Page 20 of Last Chorus

Caught equally off guard by the question and the lack of animosity in his voice, I look over my shoulder. “No.”

Familiar and seductive warmth sparkles in his eyes. The sight of it ruptures my psyche, half of me relaxing while the other half remains hyper alert.

A smile curves his lips. “That’s great news. How do you feel?”

Like the blade of a serrated knife, thanks.

“Good,” I lie.

He tilts his head. The smile stays, but the warmth in his eyes disappears. “I hope that means you’re feeling up to calling Lily today.”

My stomach turns to lead even as I smile back. “Maybe.”

Turning on my heel, I walk from the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

evangeline

I have no questions left

No air to feed my breath

Emptiness the price I pay

For the love you took away

After my shower, I throw on old sweatpants and a T-shirt without thinking. Halfway across the bedroom, I come to my senses and change into a gray athleisure set Clay gave me for Christmas. I’m not a fan of the style, but at least the fabric is soft.

In the hallway, I hear his voice coming from his office at the opposite end of the house.Lighthearted, charming tone. Infectious laugh. It’s the voice he uses to seduce clients… and women.

It certainly worked on me.

The thought causes a flare of uncomfortable, sticky heat beneath my skin. My teeth clench.

I need to calm down before I face him again, and there’s only one room in the house that’s truly mine. Walking lightly so he doesn’t hear my steps, I quickly head downstairs.

The bulk of the lower level is a lounge with game tables, a bar, and a widescreen TV that Clay and his friends use for their bi-weekly poker nights. Down a hallway to the left is a movie room, complete with theater seating, as well as our home gym, a guest suite, laundry, and a full bath. But tucked off a smaller hallway to my right is my studio.

Formerly a storage room, Clay had the space remodeled before I moved in. I think I’ve been in it a grand total of four times in six months, a fact he likes to weaponize whenever he perceives me as ungrateful.

I slip inside the room and flip on the lights, dimming them immediately when the brightness makes me wince. The door thumps closed behind me. I swiftly lock it, and my lungs expand with a deep breath. Possibly my first of the day.

The space is pretty bare-bones. Soundproofingpanels. Low-pile carpet. Some basic recording equipment, none of which is plugged in. A desk, laptop, standing mic, audio interface, speakers, a mixer. My keyboard, still packed away in its giant case. Three guitars, two acoustic and one electric, likewise collecting dust.

The back wall is lined with boxes I haven’t unpacked and don’t care to. Bubble-wrapped, framed album art, articles, and accolades. All of Glow’s awards, including a dozen Grammys.

In the living room upstairs, Clay has empty glass shelves ready to display the gold gramophones. He bugs me about unpacking them once or twice a month but hasn’t demanded it yet. I’m dreading the moment. I would have left them in storage in Seattle if he hadn’t personally packed them.

I can never tell him why I don’t display them. Why I don’t even like looking at them.

Because of Wilder.

“I can’t wait to remind you of this moment twenty years from now when I’m putting up yet another shelf for your awards.”

The memory makes me flinch and focus elsewhere. Unfortunately, what my eyes land on next are threeboxes stacked beside the desk. They’re older, the cardboard wrinkled, the tape peeling. They were definitely supposed to end up in storage, but I’d forgotten to mark them with the right label before the movers came.

Without permission, my feet carry me to them. I finger the tape on the top box, then peel it off.

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