Page 47 of Spotlight Hearts

LUCA

The Miami green room is chaos in the best way—music pumping through the speakers, crew rushing in and out, Michael already half-dressed and dancing like an idiot while he warms up his voice. I’m sitting in front of the mirror, letting Crystal work her magic on my eyeliner, when my phone buzzes on the counter.

I glance down.

Whitney.

My stomach drops.

I’ve been ignoring her texts since the blow up we had, when I told her we needed a break, and she told me not to bother calling her again. But she’s persistent. Always has been.

The message preview glows on the screen:

hey. you’re on break after miami right? i’m in town. can we meet up? talk? miss you.

I stare at it. Crystal pauses with the brush, sensing the shift in my mood.

“You okay, babe?” she asks softly.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… give me a second.”

I pick up the phone. Typing fast before I can overthink it.

Hey. Yeah, break starts after tonight. But I’m not free. Label’s sending me and Kai to the Bahamas for “content.” Paps will be there. It’s work.

I hit send. Wait. The three dots appear almost immediately.

…with kai.

seriously?

you’re going on a romantic getaway with your fake boyfriend, and i’m supposed to just… what? wait?

this is bullshit, luca

you said break. not “break so i can go play house with him”

answer me.

are you fucking him?

is this real now?

hello?????

The messages keep coming—rapid-fire and angry in a way she really doesn’t get to feel. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what the truth is anymore. Besides Whit and I are over, we’ve been over. Only our history keeps me from blocking her number.

Crystal doesn’t say anything. She just gently takes the phone from my hand, sets it face-down on the counter, and keeps working. Her brush moves steadily across my eyelid, then the other. I try to concentrate on the soft bristles and the muffled bass from the opening act already on stage.

I let out a long breath. Close my eyes for the glitter she’s dusting on my cheekbones. The phone keeps vibrating against the wood—buzz, buzz, buzz—as if it’s trying to crawl toward me. I don’t look at it.

When she finishes, she steps back, tilts my chin up to check the symmetry, then nods once. “Done.”

“Thanks, Crys.”

She gives me a small, knowing smile and starts packing her kit.

I stand. Pull my hoodie off, reveal the mesh top underneath. I roll my shoulders, shake out the tension. Grab my phone just long enough to shove it deep into my bag—screen down, buried under my spare shirts.