35. Chapter Thirty-Five #2
The public narrative had starved for months, surviving on sunset posts, timing, and people projecting love stories onto the sky's color.
Now that my career was visibly shifting, now that magazine covers were printing my face, now that the headlining tour was a real industry move, they wanted to package me into a romance again.
Because romance sold. Because women couldn't just be talented. They had to be desired, attached to, claimed, and heartbroken. Something.
Anger tightened my grip on my phone.
Grant knocked once, then walked in with the PR lead right behind him.
The PR lead smiled too brightly. "Hi, Lila."
I forced my own smile. "Hi."
Grant's eyes flicked to Harper, then back. "We need five minutes."
Harper stood immediately. "I'll be in the hallway pretending I'm not eavesdropping."
She left.
The PR lead perched on the edge of my couch, legs crossed. "Okay. So. The narrative."
I stared at her. "We're still doing the narrative."
"We're doing your narrative," she said. "Which is amazing. Solo tour. Covers. Viral song. You're the moment."
Grant nodded, expression neutral.
"And because you're the moment," she continued, "people are going to ask about the other moment."
"No."
She blinked. "No?"
"I'm not making a romantic statement," I said. "I'm not addressing Evan. My career story stands alone."
Her smile tightened. "It's not about him. It's about you controlling the messaging."
"I am controlling it by not giving you that."
Grant's mouth twitched, approval hidden behind professionalism.
The PR lead tried again. "People want closure. They want to know if you're on good terms."
"I don't owe strangers closure."
She held up her hands. "Okay. Fair. What about something vague? Something empowering. 'I'm focusing on growth and love in all forms.'"
I almost laughed. "That sounds like a candle label."
Grant coughed into his fist. Badly.
The PR lead's cheeks flushed. "We can workshop."
"No."
"Lila," she said, "the more you refuse, the more they speculate."
"Let them."
Grant spoke before she could turn speculation into strategy. "We're not turning her tour into a relationship campaign."
The PR lead glanced between us. "I'm not trying to. I'm trying to protect her from getting dragged."
"I can handle being dragged," I said. "I can't handle being reduced."
Silence settled over the room.
The PR lead's posture shifted, as if she finally understood the actual boundary rather than the PR version of it.
Grant nodded. "We keep the focus on the music. If asked, she says she's grateful, she's focused on the work. That's it."
The PR lead swallowed. "Okay. But if something changes, you tell me."
"If something changes," I said, "it will be because I choose it. Not because you need a storyline."
She nodded, then stood. "Message received."
She left.
Grant exhaled and rubbed his forehead. "You did good."
"They're going to hate me."
"They'll live," Grant said. "And the right people will respect it."
"I hope so."
His eyes shifted, the sharp manager edges easing for a second. "You're building a career that doesn't require a man's name in the headline."
I nodded.
He reached into his folder and pulled out another sheet. "Speaking of headlines. The premiere is announced."
My stomach tightened. "The movie."
"Red carpet. Press. Industry. The whole thing."
My pulse jumped. "When?"
He tapped the date on the page. "Six weeks."
Close enough to feel real.
Grant watched my face. "You're invited."
"Okay."
"He's invited too."
Of course he was.
"He's part of the soundtrack package," Grant said. "And he's Evan."
"So we'll be in the same place."
"Yes. Public. Cameras. Questions."
I exhaled, trying to keep my face neutral.
Grant's expression turned careful. "You don't have to go."
"Yes, I do."
He nodded. "Okay."
I stared at the paper in his hand, the printed premiere details too official to ignore.
Same event, same carpet, same flashbulbs. Public and private were about to collide again, whether we were ready or not.
Grant folded the paper and slid it back into the folder. "We'll plan. We'll keep you safe. We'll keep it focused on you."
I nodded.
After he left, Harper poked her head in. "Are you alive?"
"Barely."
She walked in and flopped onto my couch again. "Did they try to make you say you're soulmates?"
"They tried to make me say I love growth and love in all forms."
Harper gagged. "That's not a statement. That's a beige throw pillow."
I laughed, then the laughter faded into a quiet ache.
Harper's gaze sharpened. "Premiere?"
I blinked. "How do you know that already?"
"I have ears. Also, Finn texted me. He loves drama."
"We'll both be there."
Harper nodded. "Okay."
I stared at my phone on the table, the screen dark. I thought about the sunset posts. The timing. The way my thumb hovered over Evan's story and then pulled away.
We weren't talking. We were still noticing. We were still choosing distance. Now the world was about to put us in the same frame again.
Harper's voice cut through my thoughts. "You ready?"
"No."
"Good. Being ready is overrated. Being intentional is better."
"That's annoyingly wise."
"I contain multitudes."
I rolled my eyes, but my mouth twitched.
Outside my dressing room, the venue buzzed.
Tonight’s show waited. Tomorrow’s flight.
Next week’s interview. The tour announcement that was finally mine.
The premiere looming, ready to demand a public version of whatever Evan and I were doing in private—which, at the moment, was mostly silence and a camera roll full of sunset receipts.
I picked up my phone and opened my camera roll.
The saved sunset photo sat there, orange fading into purple. No caption. Just sky.
I didn't text him. I didn't need to.
In six weeks, the world would put us under the same lights again. This time, I had to decide what I was willing to let them see.