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No, I think, studying her calculated pose. Melissa liked the idea of a rockstar boyfriend. But she didn’t like the reality—the long hours spent in the studio, a guy who lived and breathed music, who couldn’t give her the attention she craved.
I grimace remembering how Melissa told me to grow up and stop using the band as an excuse to avoid a real relationship. That my inability to commit to her meant I was emotionally stunted. But looking back now, I realize she was just bitter that I couldn’t give her what she wanted—couldn’t manufacture feelings that weren’t there.
Instead of being emotionally unavailable, the truth was—I just wasn’t in love with her. Not like…
I cut that thought off before it can fully form because thinking about how I feel toward Lacey is dangerous territory.
Instead, I just nod, keeping the conversation light as Melissa catches me up on her life. Her newest relationship. Some man who has a high-powered job in finance.
“He’s out of town right now,” she murmurs, glancing sideways at me. “I know how lonely it can get on the road.” The implicationis clear. And if it were another time—another version of me before I met Lacey—I might have entertained it.
But I’m not that guy anymore.
Because I know what it’s like to really want someone. To need them in a way that makes everything else fade into the background.
And no matter how beautiful Melissa is, she’s not Lacey. She never could be.
I push my chair back and stand, offering a small smile. “Good seeing you again.”
She tilts her head, stunned by my sudden disinterest. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. I’m engaged, remember?”
Melissa hesitates for half a second, then laughs lightly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around then.”
When she stands to leave, I automatically rise to get the door. It’s nothing—just basic manners. But as I open it, a camera flash goes off.
Great. Just fucking great.
The next morning, my phone blows up. The photo is everywhere, carefully cropped to exclude the rest of the band,and the angle suggests intimacy that wasn’t there. “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” the headlines scream. “Rockstar’s Secret Rendezvous!”
I’m about to call Lacey when another photo catches my eye. It’s of Lacey standing too close to her co-star, Leo, laughing at something he said. The picture is taken at just the right angle, the rain and soft lighting giving it a romantic glow. To anyone who doesn’t know better, it looks like an intimate moment.
Except I do know better. I recognize the setting—the scene—it’s from their movie. She’d shown me the script and explained how her character finally confronts her feelings in the pouring rain.
It’s not real. Not even close. But the tabloids, the vultures, don’t care about context. They just want drama. I read the headline: ‘Has Lacey Monroe Already Moved On?’
I exhale sharply, gripping the edge of my phone.
They’re trying to start shit, trying to turn nothing into something.
And I understand exactly why Hollywood celebrities get so damn frustrated with the industry’s constant meddling—Because I feel it, too.
The suffocating weight of not being able to control the narrative. The ache of knowing the truth but having to watch the world believe something else.
Luke watches me carefully. “You okay, man?”
I swallow hard, pushing my phone into my pocket.
“Yeah,” I lie.
But as I stare out the hotel window at the city below, at the never-ending cycle of noise and speculation and bullshit—I wonder how much longer we can keep playing this long-distance game before something actually does get broken.
My phone suddenly buzzes—it’s a text from Lacey.
‘Just saw those ridiculous photos. You okay? Though I have to say, if you’re going to have a secret rendezvous, you might want to pick somewhere more private than a five-star restaurant with the entire band present.’
I stare at the message, something tight loosening in my chest. Because that’s my girl—cutting straight through the bullshit with her unwavering trust and that sharp sense of humor. Of course, she knows it’s all garbage. She makes me smile even from thousands of miles away.