Page 13 of Spotlight Hearts

I walk out.

The hallway echoes with my footsteps. Down the stairs, past the framed platinum records, past the photos of Dad on stage with crowds twice the size of ours. I don’t stop to say goodbye to my parents—they’re probably still asleep upstairs. No time.

Outside, the car’s still in the driveway. I slide in, slam the door, start the engine. The dashboard clock mocks me: 10:51. If I make it on time, Dad can send someone to get the car from the airport. I don’t have time to call for a ride.

I gun it down the hill, windows down, wind whipping my uncombed hair into chaos. Ripped jeans chafe against bare skin as the morning heat sinks into me. Tank top sticks to my back with nervous sweat already starting. I look like hell—disheveled, half-dressed, pissed off—and I don’t care.

Because, for once, being late isn’t because I chose to be. It’s because someone else decided I didn’t get to choose.

And that burns worse than anything Kai’s ever thrown at me.

I weave through traffic, phone blowing up with missed calls from Tasha, texts from Michael (Dude where r u?), one from Min-ho (We’re holding the plane. Hurry.), and nothing from Kai. Which somehow feels worse—like he’s not even surprised.

I grip the wheel tighter, jaw clenched.

I’ll make it. I have to.

Because if I don’t show up today—hair a wreck, clothes thrown on, no excuses ready—I’m proving every doubt right. Dad’s. Whitney’s. The internet’s.

Mine.

And I’m not ready to be the guy who can’t even earn his own spotlight.

Not yet.

FIVE

KAI

The tarmac shimmers under the L.A. heat, the private jet humming like it's as impatient as I am. We're all strapped in already—me by the window, staring out at the runway as if glaring at it will make us move faster. Min-ho's across from me, earbuds in, scrolling through his phone with that calm focus he always has. Michael's fidgeting in the seat next to him, cracking his knuckles and glancing at his watch every five seconds.

Tasha's up front with the pilot, phone pressed to her ear. I can hear her muffled voice: "Where the hell are you, Luca? We're holding."

Holding. For him.

"Seriously?" I mutter, loud enough for the cabin to hear. "Just go. He can buy his own ticket to Phoenix. Daddy's money's good for something."

Michael shoots me a look—half amused, half warning. "Come on, man. He's five minutes out. Traffic's a bitch this time of day."

"Five minutes my ass, he’s over two hours late," I snap. "He's always late. Always. We shouldn't have to wait like he's the king of the fucking world."

Min-ho pulls one earbud out, voice even. "He's part of the team, Kai. We wait."

I lean back, crossing my arms, jaw tight. Team. Right. Because Luca's so committed to the "team." Showing up whenever he feels like it, looking like he just rolled out of bed half the time. Meanwhile, the rest of us grind. Plan. Prepare. Like our spots aren't guaranteed.

The thought pulls me back—way back—to the first time I ever stepped on a plane like this. Not this exact jet, but close enough. Eclipse was brand new then, ink barely dry on the contracts. No Luca yet—our original fourth member, Blake, had just bailed for "personal reasons" (code for cold feet), but we were pushing forward as three until the label found a replacement.

I was nineteen, fresh out of auditions, still pinching myself that this was real. Tasha had picked me up from my crappy apartment in a black SUV—first time I'd ever ridden in one. The airport smelled like fuel and possibility. When we boarded the charter to New York for our debut showcase, my hands were shaking. From excitement. Pure, electric joy.

I remember pressing my face to the window as we taxied, watching the ground blur. Min-ho—already my anchor, the one guy I knew from before the band—sat beside me, grinning like a kid on Christmas. Michael was bouncing in his seat, cracking jokes about joining the mile-high club. Even Tasha smiled, handing out sodas as though we were on a field trip.

Takeoff hit me like a rush—stomach dropping, world tilting. I laughed. Actually laughed out loud. Because for the first time, I wasn't just surviving. I was flying. Literally. No more scraping by, no more wondering if I'd eat that night. This was it. The start. And I swore I'd never take it for granted. Never be the guy who acted as though it was owed to him.

Now? The jet's engines whine, but we're still grounded. Waiting. For the guy who treats this like a hobby. The excitement's long gone—replaced by this constant, low-simmer irritation that Luca seems to stoke every time he strolls in late with that smirk.

Tasha pokes her head back. "He's pulling up. Two minutes."

I scoff. "Great. Another gold star for effort."