which feels like a lifetime.
I pour a glass with hands that don’t shake anymore.
They’ve gone numb.
Hugo follows me down, his footsteps loud on the stairs.
“We’ll figure this out,” he says from the doorway. “I’ll call my lawyer, I’ll find a loophole, I’ll…”
The doorbell rings.
We both freeze.
Hugo crosses to answer it, and I hear Derek’s voice again, higher now, almost frantic.
“I came as fast as I could. Hugo, listen to me, this isn’t what I wanted either, but the label isn’t playing games anymore. They’re leveraging everything they have.”
“I gathered that from the announcement they made without my permission.”
“It’s worse than that.” Derek steps inside, and his eyes find mine across the room before he looks away.
“They’re threatening to sue if you don’t comply.
Breach of contract, damages, the works. And Ginny’s already talking to press about how excited she is to reunite with you.
If you back out now, you’ll look like you’re punishing her for being enthusiastic. ”
“This is insane.”
“This is the industry.” Derek’s voice is flat. “Do the duet, Hugo. Do it and get it over with and move on. It’s one song. One video. A few interviews. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Hugo’s face goes blank, that terrible, expressionless mask I know means he’s shutting down, retreating behind his walls.
“Fine,” he says, and the word sounds like surrender. “Set up the sessions. I’ll do it.”
Derek exhales with relief. “I’ll call them tonight. We can…”
But I’m not listening anymore.
I set down my wine glass with a careful, deliberate click.
I turn and walk out of the kitchen, past both men, toward the stairs.
“Lucille, wait…” Hugo reaches for me.
I don’t stop. I don’t turn around. I don’t let either of them see the way my face is crumbling, the way two years of carefully maintained composure are finally giving way.
I make it to the bedroom and close the door behind me, and only then do I let myself fall apart.
He’s going to do it.
After everything he said, everything he promised, he’s going to stand in a studio with her and sing love songs and pretend it’s just business.
And I’m going to watch.
Again.