Page 16 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)
dad of the year
Seren
The red carpet stretches ahead—hungry, glistening, rolled out to taste our collective humiliation.
I stand behind Dad, watching him perform for the photographers with the ease of someone who’s been famous longer than he’s been honest. Flashbulbs pop; too bright, too frequent, each one cracking against my skull.
I flinch behind my sunglasses because yes, I’m that girl tonight—wearing sunglasses at night.
A tragic B-list cliché. But it’s that or let them see what’s really going on behind my eyes.
And no one wants that. Least of all me.
“Damon! Over here!” “Can we get the family together?” “Serendipity! This way, love!”
They know my name. They know my name. And I want to unzip my skin and vanish into the Hollywood pavement cracks.
Felix is in his element—part Greek god, part Prada campaign, all cheekbones and effortless smugness.
Hailey clings to him. Jewellery, radiating high-gloss energy in a dress that could finance a small island nation.
They’re glittering and golden and exactly the kind of people photographers write poems about .
And then—there’s me.
Black dress; minimalist. Not chic enough to be a statement, not edgy enough to be ironic. Just... simple. I don’t do flashy. But beside them, I look like someone’s frumpy cousin who got tagged in last-minute. The cameras flick past me. Scenery.
“Seren, darling, come stand with your father.” Kimba’s voice sugarcoated with that tight, glittering tone she uses when she wants obedience fast.
Dad turns to me, megawatt smile deployed. Extends his arm. We’re close, we’re ever in the same orbit. “Come on, treasure.” As I edge towards him, his hand ghosting the small of my back. “Just a few shots.”
The cameras explode again, and I feel my face contort into something I hope passes for a smile. It doesn’t feel mine.
“Beautiful! Perfect! Can we get one more?”
I lean in, just enough. Just close enough for him to hear me over the shouting, the chaos, the preening. “I’m only here because of Mum. Not for this life you’re desperately trying to rebrand.”
His smile doesn’t crack—he’s too well-trained for that—but I feel the twitch of tension beneath his fingers. “Noted, love.”
“Gorgeous! One more with the whole family!”
So we pose; mannequins in a shop window. Dad in the centre, naturally. Kimba pressed to his side. A surgically attached accessory. Felix and Hailey flanking them in perfectly curated angles. And me—on the end. Always on the end. Trying to disappear into the Beverly Hills night.
The flashes go on forever. My cheeks ache. I can already hear tomorrow’s headline: Rogers Family Reunite for Faith Jones Tribute —under a photo where I look as though I’ve been held hostage by Botoxed demons.
Finally—mercifully—we’re released, allowed to melt into the hotel’s marble-and-crystal sanctuary.
The Beverly Hills Grand is everything you’d expect of a venue built for royalty in leather jackets and Grammy plaques.
The kind of place that doesn’t need to brag about its wealth because it knows you already feel inferior.
The air smells of eucalyptus polish and chilled rosé; even the floors gleam as though they’ve been polished with regret.
Inside, it’s hell.
The ballroom is full of air-kisses and false laughter and people who think networking counts as personality.
There’s a carpet of murmured brand names and last-season whispering, and the ambient lighting has been filtered through such an aggressive golden tint that everyone looks as though they’re glowing with self-importance.
I snag a champagne flute from a tray—golden, dry, brutally expensive—and start weaving toward the far wall, aiming for the shadows. If I can hide long enough to survive Mum’s tribute, I can leave with my dignity mostly intact.
“Serendipity, sweetheart!” A hand brushes my shoulder—Gregory something, Dad’s old A pretend I don’t want to scream.
Conversations wash over me: “—sold out Madison Square three nights—” “—testing well with the Gen Z demo—” “—Met Gala dress? Absolutely iconic?—”
I’m halfway to my little corner of invisibility when fingers touch my elbow—warm, firm, too familiar. I turn, fully expecting another middle-aged man with an NDA and a business card.
But it’s him.
Harrison Carter.
He’s in a black suit, no tie, shirt slightly unbuttoned. He just rolled out of bed and happened to look devastating. His hair’s that maddening mess of deliberate chaos, and those amber eyes are locked on me, like I’m the only thing in the room worth noticing.
“Hello, Serendipity,” he says, and its all warm honey with a northern drag.
The champagne glass slips a fraction in my hand. I catch it before it falls, heart uneven, traitor body buzzing with the memory of him, in me, on me, around me.
“Harrison.”
And he looks good. God, he looks dangerous; the kind of good that belongs in rooms this way. And I hate it.
“I was hoping I’d see you here.”
No performance; no cheek. Just raw honesty, dropped into glittering chaos.
“Were you? And why’s that?”
His smile is small; real. “Because I owe you an apology.”
No warm-up; no buffer.
I’m trying hard not to look at him, keeping him out of focus. “Do you? And what exactly are you apologising for?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “For what I said on the phone.” I’ve only had one sip of champagne, but my legs give a tremble I want to curse. “I meant missing the flight, was stupid. Not...” He swallows. “Not what happened between us. That was the furthest thing from stupid.”
“You didn’t clarify.”
“You were already throwing me out. I thought... maybe you’d heard what you wanted to hear.” He peeks at me through his lashes. “An excuse to get rid of me before it got complicated.”
I stare at him. Because he’s not wrong; I did pull back. I did want him gone the moment I felt vulnerable.
“So you left.”
“So I left.” He steps closer. “But I shouldn’t have. I should’ve stayed and fought for us to understand each other.”
There’s a pause. Heavy. Fragile. And my heart beats into the cracks of it.
“That song,” he says and his voice drops. “The one we wrote. I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Catchy, was it?”
He doesn’t smile at my deflection. “It was real. Everything else I write feels...” He shakes his head. “Empty.”
A woman breezes past behind him—sky-high heels and a glass of red, muttering into her phone, “—no, Harrison Carter just showed up and…” before she disappears into the glitter.
I don’t flinch. Neither does he.
“That must be inconvenient.”
“Seren.” The way he says my name makes small little crinkles fold into the empty spaces within me. “I know I fucked it up. I know you don’t owe me anything. But seeing you here...”
He trails off, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Desperate, maybe. Or just tired.
“What?”
“I forgot how you made everything else disappear.”
And that’s too much. Too honest. Too dangerous.
“Thirty seconds,” I say. “That’s how long you’ve got before I walk away and pretend this didn’t happen.”
He nods. He’s been waiting for the countdown.
“I don’t know what I’m asking for,” he pauses an uneven thump of my heart. “I just know I had to see you. Had to tell you that morning... it wasn’t what I meant. ”
“Harrison—”
“I know thirty seconds isn’t enough. But I couldn’t let tonight end without trying.”
The room hums around us—clinking glasses, silk rustling, distant laughter. But we’re in a bubble now; our own little storm.
“And what exactly are you trying for?”
He looks at me. Really looks. “A second chance to not be a knob.”
And then the lights dim. A voice rises above the crowd: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The presentation will begin in five minutes.”
The moment fractures. Reality rushes back in.
He doesn’t look away. “Will you think about it?”
“Think about what?”
“Whether there’s any possibility you could forgive the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made.”
I stare at him. My lungs tight; my heart reckless. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
I turn and head for the family table. But I feel him watching me—a weight, a tether, a song I haven’t stopped humming since the day he left.
And despite everything—I’m already thinking about it.