Page 53 of Art of Love

Chapter Sixteen

The moment they stepped into the party, Abe wished they could turn around and leave. Of course, there were plenty of camera flashes outside. His name was shouted and question after question was thrown his way.

“Who’s the mystery woman, Abe?”

“Is that your new girlfriend?”

“Will you be performing tonight?”

“Are the rumors true about another tour?”

“When does your next album come out?”

He kept one hand lightly on the small of Dylan’s back, steering her with a practiced smile and a quiet “just keep walking” under his breath. She didn’t flinch or fumble, just kept her chin lifted like she belonged, like the million-dollar necklace around her neck was no big deal. God, she was handling this better than he was.

Once inside, the noise shifted. Softer, richer. Classier, but still overwhelming.

Hollywood and music legends filled the space like it was a red carpet come to life. The room was all marble floors, gold accents, and too many chandeliers for a single ceiling. A grand piano stood near one wall next to a string quartet that had clearly been hired more for ambiance than entertainment. Waitstaff floated through the room like black-clad ghosts, balancing trays of champagne flutes, smoked salmon canapés, and artfully sculpted desserts that looked too pretty to eat.

Abe hated all of it.

He’d been here before more times than he wanted to count and it always felt the same. Plastic smiles. Hollow congratulations. Men in thousand-dollar suits trying to talk music like they actually listened to the lyrics. Women clinging to his arm like he was still that guy from the underwear ad.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, Dylan was here.

She turned her head, catching his gaze over her shoulder as a jazz version of a pop hit floated through the air. Her eyes were wide but not scared. Curious. Lit up. And suddenly, it didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

They made it halfway across the room when a familiar producer, the host of the party tonight, cut him off with a smile too wide to be real. “Abe Collins in the flesh. I was starting to think you were going to stay a recluse.”

“Maybe I should have,” Abe muttered, shaking the man’s hand while his other arm stayed locked around Dylan’s waist.

“Glad you made it. Hey, if the mood strikes, give us a song tonight?”

Abe opened his mouth to brush it off, but then caught Dylan’s eyes again—bright, amused, encouraging. Damn it.

“We’ll see,” he said.

By the time dessert rolled around—tiny chocolate pyramids with gold leaf and something that tasted vaguely like passionfruit—the piano had been cleared of its string quartet and a mic had been set up. It was funny, no other hit singer in the place had been asked by the host to sing tonight. Was this a good sign?

“Looks like you’re on the spot,” Dylan whispered, brushing her hand against his.

Their host was motioning him to the stage area. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before promising, “I’ll make it quick.”

He walked up and took the mic, and the room gradually quieted around him like a held breath. He was handed a guitar and adjusted the mic, letting his fingers hover over the strings. A thousand memories flooded his chest of his nights on tour, quiet bar gigs, music written in grief and healing, but none of them felt like this moment.

He didn’t introduce the song. Didn’t need to.

“This is a new one,” he said and then he began to play.

It was him, the guitar, his voice, and the words he’d written with Dylan on his mind.

The chords were simple but honest. The melody soft and aching. And when he started singing, his voice was raw with feelings, in the best way.

No one had heard the song yet.

He was just a man talking about the moment he started breathing again, when the shadows began to lift and something warm stepped into his life. A laugh he didn’t know he needed. A woman who didn’t flinch from his worst, who called him out and still stayed. Who saw him when he barely saw himself.