Page 46 of Fractured Heart

“Angela.” She glances at the door. “I should go.”

“How was the massage?” Tate asks, turning back to me.

“Great!” Angela and I say at the same time.

“Yeah?” Tate looks between us with a grin.

“I love massages,” I lie, nodding for emphasis.

Behind me, Angela snickers and quickly turns it into a cough.

Tate glances at her. “Why don’t we book another one then, same time next week?”

“You don’t have to do that!” I cry.

“Yeah, you don’t have to do that,” Angela echoes. She shifts nervously from foot to foot. “So, I’ll just pack up now?”

She quickly puts away the tray of oils, folds up the massage table, and stuffs the paper she’d lined it with in her white bag.

“It was nice to meet you Roonie. Let me give you my number.” She glances nervously at Tate. “I’ll text you those…post massage care instructions…that we, um, discussed.”

Tate hands Angela the phone and she hands it back to me when she’s done. I stare down at it. I know I should give it back, but it’s only for a few days. As long as I don’t take it with me when I leave, it’s a loan, not another gift.

“You seem more relaxed,” Tate says once Angela has left. “I’m glad you liked the massage.”

“Me too.” I can’t quite look him in the eye, so I stare at my bare feet.

Tate takes a step forward and tilts my chin up.

“I like seeing you happy,” he whispers. Then, he touches his lips to mine in a soft, parting kiss.

Chapter 23

I hurry into Beckett Hall. The lobby is cold and filled with a faint buzzing from the air conditioning. My pretty black flats, which got delivered shortly after Tate left, greet the marble floor with a satisfying tap. The echo in here is perfect.

The elegant, open space begs me to sing about Cinderella at the ball. Unfortunately, the clock is ticking close to midnight, or in my case, two o’clock.

I can't believe I’m going to be late for rehearsal. I had to ask for directions twice before I found this building, nestled between the Giselle Albertina Dance Theatre and the library. I’m relieved I’m finally here, but I still have to get to the fourth floor. The moment I exit the elevator, I break into a run. The plaques beside each door list room numbers in sparkling gold. When I reach room 416, music filters from inside, accompanied by a muffled tenor. They’ve started without me.

I rush through the door.

The rehearsal room is huge and wide, with walls painted white. The only object in the room is a piano, which sits on a striped rug, either to save it from the floor or to save the floor from it. It is much fancier than the one I played back at my high school, its warm, rich, dark wood standing in stark contrast to the rest of the minimalist space.

Tate and Charles are nowhere to be found. The sole occupant of the room sits at the piano bench, his fingers poised over the keys. He stops abruptly mid-song and spins around to face me. My heart nearly stops.

His black jeans are adorned with so many silver chains that I can’t imagine how he puts them on or takes them off. The hems are rugged and there are dozens of zippers that serve no purpose. His oversized t-shirt, also black, has metallic calligraphy spread out across his chest—the logo of a rock band I don’t recognize.

Eyes reminiscent of endless pools lock on mine. Like in a dark, forbidden fairy tale, we connect with a single, soul-searching gaze. We learn everything we need to know about each other in that breathless moment. Our connection is almost palpable.

Then, his eyes narrow.

“Get out!” he shrieks, his voice cracking with intensity. Silver snake bite studs protrude from his lower lip and gleam in the fluorescent light. My eyes widen, both at his words and at the piercings, which draw attention to his lips. I swallow hard. I can’t tear my eyes away.

The Dark Prince doesn’t have the same problem. He spins away from me and returns to the piano. He pushes his long black hair out of his eyes and gives me a momentary glimpse of the array of piercings in his ear. His face is taut and angular. Beautiful, even when contorted in anger.

Then, he starts to play. Nimble fingers with black-painted nails dance across the keys. As if he’s forgotten that I’m even there, he starts to sing. His voice is deep and fervid, his words, dark and soul-wrenching.

My heart runs deep