Chapter 18 Ellie
EIGHTEEN
Ellie
“Okay, don’t forget: we changed the order of the first few songs, and the outfit change halfway through is happening later now. Oh, and—”
“Fireworks are going off right before the last song,” I said. “I know, Rach.”
She gave a big, dramatic sigh. “I know you do. That’s why you’re the superstar. You’ll do great.”
I smiled faintly, settling into the vanity chair as the low hum of the opening act came through the walls.
Rachel hovered for a second longer. “I’ll go check on things out there. Sawyer’s out in the tent, all heart-eyed, waiting for you. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The door clicked shut behind her. My fingers found the familiar weight of silver at my earlobes, adjusting what didn't need adjusting.
The woman in the mirror wore my face but someone else's composure—steady gaze, shoulders squared, the practiced stillness of repetition.
Someone who had done this a hundred times before.
The door opened again. At first, I thought Rachel had come back, but no. Instead, it was the last person I ever wanted to see.
Harold.
He stepped inside with that same cocky stride I'd once mistaken for confidence and that too-familiar face that now made my skin crawl.
I shot to my feet. “How the hell did you get back here?”
He dangled a lanyard between his fingers, displaying his tour badge.
“Still works, apparently,” he said in a clipped tone.
I moved toward the door. “You need to leave. Now.”
His jaw worked slowly. “Ellie, come on. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
My stomach lurched, but I forced steel into my voice. “Actually, it does. Leave.”
“Try to look at it from my point of view.” He gestured helplessly before his hands fell to his sides.
“I was trying to save what was left of us. You were drowning, pulling me down with you. I thought…” He ran his hand through his hair.
“I thought if I gave you space, you'd realize how good we are for each other. Come on; everyone thinks so.”
The audacity of this fucking man.
“You're delusional if you think we're getting back together after that pathetic speech. You've been dragging me through the press for weeks, and now you break into my dressing room to tell me we're good together?”
“I was there every single time you fell apart." His voice cracked. “That counts for something. You need me.”
“No.” The word came out with a bitter laugh. “I used to think I did, but you liked it that way, didn't you?”
Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe? Or just annoyance at being caught. “That's not how it was.”
“Oh, then tell me how it was.” I stepped closer. “Because from where I'm standing, you never loved me. You loved the access, the spotlight, the version of me you could parade around. The story you could sell to the highest bidder.”
“That's not…” He reached for me then caught himself, his hands trembling before he buried them in his pockets. “Ellie.”
The door swung open, and Rachel appeared, phone already in hand.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” she barked. “Security's on their way.”
Harold’s gaze flicked between us. “Come on, Rachel. Give us a minute.”
“Minute’s up,” she said flatly.
His voice turned pleading, desperate, as he looked back at me. “Please. I know I screwed up, but we can—”
Sawyer filled the doorway like a storm front moving in. No words. No warning. Just steady, terrifying calm. His eyes locked on Harold, and every hair on my body stood on end.
“I think it's time for you to go,” Sawyer said, his voice low.
Harold straightened. “This is none of your business.”
Sawyer didn't even blink. He placed himself between Harold and me, blocking his access to me completely.
“It became my business the second you opened your mouth to my girlfriend. Go. Now.”
“Or what?” Harold seethed.
Sawyer smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Or I'll make sure you understand why that's not a smart question to ask.”
Harold looked past Sawyer to me. “Is this about him? Seriously? You think he'll still think you're perfect when the honeymoon phase dies, and he sees what I had to deal with? I gave you everything. You'll come crawling back. You always do.”
Rachel groaned. “Oh, shut up already.”
Harold’s gaze shifted back to Sawyer. “This won't last. She's too much of a fucking mess for anyone to handle.”
Sawyer let out a bitter laugh. “That's weird. She's been exactly what I needed.”
Harold’s mouth opened like he was going to argue, but when Sawyer stepped toward him, he shut up.
Harold backed up. Once. Twice. His shoulder hit the doorframe.
“Don't forget to turn in that badge on your way out,” Rachel called after him.
The door slammed. My hands shook as Rachel whispered something to security. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I muttered.
“I need to make sure they escort him out. You got her?” she asked Sawyer.
“I got her,” he said.
She slipped out, leaving us alone. He turned to me and opened his arms. I stepped into him without thinking twice.
“Ellie baby,” he said against my hair. The cold, hard edge he had with Harold melted in an instant.
I gripped his shirt and pressed my face to his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat slowly pulled mine back from the edge. He didn't say anything, simply running his hand up and down my back until the trembling stopped. When I finally pulled away, his thumb brushed under my eye.
“You okay?”
Yeah,” I said, letting out a breath. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit's optional here.”
My laugh came out broken.
“You can cancel the show if you need the night to breathe.”
"Sawyer, I can't just… The fans. My parents. Everyone’s waiting on me.”
“You, El.” His voice was quiet but steady. “We’re talking about you. I need you to be okay.”
I looked away.
He tipped my chin back and met my gaze. “I’ll support you either way. I’ll take you back to your hotel. I’ll stand backstage the entire time if you need me to. Hell, I’ll stand on stage with you. It’s your call.”
“Everything feels…” I searched for the words. “Fuck, I don’t want him to have power over me. I need a minute. I can’t let him win by cancelling the show.”
I stared down at our joined hands as his thumb traced small circles on my knuckles.
“Harold’s an asshole who doesn't know the first thing about you.”
“But what if he's right?” I whispered, gripping his hands tighter. “What if I'm a manufactured pop star who is nothing but a mess?”
“You write your own songs?”
“Yes.”
“You play guitar?”
“Since I could walk basically.”
“You sang in dive bars before anyone knew your name?”
I nodded.
“Then you're not manufactured, El. You're successful.”
“What if I go out there and freeze up?”
“Then I'll come get you.”
I swallowed. “If I forget the words?”
“I have no doubt you could sing every song in your sleep.”
“If I'm terrible?”
He smiled. “Impossible.”
“Why?” The word barely made it past my lips.
“Why what?”
“Why do you care this much?”
He stared at me like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Because you matter to me. Not the singer. Not the public image. Not even the fake girlfriend I can’t stop thinking about. Just you. I care. A lot.”
I took a shaky breath. “Okay. I can do it.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”
“Yeah,” I said, firmer. “I want to.”
The dressing room door flew open, and Rachel rushed in, her eyes darting between us.
“We stalled the opening act—gave them a couple more songs,” she blurted. “We’ve got flexibility. We can push your set. Cancel, delay, whatever you need. Say the word.”
I leaned into Sawyer for half a second longer. Then, I stood taller. “Give me ten minutes?”
Rachel cocked her head. “You sure?”
Sawyer slid his hand into mine, steady and warm. “Give her twenty, just to be safe.”
Rachel nodded. “You got it.”