Page 29 of Spotlight Hearts

I lift the mic to my lips. “Check one-two.”

The booth responds. Clear. I nod once.

Luca steps into position—center stage, right beside me. Our shoulders don’t touch this time. There’s a careful gap now. Intentional. Professional.

Soundcheck starts.

We run the opener. The bridge. The closer.

Every cue lands perfectly. Every harmony locks. Every choreographed glance is executed with textbook precision.

But the air between us feels colder.

When he does the throat hold, his fingers circle my neck—gentle, controlled, thumb pressing exactly where it’s supposed to. No extra lingering. No brush of skin that lasts a second too long. Just the move. Clean. Detached. Business.

The sucker moment is worse.

He leans in unhurried, eyes locked on mine—still intense, still focused—but the warmth is gone. He takes the prop with deliberate care, lips brushing the candy just enough to sell the tease.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t look at me the way he did before. He just straightens, resets, and waits for the next cue.

I finish the run-through with my voice steady.

But my hands are shaking when I pop the mic off.

Luca doesn’t step closer this time. He just nods once—professional, polite—and heads toward the wings without another word.

I watch him go. The space he’s giving me feels like a wall. And I hate it. Because I built it. And now I’m the one standing on the wrong side of it.

Tasha calls out, “Good run. Five minutes, then full dress. Let’s go.”

I nod. Swallow the lump in my throat.

Luca disappears through the doors. I stay on stage a second longer—alone under the half-lights—trying to convince myself the ache in my chest is just my imagination.

But I can’t fool myself. It’s real and caused by the look on his face when I reminded him he’s not my boyfriend. And from the sudden, terrifying certainty that I wish he was.

Even just a little.

TEN

LUCA

The green room mirror is too bright. Crystal’s ring lights make everything look sharper, harsher—like every pore and every line on my face is screaming you’re not okay. I sit in the chair anyway, let her tilt my head back, let her work the foundation over my skin, the eyeliner that sharpens my eyes, the glitter that catches the stage lights just right.

I go through the motions. Smile when she tells me to. Hold still when she dabs the lip stain—deep red again, the same shade that looked so good on Kai earlier. I don’t comment on it. She doesn’t either. The room’s quiet except for the soft brush strokes and the low hum of the blow dryer when she styles my hair into that effortless platinum wave.

I feel off. Not sick-sick. No fever or nausea. Just… muted. The adrenaline that usually hits me like a shot of espresso before a show is missing. My blood’s moving slower. The buzz I live for—the one that makes every nerve sing when the house lights drop—is dialed down to a dull hum.

Maybe I’m coming down with something. Flu season’s early this year. Or maybe it’s just exhaustion. Or maybe it’s the memory of Kai’s voice—you know you’re not actually my boyfriend, right?—still echoing in my skull like a bad loop.

I push it down. Finish with Crystal. Thank her. I look in the mirror one last time. I look dangerous, ready, and perfect.

But inside, I’m running on fumes.

The show goes off without a hitch. Crowd’s loud. Lights are hot. I hit every mark, every harmony, every choreographed tease. The throat hold. The sucker pull. I lean in, take it languidly, let my lips brush Kai’s just enough. The fans scream. Phones flash. #Kuca trends harder than ever.

But the rush doesn’t land the way it usually does. It’s there—high energy, bodies moving, sweat dripping—but it’s muted. Like I’m watching myself perform from a few rows back instead of living it. I smile for the cameras. I wink. I play the part.