Page 85 of The Gargoyle and the Songbird

I push back from the table, my wings flexing with tension. “I need some air,” I mutter, turning away from Alvric’s piercing gaze.

As I stride from the room, my heart is heavy with the weight of my choices. But one thing is clear—I can’t keep living a lie, pretending to be someone I’m not.

With shaking hands, I pull out my phone, my finger hovering over the screen. I know what I have to do, but the thought of it sends a spike of pain through my chest.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Then, before I can lose my nerve, I type out the words that will change everything:

“I can’t do this anymore.”

32

ECCO

Isashay onto the red carpet, the flashing cameras igniting the night like a storm of lightning.

Reporters shout my name, their voices a cacophony against the backdrop of chattering onlookers and fans. The scent of expensive perfume hangs heavy in the air as excitement and anticipation rolls off the crowd in waves.

I’m a vision in azure and silver, at least according to Natalie—she never fails to pump me up. The sequins of my gown capture every sparkle of light, and the sleek lines of the dress whisper along my generous curves, clinging in all the right ways. My blue hair cascades down my back in glossy curls, each strand obediently in place, while my violet eyes are ringed with smoky shadows.

Thank the gods for stylists.

“Smile, Ecco!” someone calls, and I comply. I hope nobody can tell that beneath the camera-ready exterior, my heart’s doing a frantic drum solo.

Graeme’s text has been repeating in my mind all evening. “I can’t do this anymore.” It loops in my mind, relentless as the paparazzi’s flashes.

I dissect his words over and over, searching for subtext, trying to guess what he means.

Is he breaking up with me?The thought stabs at me, a pain so sharp I nearly stumble in my designer heels. It’s a familiar fear, built on disappointment after disappointment.

But no, Graeme is different.

Isn’t he?

“Love your work, Ecco! Who are you wearing tonight?” a reporter interjects, breaking my spiraling thoughts.

“Espa Fringe,” I reply, voice steady though my world’s shaking apart. I straighten my spine, lift my chin—actress and pop star rolled into one—and flash them my best chart-topping grin.

“Can’t wait to hear the new single!” another reporter shouts.

“Thanks! You’re gonna love it,” I say, the words automatic, bright as stage lights.

“Stay strong, girlfriend,” I murmur to myself as I stride toward the event’s entrance, the contrast of my outward effervescence and inner turmoil a dance I know all too well from these past few weeks.

It’s going to be a long night.

What feels like years later,I finally walk into my apartment and kick off my heels, for once relishing the silence of this cavernous place. I pause, the air pressing against me, thick and heavy with anticipation of… something. The usual hum of the city sounds muffled, and my breath seems too loud in the quiet.

“Minx?” My voice sounds small, hollow. There’s no answering jingle of her collar, no excited meow or flashing neongreen as she pounces on mysterious adversaries that only she can see.

My heart rate ticks up. This isn’t right. She’s always here at the door, ready for a midnight snack, whenever I get in this late.

I check the usual nap spots—under the couch, on the window sill, on top of the refrigerator—but nothing.

The apartment is suddenly too big, every shadow a hiding spot for danger. The old fear from when I thought I had a nefarious stalker rears back up.

My palms are slick as I head down the hall toward the bedrooms, hoping I’ll laugh this off, find her curled up on my bed, paws twitching as she chases mice in her dreams.

Pausing at the door, I brace myself for... I don’t know what.

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