Page 14 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

wilder

E vangeline’s act is flawless, but I see right through it.

Maybe because I learned how to behave through observation and mimicry as a child, I’m able to recognize when someone else is presenting a false front.

Pick up on subtle cues others would miss.

But I think the truth is both simpler and more convoluted.

I just know her .

The broken, angry woman on New Year’s Eve was miles closer to the real Evangeline than the version striding away from our table.

Four-inch heels clack expertly over tile, the muscles in her calves bunching starkly on each step. Shiny, white-gold hair bounces in its high ponytail.

In no world can she be comfortable. Not in those shoes.

Not in that tight white dress that does nothing to conceal the jut of her ribs.

And the fact she ordered a salad without dressing?

Iced tea with no sugar? It’s beyond disturbing.

Like seeing a snow leopard declawed and defanged, brainwashed into thinking they’re a gazelle.

But then I recall her gasp and the flash of pain in her eyes when I asked about Glow’s Grammy nominations. The clenching of her jaw when Clay answered for her.

She’s still in there… somewhere.

“We’re done for today.”

Clay’s words are for the photographers, who obediently pack their equipment and file from the room. I watch him warily as he lifts a finger to beckon our dedicated server.

“Scotch on the rocks.”

The man’s eyes move to me. “And for you, sir?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

With a polite nod, the server turns to leave, but Clay stops him with another arrogant lift of his finger.

“Hold the drink for five minutes and close the doors. If she tries to return, have the chef give her a tour of the kitchen or something.”

“Very good, sir.” Eyes lowered, he slips across the patio on silent feet. On his way out, he closes glass-paned French doors.

Here we fucking go .

Clay wastes no time dropping the pretense of friendliness, shifting instantly into what Eddie would call Yacht Guy Dickhead Mode.

Draping an arm over Evangeline’s empty chair, he manspreads in his designer slacks and sighs like his balls are relieved.

But the key to the personality type—which Clay nails—is looking relaxed and like there’s a baseball bat shoved up his ass.

As I wait for whatever intimidation tactics he has planned, I’m extra grateful for my hour-long meditation this morning and the phone calls with Frank and my dad.

But what really allows me to stay calm in response to his smug smile and air of superiority is the primal, unspoken communication between our egos.

We both know my dick is bigger than his.

Eventually Clay realizes he won’t win a staring contest with me. His chin lifts imperiously. “I hope you know what’s happening here.”

I smirk. “Aww, are you trying to thank me?”

His smile vanishes. “I should have known you’d be too stupid to understand.”

I roll my eyes. “Why don’t you enlighten me.”

Lowering his arm, he leans forward. “This will be the last time you speak directly to Eva. She belongs to me .”

Rage unfurls in my gut. I let it out in a slow exhale so it doesn’t taint my next words. “Wow, Clay. Join us in the current century. These days we don’t own women.” I tilt my head. “I wonder how Eva would feel about what you just said?”

“You actually think she’s capable of thinking for herself? That’s precious.”

Even aware that he’s baiting me, I still tense. “If you believe that bullshit, you don’t know her at all.”

With an unnerving smile, Clay relaxes back in his seat. “To the contrary, it’s you who doesn’t know her. Let me let you in on a little secret. Eva thinks and does whatever I tell her to because unlike you, I have her best interests in mind. I know exactly what she needs.”

My molars grind. “Is that right? Let me guess, she needs you dictating her career like you already dictate her personal freedoms. You want to launch her as a solo act. Turn her into another boring, overproduced pop star. I bet you already have the Big Three chomping at the bit to sign her and a dozen brand deals in the pipeline, huh?”

He doesn’t bother faking offense, instead shrugging casually.

“What can I say? I have a gift for the big picture, and I’ve had my eye on this particular one for years.

Thanks, by the way, for removing yourself from view early on.

A little disappointing how long it took her to get her shit together afterward, but it worked out in the end. In fact, you primed her quite well.”

I hate him. I really, really fucking hate him. And he knows it, his smile turning even more smug.

“Realistically, Eva has another four, maybe five years of peak marketability. I plan to use them. Then, of course, there will be residencies and other ventures. Who knows, maybe a Glow reunion album or two. And let’s not forget the two kids raised by nannies and the vacation home in Turks and Caicos. ”

Fury and helplessness bleed my thoughts red. My knuckles itch to punch the smarmy look off his face.

I need to end this before I end him .

“Does she know all you care about is objectifying and commodifying her?”

His eyes glitter with malice. “What she knows is her place, which is doing exactly what I fucking say. And it’s past time you learned your place, Wilder. Let me put this in plain terms: if you come near her again, I’ll gladly destroy your reputation and end your career.”

And… I’m done.

I hit Stop Recording on the phone in my lap, then tuck the device into my pocket and stand.

“Threats from an Eaton, how tediously familiar. Sorry to cut this short—really, I’m enjoying myself—but your five minutes are up. ”

I saunter around the table, forcing Clay to either stand or be at eye level with my crotch. He shoves his chair back and rises, then plants his feet and puffs up his chest like he’s a tough guy.

I invade his personal space until I’m close enough to smell his overpriced cologne and hair wax.

Close enough for him to be painfully aware of our height difference, how I’m looking down at him.

Then I let my mask drop, revealing how close I am to letting myself off the leash.

That if it weren’t for Eva, his physical health would be in serious fucking jeopardy right now.

When I brush imaginary lint off his shoulder, he flinches.

It makes me smile.

“Speaking of Eatons, how is Kendra these days?” I pause, enjoying the vein that begins to pulse in his temple. “Ah, that’s right. You wouldn’t know, would you, big brother ? Well, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear she’s doing great. She’s happy, and more importantly, she’s safe.”

At the unmistakable ring of honesty in my words, the blood drains from his face. Then rage brings it right back in an unflattering flush.

“You piece of shit,” he spits. “Tell me where she is.”

Grabbing the top of his shoulder, I slowly increase the pressure of my grip as I angle my mouth to his ear.

“I will never fucking tell you where she is, but I’ll let you in on a little something.

She still has the Eaton box of secrets. So how about this?

You never threaten me or tell me what to do again, and I won’t send Eva the recording I made of our fun little conversation… today, at least.”

He jerks, muscles bunching as he tries to break my hold. I just squeeze harder, slapping his hand away when he tries to grab my arm.

“Do we have a deal, Clay?”

“Fine,” he hisses, “but mark my words, you’re going to regret this.”

I chuckle darkly. “That’s just one of the many differences between you and me. I’m not afraid of bad press. And we both know there’s nothing you can throw at me that I can’t return doubled. With receipts .”

Releasing his shoulder, I give it a final pat, hard enough to make him stumble back. I watch dispassionately as he struggles for composure, his nostrils flaring, chest heaving, hands clenching and unclenching. Sadly, this is likely one of the few times in his pampered life that he’s felt powerless.

At the sound of the patio doors opening, I look up and smile at Evangeline. She pauses on the threshold, her eyes narrowing on us. Our server shifts nervously behind her, Clay’s scotch in his hands.

“What’s going on?” she asks, her gaze sliding to Clay’s back. He doesn’t turn around, likely because his balls are in his armpits and his face still resembles an eggplant.

My smile softening, I walk toward her. “Just thanking Clay for lunch. I have a flight to catch.”

The closer I get to her, the more her body reacts. I relish the small hitch in her breath, her subtly dilating pupils, and the ribbons of rose that sweep across her cheekbones.

For the first time today, her control over her expression falters. Vacuous neutrality vanishes. Bemusement shifts to wariness, which turns into a scowl of defiance. Her chin juts up, eyes flashing as I stop right in front of her.

There she is.

A sense of rightness warms my chest. I’m still the only one she can’t hide from. The only one who can read her music.

She knows it. I know it.

The whole fucking world knows it.

Giving in to impulse, I gently cup her head and place a soft kiss on her brow. She tenses. And when I drop my mouth to her ear, she stops breathing.

“410 Coves Lane, Madrone Island,” I murmur. “Anytime, for any reason. No expectations or strings attached. I will always be here for you, as a friend, no matter what.”

Releasing her, I allow myself a final glimpse of her face: searching eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted in shock.

Then, against every instinct, I walk away.