By the time I reach The Commons, my feet ache in a different way, my blisters screaming in their soft shoes. I ride the elevator up in silence, watching my own reflection in the mirrored wall.
Your grandmother is coming.
Panic claws up my throat.
Inside the penthouse, it’s dark and quiet. Scottie’s not home. Of course he isn’t. He’s in another state, probably preparing for the media, and the team dinner, and then a flight home.
I drop my bag by the door and go straight to Scottie’s room, stripping mechanically, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor. I wash off the stage makeup until my face feels like my own again, pull on one of Scottie’s t-shirts I “borrowed” from the laundry, and crawl into his bed.
The sheets are cold, but they feel like him even though he isn’t here.
I curl into a ball, pressing my face into his pillow. It still smells like him, which gives me just a moment of calm.
I don’t cry.
I just stare into the dark, counting my breaths, trying not to think about sapphire necklaces and red roses and my grandmother’s impending arrival.
At some point, exhaustion drags me under.
I don’t know what time it is when the mattress shifts.
For a second, I think I’m dreaming—that my body is conjuring a fantasy because my brain is too tired to fight it.
Then a familiar weight dips the bed.
The scent hits me next. And my body instantly eases in my half-asleep state.
A big, warm hand slides over my waist.
“Hey,” Scottie whispers, his voice rough like he’d been yelling all night… and he probably was. “It’s just me. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Scottie?” I say, but I don't really have to ask; I know it’s him.
“Got in late. I went to your room first, but…you weren’t there. You had me in a panic for a minute.”
His breath warms the back of my neck.
“So I came to find you,” he finishes softly.
Something in me cracks.
I roll over and press my face into his chest, inhaling him like oxygen. His arms wrap around me instantly, strong and sure, pulling me flush against him. His heartbeat thuds steadily under my ear, a comforting drum.
“You okay?” he whispers, fingers slipping into my hair, rubbing slow circles at the base of my skull.
I swallow hard.
I want to tell him everything. About Maxim. About the necklace burning a hole on the top of his dresser. About my grandmother flying toward us like a storm front I can’t outrun.
Instead, I lie.
“I’m just tired,” I say. It’s not entirely untrue.
He hums, like he understands. “Opening night will do that.”
“It went well,” I add quietly, because he deserves that much. “The performance. The audience… They liked me.”
A smile curves against my forehead. “Of course they did,” he says. “They’re not idiots.”
