Page 25 of Night for Unsung Desires

He hesitates. I can feel his tense silence on the other end of the line. He’s wondering about the real reason I decided to stay home instead of attending the business dinner we had planned for tonight.

Of course, I can't tell him it's because of a visit from that handsome billionaire he told me to stay away from. Instead, I pretend to yawn and try to give him the right excuses.

I need to make him think I’m just tired.

"I'll make it up to you tomorrow," I promise him.

After a long pause, Brandon sighs. "Okay. I'll see you early tomorrow morning to continue with the recordings. Try to get some rest, and eat something healthy."

"I will."

Brandon cuts the call soon after, so I'm finally relieved.

I run over to the decorative mirror on one of the walls in the living room. This apartment doesn't belong to me. It actually belongs to the record label. According to my contract, Brandon manages my money and almost all my assets, but I hope that will change from next year onwards.

When that happens, I plan to buy a much warmer property than this one. I want a place with sunshine streaming through the windows and a terrace with a garden full of plants. Not at all like this modern, impersonal, white-and-gray building with its glass ornaments and colorless abstract art paintings that I barely understand.

I run my fingers through my hair, letting out a frustrated sigh as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The past few months have been a whirlwind of damage control, putting out one fire after another in the wake of my messy breakup with Logan.

The media firestorm was relentless, with every tabloid dissecting the drama and speculating about the sordid details. Brandon worked overtime to spin the narrative, portraying me as the innocent victim while Logan basked in the attention.

It's been an uphill battle to maintain the confidence of the record label, assuring them that I'm still the reliable cash cow they invested in. This upcoming tour is meant to be my redemption, a chance to prove that I can still sell out arenas and keep the money flowing.

But deep down, I know it's just a band-aid on a gaping wound. The real issue is my music, or rather, the lack of authenticity in the songs I've been peddling. They're hollow, empty shells crafted by a team of hit-makers to appeal to the masses.

I flip open my notebook, the one filled with my own raw, unfiltered lyrics. These are the songs that bleed my truth, the ones that strip away the glitz and glamour to expose the vulnerable woman underneath.

A pang of longing twists in my chest as I trace the words with my fingertips. This is the real me, the artist I've been aching to unleash upon the world.

But I know better than to bring it up with Brandon. He'll shut it down before I can even finish the pitch, insisting that my personal songwriting is too "risky" and "unmarketable." In his mind, I'm a product to be packaged and sold, not a creative force with a voice of my own.

Maybe after this tour, when I've proven my worth again, I can push harder. Demand more creative control, more input on the direction of my career. It's a dangerous gamble, one that could cost me everything if the label decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth.

I examine my face in the mirror. My makeup is simple but perfectly in place to highlight my attributes. My big eyes are masked by dark lashes and my loose, straight hair falls over my shoulders and down to my hips in a cascade of auburn that turns red when the sunlight hits it.

I know I can't solve the bigger issues tonight. The battle for creative control, the fight to reclaim my artistic identity, will have to wait. Tonight, I need to focus on the man whose piercing gaze has awakened something long-dormant within me.

The nerves begin to course through me as I arrange my black tank top over my shoulders, continuing to look at my demeanor from every angle. A sharp rap on the door jolts me from my thoughts.

He's here.

My hands fumble awkwardly for the stereo's control so the speakers won’t blare through the apartment. I turn it on in the middle of a low, soft jazz tune, run to the door, take a deep breath, and open it.

Damien stands right in front of me with his black dress shirt, no tie or jacket this time. His shirt is rolled up over to his elbows, exposing a path of tattoos running down his arms. My eyes travel over him until I meet his intense gaze.

"I brought dinner," Damien holds up a brown paper bag.

I back away, and he strides into the apartment, heading straight for the kitchen. His presence alone captivates me, and I find myself following him, my feet carrying me there without a second thought.

My stomach growls, and I realize how hungry I am, but it's not just the food that's got my attention.

Damien starts taking items out of the bag.

It’s then that I notice he hasn't brought a prepared meal but rather the ingredients to make it.

"You're planning to cook?"

He nods without even looking at me, and starts checking my fridge. "What are you in the mood for?" he asks.

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