I take a sip. It’s sweet and tart and goes down dangerously easy. “That’s really good.”
“This bar isverystocked. Who keeps vermouth on hand?” He grins, already making himself something darker.
My eyes drift across the patio, taking in details I’d ignored before. The outdoor sectional with its mountain of pillows. The firepit. And tucked in the corner, a karaoke machine with a microphone still attached. “There was a bachelorette party booked in this suite before me. They got kicked out early to make room for a VIP guest.” I stare into my pink drink. “Me. I’m the VIP guest who ruined someone’s bachelorette party.”
“I’m sure they got upgraded to somewhere nice.”
“Probably. But still.” I sigh. “I hate that narrative. The spoiled rich brat who takes whatever she wants. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be that person. Ever since Nate adopted me, I’vetried so hard to be grateful. To deserve what I have. To not be a burden or a disappointment or?—”
“Charlie,” Taio cuts me off, not unkindly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Is the real problem with performing that you’re more worried about what everyone else thinks of you than what you think of yourself?”
The question lands somewhere deep. I open my mouth to deflect, to make a joke, to do the thing I always do when someone gets too close to the truth.
Nothing comes out.
Taio gestures toward the karaoke machine. “Why don’t you sing a song the way you like to. Not the way your label tells you you have to.”
“What?”
“Your real voice. The one I heard through the door when I first got here.” He comes around the bar, drink in hand, and settles onto the outdoor sectional. “Sing for an audience of one. No label. No fans. No judgment. Just you, and me, and whatever song you want.”
“That’s—” I shake my head. “Uncomfortable.”
“More uncomfortable than sex with a stranger?”
“Yes. Obviously yes.”
He just looks at me, patient and steady, like he’s got all night. Which, I guess, he does.
“Fine,” I grumble. I drain the rest of my drink for courage and walk to the karaoke machine on legs that feel like jelly. The screen glows blue in the darkness as I scroll through the song options. Pop hits. Classic rock. Broadway standards. None of them feel right.
Then I see it.
“Hallelujah.”
My hand hovers over the selection. I haven’t sung this song since I was eleven years old. One of Dad’s charity galas—the band canceled last minute, and I filled in. I remember standing on that stage, so small the microphone stand had to be lowered all the way, singing the words I barely understood to a room full of adults in fancy clothes.
It was one of my mom’s favorite songs. She taught it to me. We used to sing it together in the kitchen while she made dinner, her voice a rich harmony with my five-year-old squeals of delight as I tried to hit the high notes.
I remember how music used to make me feel. Before the label. Before the brand. Before I became a product to be packaged and sold. Before every note had to have a return on investment. Music used to feel like magic.
“This one,” I say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t need the screen. I know the words by heart.” I select it before I can change my mind.
“Then that’s the one.” Taio settles deeper into the cushions, giving me his full attention.
The opening notes fill the patio—soft, haunting, familiar as my own heartbeat.
I close my eyes. Take a breath. And sing.
Not the pop princess version. I sing it like a broken person, because I am. I sing it like it hurts, because it does. The real me. The sadness I’ve been stuffing down for years because someone in a suit didn’t know how to market the real me.
