The emcee introduces me in rapid French, his voice rising over the murmurs of the crowd.
I step to the microphone.Time to show this crowd who I really am.
The pianist looks to me expectantly.
I lean down and whisper my selection. It’s a jazz standard my grandmother taught me years ago.
He nods, fingers finding the opening chords. I close my eyes,letting the music wash over me. When I begin to sing, it’s not for the crowd.
It’s for me. For Hilary. For the girl who dreamed of moments like this long before fake contracts and PR stunts complicated everything.
The room fades away, and for those perfect minutes, I’m free.
CHAPTER 29
SLAYER
“You must see my villa,” says Valentina, her warm, brown eyes sparkling as she lifts the Champagne to her glossy red lips.
“It has a view of the entire city. From the jacuzzi tub, it’s quite an experience.”
Her fingers brush mine, a deliberate touch loaded with memories of a time when I would have given anything for her attention—when I was just Sam, invisible in her aristocratic world.
“Once you’re behind its locked gates,” she whispers, leaning closer, “you’re free to be Sam again. You can leave Slayer and all his props behind.”
The offer is tempting—more than she knows. To shed this skin I’ve worn for so long, even for a night? I would love to step off the carousel of expectations, photo ops, and carefully crafted soundbites.
I nod noncommittally and redirect my attention to the musicians tuning up at Le Cave.
I’ve been here before, alone and undercover, baseball cap pulled low, just another face in the crowd.
Not like tonight, with Sterling and Milo having conspicuouslybooked a large, elevated table in the back, making sure everyone knows the Dark Prince has arrived.
Most nights, this place is a casual underground hideaway where musicians, both famed and unknown, feel safe to play without judgment. But tonight, my fame hangs in the air like heavy perfume.
Fellow guests—mostly locals or upscale tourists in the know—cast glances our way, their whispers barely concealed.
They’re likely wondering if my presence means I’ll leak a new song from my anticipated album, give them an exclusive preview of what’s coming.
No one’s been gauche enough to demand an autograph, but my body still tenses for that inevitable ask. The constant performance, even off-stage, exhausts me.
I wish I’d followed Bix’s lead and feigned illness to escape to the quiet of my hotel room.
Bix. The thought of her brings irritation and something else I refuse to name.
The way she danced on that table at Caroline earlier today, her obvious jealousy of Valentina at dinner—it’s all getting too complicated.
This was supposed to be a straightforward business arrangement. Not whatever it’s becoming.
“What’s going on in that gorgeous mind of yours?” Valentina purrs, her fingertips tracing patterns on my forearm.
Before I can answer, the house lights dim. The crowd’s pleasant murmur fades as a spotlight hits the small stage.
And through the shifting lights, I’m startled to see Bix approach the microphone.
Bix.
Just an hour earlier, she pleaded exhaustion and retreated to her room. Now here she is, looking very much like the woman I first met at that noodle shop.
