Page 68 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Near them stand two women I recognize instantly—Michelle and Sonia, the co-producers who stood by me through every high and low of making the album. They’re deep in conversation with a few label executives, but when they spot me, they light up. Excited little waves, eyes gleaming with pride.

“Wow,” Riley whispers as we step onto the deck, her eyes wide, sweeping across the view, the crowd, the stage. “Elena…this is your night.”

“You did this,” Philippa says gently, slipping her arm through mine. “All of it.”

Before I can respond, the elevator chimes behind us.

Alex?

My heart flutters. Hope flares—sharp and immediate—before I can shut it down.

We all turn.

But it’s not him.

It’s Andrew, looking every inch the perfect gentleman in a tailored dark suit.

He runs a hand through his hair, gaze sweeping the rooftop until it lands on Philippa.

A grin breaks across his face, and he heads straight for her, pulling her into a hug so full of ease and familiarity it makes my heart ache in the best way.

I hear him murmur the word sexy and that’s enough to tune the rest out.

Before I can dwell, I’m swept into a round of greetings—Mark, Kylie, a few of the label execs offering congratulations and toasting to the night like it’s all effortless, like I’m not holding a thousand emotions in place with sheer will.

But my eyes keep drifting. Scanning the crowd. Catching on faces that aren’t his.

Off to the side, I spot Carole and my father.

She looks lovely, elegant in a sleek navy dress, a soft fur stole around her shoulders, grace touched with something more vulnerable tonight.

Beside her, my father stands stiff, adjusting his cufflinks like the entire night is a trial he’s been forced to endure.

Still, when I walk out, he looks up. His face is unreadable, all practiced restraint. But behind the distance, behind the detachment, there’s a flicker of something softer. Like, for the first time, he’s starting to understand what tonight means .

We haven’t spoken since our fight. Since Carole’s quiet revelation cracked open years of silence and resentment.

Because, of course, we’re both too stubborn to make the first move.

But now, I watch him lean in, murmur something to Carole, then head toward me, his steps slow, measured, guarded.

“Elena,” he says with a sigh, his voice even and polite, like we’re strangers meeting for coffee. “Happy birthday. And…congratulations on your night.”

I nod, my throat tight. “Thank you.”

Small. Simple.

But maybe—for now—it’s enough.

The rooftop starts to hum with more bodies, more laughter, more clinking glasses. I smile. I laugh. I let their joy wrap around me, warm and distracting.

But underneath it—beneath every cheer, every toast—I’m still scanning the crowd.

Where is he?

Every time the elevator chimes, my heart leaps.

And every time, it crashes.

Not him.

I try to brush it off. To stay grounded in what I do have—this moment, this celebration, these people who came for me.

But the longer the night stretches, the louder Alex’s absence becomes. Before I can spiral too far, Mark’s voice cuts through the rooftop, sharp and clear, pulling me back.

He stands on the small stage, champagne glass in hand, his signature grin lighting up his face.

“Good evening, everyone! Welcome, welcome!” he calls, beaming. “I want to thank you all for being here tonight to celebrate this spectacular young woman who, in such a small package, is an absolute powerhouse of talent.”

Laughter and applause ripple through the crowd. My chest swells.

Riley leans in, gives my back a gentle pat. “Soak it in, superstar.”

Mark’s eyes find mine. His smile softens.

“Elena,” he says, lifting his glass slightly, “when we saw you compete on Starstruck two years ago, we knew. You were someone special. And now, you’ve come such a long way—literally halfway across the world to be here with us tonight.

And tonight…” He pauses, glancing around the rooftop. “Tonight, we celebrate your Rise. ”

A lump forms in my throat at the way he says it—not just the album, but everything it means.

“Happy birthday, Elena, and a toast to you!”

The rooftop erupts in cheers and applause. Glasses lift high, champagne flowing freely in every direction—bubbles catching the twinkling lights, sparkling like tiny stars in crystal flutes.

I force a smile, raising my own glass as faces turn toward me. But I can’t help it, my eyes drift back to the elevator one more time.

Still empty.

“Okay.” Mark grins as the applause fades. “Without further ado, the woman herself, here to give us an acoustic rendition of her brand-new single ‘Sparks . ’ Take it away, Elena Montgomery!”

Another wave of applause breaks out, louder this time. All eyes swing to me.

Riley squeezes my hand. “You’ve got this,” she whispers.

I smooth my palms over the shifting silk of my dress—as if I can ground myself in the feel of it—and will my legs to move toward the stage.

Even if Alex isn’t here to see this moment, I’ll still own it. Even if my heart aches.

The city glows behind me as I step onto the small stage.

I breathe in. Turning toward the crowd.

Warm faces. Familiar smiles. People I love. People who showed up.

My fingers brush the smooth neck of my guitar as I settle onto the stool. The dress pools around me, molten and alive.

The mic waits.

I lean in. My voice holds steady—steadier than I feel.

“Hi, everyone.” I smile as the crowd quiets, a few faces beaming back at me. “First of all, thank you. Truly. Thank you for being here tonight, for celebrating with me, for supporting me, and for standing by me in ways I can’t fully put into words.”

Soft murmurs ripple through the rooftop. Gentle applause.

“This album,” I continue, glancing down before lifting my gaze again, “has been a long time coming. It’s…

pieces of me I wasn’t always ready to share.

Parts of my story I wasn’t sure anyone would want to hear.

” I pause. Swallowing the lump that surfaces again.

“But I hope tonight—and when Rise comes out—you hear not just heartbreak. But healing. And maybe even hope.”

Applause swells, louder now. Riley whoops from somewhere in the back, and this time, I laugh for real.

I adjust the strap of my guitar and smile. “So, this is ‘Sparks.’ I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it.”

The first soft chords rise into the night, curling through the rooftop air. Conversation fades into hush.

I begin to sing.

My eyes move through the crowd. Riley sways gently, wine glass in hand, her curls catching the candlelight. Philippa stands tall beside Andrew, pride practically radiating off her. Mark grins wide, like a proud uncle who knew all along I’d get here.

Then, during the second verse, my gaze lands on him.

My father.

He stands near Carole, no longer stiff or guarded. His face is open, watchful. There’s something there I can’t quite name.

Pride? Awe?

I hope maybe he finally sees me. Not the disappointment who chose melodies over mergers.

The weight of it nearly knocks the breath from me. I falter for a beat, but recover. Keep going .

Still no Alex.

By the time I strum the final chord, the note lingers like a held breath, and then the rooftop explodes into applause. Cheers, whistles, people rising to their feet, shouting my name.

I smile—real and wide—but it lands somewhere heavy inside my chest.

I stand. Bow slightly.

Then—

Crack.

A sudden burst behind me splits the night. I turn just as fireworks shoot into the sky, bursting into gold, crimson and silver, the light scattering over the skyline like glitter.

The crowd oohs and ahhs. As their gazes lift toward the night sky.

It should be perfect.

But even as I smile and tilt my face toward the sky, I keep glancing back at the elevator.

Still empty.

The realization creeps in—slow and cold.

Still no Alex.

As the fireworks fade, staff wheel out a towering cake, candles sparkling against the breeze.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Voices rise—off-key, joyful. Riley sings loudest, waving her arms like she’s conducting a full orchestra. Philippa’s voice is softer, steady, her eyes never leaving mine.

I laugh along. I play my part. But with every word, my heart pulls tighter.

The song ends. I blow out the candles. More cheers.

People turn away to mingle, to cut slices of cake.

Philippa slips in beside me, reading my face in a second. Her smile softens.

“Hey,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek. “You were amazing.”

“Thanks,” I whisper voice tight, trying desperately to hold it together.

But Philippa knows me too well.

She leans in, her voice low and careful. “Where’s Alex?”

The question lands like a punch.

My breath catches as the truth slams into me, undeniable now.

I shake my head, the words nowhere to be found. Like him.

Where is he?

Philippa’s eyes stay on mine, searching. And when she reaches for my hand, I don’t pull away.

I stare up at the sky—fireworks still streaking color across the black—and feel a tear slip down my cheek before I even know it’s there.

The apartment is silent.

The kind of silence that feels too big, stretching into every corner, pressing hard against my chest.

It’s dark. The only light comes from the city outside, bleeding in through the windows—soft and flickering, like the world is continuing on without me.

I sit on the floor, dress pooled around me, heels abandoned by the door. My back rests against the green velvet sofa.

The only sound is the occasional soft clink of the champagne bottle tapping against my ring as I tip it back, drinking straight from the neck, because what’s the point of a glass anymore?

Quiet tears slip down my cheeks.

The night was perfect.

Almost.

Riley left with someone. I didn’t even catch his name. She kissed my cheek before slipping out, eyes dancing, murmuring something about not waiting up and enjoying my night with Alex.

And yet, here I am. Waiting.

I called as soon as the party ended.