Page 201 of Collide

It’s the only thing keeping me tethered, stopping me from going over the edge.

And still, the voices keep going, like I’m not even in the room.

Kylie stands at the head of the long table, her jaw tight, her voice clipped as she runs through crisis control plans. Mark sits beside her, his fingers pressing into his temples, while the rest of the table—label executives, PR strategists, lawyers—watch me like I’m a grenade, ready to detonate.

“This story isn’t dying down,” one of the execs says, flipping through a folder of tabloid clippings spread across the table.ELENA MONTGOMERY EMBROILED IN HOLLYWOOD’S LATEST SCANDAL. SINGER CAUGHT IN A LOVE TRIANGLE? WAS SHE PLAYED?

Kylie sighs. “We must control the narrative. The best move is to distance yourself as much as possible, focus on the music, focus on the album.”

I know what that means.

Distancing myself from Alex.

My heart clenches at the thought of it.

The weight of the last few days still lingers on my skin—his touch, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. And then the headlines, the fallout, the chaos.

I can’t even process my own emotions, let alone navigate this media storm.

“We need a statement,” Mark adds. “Something clean. No emotion, no complications.”

“Something that puts space between you and Alex,” Kylie clarifies, her eyes scanning my face. “Elena, you understand what this means, right?”

I nod, but I feel numb.

“It means you can’t be seen out in public with him,” she says, crossing her arms. “No photographs.”

I nod again. It doesn’t matter what I want.

My obligation to my career, to the contract I signed.

The promise I made to my mom, to fight for the dream I wanted my whole life.

I don’t have the luxury of choosing my feelings right now, not when so much is on the line. Not until I know where Alex and I stand. And right now, we’re navigating a minefield.

By the timeI get back home, the silence is a welcome relief. Riley is at work, and for once, there are no buzzing phones, no urgent meetings, no outside voices telling me what I should do.

Just me. And my thoughts.

I head straight to my music room, my sanctuary. Picking up my guitar, my fingers automatically find chords, and my voice slips into melodies as I let the last few days pour out of me.

The lyrics come in frantic bursts, scribbled across torn pages—raw and unfiltered.

He touched me—blazing, all-consuming.

His eyes, hypnotizing—a tidal wave, pulling me under.

Lips on mine, truth and lies tangled in heat.

My voice cracks as the lyrics spill out, breath hitching on the edge of something deeper. Then, the shift—anger blooming like a bruise beneath my ribs. Discarding my guitar, I claw my way to the piano instead, driving my fist into the keys, which groan under the assault.

Mashing into the keys again and again until my fingers find the chords toAppassionata Sonataby Beethoven. My own lyrics taunting me to the point of madness.

Did I fall for a ghost?

An illusion of something real?

I play until I’m sweating, chest heaving. Pressing my forehead to the piano, fingers hovering over the keys, I let the weight of it all settle into my bones.