And now we wait.
Back in his flat, Elliott flicked on the single lamp by the bed. The room smelled faintly of espresso and leather, the day still clinging to him. He reached up and unbuckled his harness, one strap at a time, a ritual he knew by heart. The weight slid off his shoulders, leaving him lighter but not freer.
He tossed it onto the chair, then opened his battered notebook. The pen hovered for a beat before the words spilled out:
You held my voice / then dropped it mid-song.
He leaned back, notebook still open on his lap, staring at the ceiling.
Why do I want to be in this group?
The music, yes—always the music. The edge, maybe. Or maybe he just wanted a stage where he could set his past alight and let harmony burn it clean.
Fuck, I don’t knowwhatI want.But for the first time in years, in that studio, he’d felt something cut through the barriers he’d put up around himself.
I was seen, if only for a second.
When Elliott closed his notebook, the image of Max’s face still lingered—serious, controlled, a man holding something in tight fists and pretending it didn’t cost him. Elliott recognised that discipline too well.
And God, did he want in.
But on my terms.
He let the old ache stir in his chest, the ghost of Nico’s abandonment curling like smoke. He pressed his palm flat against it, as though he could pin it down, contain it.
Not again. Not this time.
He whispered it into the quiet room, convincing himself it was a vow.
Theo set his pen down tapping his fingers against the notebook. “He’s good,” he said simply. “More than good, if I’m honest. His tone is clean, balanced, almost effortless. But there’s something… elusive. He keeps you out. I’d like to hear what happens if the polish slips—if he lets himself crack, even for a moment. I want to peel back the layers.”
Max didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the empty spot Elliott had left on the studio floor, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhaled. “He’s strong. Too strong, maybe. Those walls aren’t just defence—they’re deliberate. I’ve seen it before.” His voice dropped, thoughtful. “And I know who built some of them.”
Theo looked up sharply. “Meaning?”
Max shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Just history.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “But I’ll tell you this—if he ever lets go, even a little, I think his voice could level a room.”
Theo arched a brow. “So you’re saying yes.”
Max’s mouth curved into a half-smile, half-warning. “I’m saying he intrigues me. And intrigue can be dangerous.”
Theo flipped his notebook shut. “We’ll need to balance the lineup. Another tenor or baritone could tip the sound, so I’ll keep that in mind when we confirm him.” His tone was brisk. Max knew the signs. Theo was already moving toward logistics, rehearsal schedules, practicalities.
Max didn’t move. His gaze was still fixed on the stage as if Elliott were standing there, all smirk and armour. He gave a low, thoughtful hum. “Balance is fine. But I’m telling you—if he ever lets that guard slip, it won’t just be about blend. It’ll be about fire.”
Theo shot him a wary glance, but Max only smirked and leaned back in his chair.
For Theo, Elliott was simply another voice to fold into harmony.
For Max, he was a spark—and sparks could scorch if you weren’t careful.
Chapter Nine
Theo Sinclair’sflat looked more like a showroom than a home. There wasn’t a speck out of place, his books were alphabetised, mugs were lined up by size, and even the spice rack was labelled in neat black font. It was safety disguised as order, but he didn’t question it anymore.
Control was survival.
His dual-monitor setup glowed in the half-light, one screen filled with system logs for a frantic client, the other flashing open spreadsheets: audition notes, rehearsal slots, vocal warm-ups.
