Page 63 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Breathe Me

M ark wants to talk before the crisis meeting at Pacific Records later this morning. My dreams teeter on the edge of something I can’t hold steady, slipping further from my grasp no matter how tightly I clench. Alex is off dealing with his own fallout.

Mark shows up at my apartment, bagels and coffee in hand.

“Thanks for breakfast,” I murmur, my fingers curling around the paper cup like it’s the only solid thing left in the room.

Mark sinks into the chair across from me, a heavy sigh dragging out of him. The bags under his eyes are dark and deep, the kind of exhaustion that no amount of coffee can fix. He must’ve been up all night with Kylie, trying to put out fires I hadn’t even seen catch yet.

“This is a mess, Elena.”

I pull a bagel apart with shaking hands, the crumbs scattering across the table. “It feels like it’s being blown out of proportion,” I say, though the words feel hollow even as they leave me.

“I wish it was.” Mark scrubs a hand over his jaw, rough and unshaven. “But I think it’s time I remind you about your contract.”

“What do you mean?”

He levels me with a look, the kind he only uses when he’s about to tell me something I won’t like. “The morality clause.”

The words thud between us, foreign and sharp.

Back when I won Starstruck , when everything fell apart after my mom died, my old manager walked away without a backward glance.

Mark stepped in, assigned by the label, the ‘fixer’ they promised would put me back on track.

He renegotiated the terms with Pacific Records, secured me a three-album deal.

I had signed without reading it. I trusted him.

“What did you do, Mark?” I whisper.

He leans forward, voice low, like the truth is going to hit me like a freight train. “It was the only way Pacific Records would honor the deal. You disappeared for two years, Elena. You broke your obligations. They were ready to drop you, blacklist you. The clause was their insurance.”

I bite my tongue, holding in what I want to say.

“If your actions—your personal life, your public image—if any of it causes reputational damage to Pacific Records, leads to poor record sales, public boycotts, media scandals, they can void the contract.”

I stare at him, the coffee cooling in my hands. My career, my future, balanced on a knife’s edge because of something I didn’t even know I was carrying.

“What? Why wouldn’t you tell me?” My voice cracks, too loud in the stillness of the apartment.

Mark exhales through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he’s holding back the urge to shake me. “I did . You just weren’t listening. And it’s partly your responsibility too. You have to take some blame.”

“You’re right, I’m…sorry”

“Is this guy really worth it?” he asks, his eyes searching for some sliver of sanity in mine.

“I don’t know,” I rasp, the words sticking in my throat.

“This all hangs on your album’s ability to perform, Elena. If you want this—if you really want this—then you better fight for it. Because no one is gonna hand it to you.”

“I know,” I bite out. My nails dig into the side of my coffee cup. “But this feels like a fucking collar. There’s got to be a way to renegotiate terms.”

“Maybe.” He leans back, folding his arms. “Once you prove yourself. Maybe then, you’ll have some leverage. And maybe with your dad backing you?—”

“I don’t want him involved,” I cut in fast, sharper than I mean to.

“I figured,” Mark says, softer now. “But think about it. And maybe—maybe you should actually read your contract again. There’s not just the morality clause…there’s the abandonment clause too.”

I drag a hand down my face. “As if this could get any worse.”

“Both clauses together mean if you can’t fulfill your contractual obligations, or if you abandon them for any reason, Pacific Records could sue you for breach of contract.” His words land like blows, each one making it harder to breathe.

“Fuck, Mark. You really backed me into a corner.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is tight. “I did what I had to. Because I believe in you. I still do. You needed a foot in the door. A push to get you going again.”

My chest aches, guilt curling deep. “I’m sorry for putting you through this shit.”

Mark laughs under his breath, dry and fond. “Wayward, tortured artists are part of the job. And for what it’s worth, I think I’m right about you. Pre-release listening sessions are going well. Feedback’s been resoundingly positive.”

“That’s good,” I mutter, but the words feel weak, brittle.

“I’m gonna need more from you, Elena.” He leans in, voice dropping low. “I can fight for you. But only if you fight for yourself.”

“This album means too much to me,” I whisper, the words scraping out raw. “I can’t let it get buried over this.”

“Good.” He stands, tossing his empty coffee cup into the trash. “Then we better go.”

The car ride is short, silent but for the low hum of the engine. I stare out the window, the city blurring past, my insides twisting tighter with every block.

When we pull up to Pacific Records, I climb out stiffly, my legs numb. Paparazzi clamor at the front, trying to steal the money shot. Mark and security shield me from most of it.

Once, this place had felt like a beginning, a doorway to something bigger than I could dream. Now, it looms in front of me, all glass and steel, cold and unyielding. A prison I’ve shackled myself to with my own signature, in exchange for my voice and my dream.

As I sit there in the boardroom, I feel like a kid in trouble, called into the principal’s office. Everyone is talking at me, not to me.

I keep my eyes on the polished table, fingers curling tight around the guitar pick I found in my pocket, one I don’t even remember grabbing. I dig it into my palm, harder, just to keep from screaming.

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 time I 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 to Appassionata Sonata by 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.

I care about him. Maybe more than I’m ready to admit. I’m addicted to the feeling of being desired and wanted by someone like him.

But it doesn’t change the mess we’re in. I let out a shuddering breath, the last notes fading into the air.

I’m still lost in the haze when I hear it.

A sharp knock.

A chill moves through my ribs.

For a moment, I hope it’s Alex.

But as I step toward the door, something tells me I’m wrong.

The second I open it, I feel instant regret.

There he is— my father.

Standing stiff and proper.

“Elena,” he says, voice cool, measured. Like this is another business meeting.

“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice flat.

He adjusts his cufflinks, like this conversation isn’t about to gut me.

“We need to talk.”

I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Funny, is that what we were doing right before you tore me down in front of Philippa and Carole?”

His jaw twitches. “I’m here because you’re in trouble. Whether you realize it or not.”

I laugh. It’s sharp, bitter. “Oh, so now you care?”