Page 17 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

car crash tableaux

Harrison

The Rogers family table looks like a still life titled Dysfunction in Designer Wear .

I’m seated three tables away unable to wrench my gaze from where Seren’s sat.

She’s sitting slightly removed from the rest of them - not physically, just..

. atmospherically. The black dress that clung to her on the red carpet now reads more like armour.

She’s perfected the look of elegant detachment, shoulders held a little too tight, lips pressed into something that isn’t quite disapproval, but definitely isn’t ease.

I don’t think she’s looked at me since the conversation by the drinks tray.

Now she’s pretending I’m not here.

Damon sits at the head of the table like a king pretending he didn’t orchestrate a coup.

His silver hair catches the ballroom’s chandelier light; every gesture calibrated for the cameras.

Kimberly Rogers is draped beside him, the picture of supportive elegance - champagne flute in one hand, family mythology in the other.

Felix and Hailey complete the golden quartet, glossy and genetically symmetrical, their movements choreographed to appear effortless .

Then there’s Vinny. Tartan suit; whisky glass. Mild contempt for the whole performance. He’s the only one who looks vaguely human at that table.

Seren leans slightly toward him whenever he murmurs something low, and I watch her shoulders release, just barely. The instinct to get up and go to her is so sharp it nearly slices me in half.

But then Hailey catches my eye.

It’s brief, half a second, maybe, but it lands like a punch. She holds the gaze just long enough to make it mean something. Then, deliberately, she looks at Seren.

And I want to be anywhere but here.

There’s a burn of ugly guilt in my chest. The memory’s foggy; blurred by too much tequila and the hollow ache of regret I couldn’t name at the time. But it’s there. I look away first.

The compère takes the stage, all teeth and glossy bravado—the human equivalent of a press release. His voice carries too well in the room’s acoustics, echoing off crystal and polished bone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the West Coast Music Archive Legacy Awards, where we celebrate the artists who’ve shaped the soundtrack of our lives.”

Polite applause swells on cue. Even the clapping sounds curated in this room.

“Tonight we’re honouring some extraordinary talent, and we’re privileged to have music royalty in our audience.”

His gaze lands squarely on Damon. “The legendary Damon Rogers, whose band The Revelry defined a generation of British music.”

The cameras swing. Damon executes the nod—warm but appropriately humbled. Kimberly his second wife glows; Felix and Hailey smoulder.

Seren doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink; just stares ahead.

“And of course...” The compère smirks. I know what’s coming. “We also have a member of Elementary in the house tonight.”

The camera finds me. I school my expression; that smile—the one I’ve worn through world tours and crisis PR campaigns. Warm; charming. Empty.

The applause is thinner this time. Not insulting; just... cooler.

The message is clear: you can sell out stadiums, but you’ll never be a Rogers.

I don’t flinch. But as the camera lingers on me a second too long, I find her face across the room.

Seren’s watching me.

There’s something in her expression, careful and difficult to name. Not sympathy exactly; not forgiveness. But maybe recognition. She knows this feeling; of being made small in a room that only values the myth of you.

I don’t think. I wink.

Tiny; fast. Not for the cameras. Just for her.

And I swear, for a fraction of a heartbeat, her mouth almost curves. Then she looks away.

It’s not Harrison Carter, pop star, charming an audience. It’s Harry; trying to tell her: I see you. I still do.

The compère moves on, voice climbing as he lists off tonight’s honourees, but I’m not listening.

I’m watching her. The way her hand fidgets with the base of her glass; the way she keeps space between herself and the people who share her surname. The way she looks as though she’s holding something in—sharp and burning and dangerously close to cracking the surface.

And I’m thinking about escape routes. Because something tells me she’s going to need one before the night is over.

The awards ceremony drags on with the kind of hollow self-congratulation that makes my skin itch .

Lifetime achievement for a producer who’s been coasting on ghostwriters since 2009. A songwriting award for lyrics that sound as though they were A/B tested to death. Polite applause for people who’ve long since forgotten what music is supposed to feel like.

I nurse the same whisky for over an hour, letting the burn remind me I’m still here.

Still watching; still waiting for the moment I know will come.

I told myself it was worth it—just for those two minutes with Seren.

Just to say the things I should’ve said months ago; just to see that flicker of almost-smile when I winked across the ballroom and tried to reach the part of her that still believes in me.

But Christ—if this is addiction, then I’m well and truly fucked. Because this isn’t craving; this is need. That bone-deep ache for just one more moment. One more look; one more second of being let in. Maybe this is what Dex feels all the time—chasing a high that doesn’t deliver.

The compère returns to the stage, high on his own importance. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to tonight’s most poignant honour. The posthumous Lifetime Achievement Award for Arrangement and Composition, presented to Faith Jones.”

The room stills.

Screens light up around the ballroom with grainy footage—Faith Jones at a piano, laughing, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Seren’s eyes; Seren’s mouth. A voice of smoke and honey and loss.

The kind of woman you remember even after the music stops.

I watch Seren instead.

She sits statue-still, but everything about her is braced. Spine bolt upright, jaw clenched, white-knuckling the stem of her champagne glass. It’s holding her together.

When the video cuts to Faith playing the same piano where Seren and I wrote our song—I see her flinch, just slightly, but enough.

The montage ends to applause that actually means something. No networking, no obligation—just real, raw feeling.

Then Damon stands.

Straightens his jacket. A man stepping into character. But the edges are too frayed; there’s a slackness to his movements, a wet sheen in his eyes, the faint slur that makes my stomach drop.

He’s drunk.

“Thank you. Faith would have been... so proud to be here tonight.”

A pause; a sway. The room holds its breath.

“But you know what she’d be most proud of?” His gaze lands on Seren. “Our daughter. Our incredibly talented daughter who’s sitting right there, trying to hide her light under a bushel because she’s too bloody modest for her own good.”

No. No, he wouldn’t…

“Seren, love, come up here.”

The spotlight swings. A weapon, pinning her in place.

I watch the colour drain from her face, her expression going sheet-white except for two bright blotches blooming on her cheeks.

She’s shaking her head; tiny, invisible shakes. No no no no.

But Damon’s already gesturing, coaxing, performing. “Come on, don’t be shy. Everyone wants to meet the daughter who’s more talented than either Faith or me ever were.”

I sit up straighter, heart thudding against my ribs, trying to get out. This is it. Her worst fear is playing out in high definition.

Seren rises slowly. Every inch of her is made of stone.

She walks with effort—every step toward that stage is another inch of herself she’s leaving behind .

Damon throws his arm around her shoulders with drunken affection, and I watch her shrink. Visibly; folding in on herself to survive it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter Serendipity Rogers. And she’s going to play us something special tonight.”

And that’s when I realise. The piano; the one centre stage, gleaming under the spotlights. It’s been there the whole time. Waiting.

This wasn’t spontaneous. This was staged.

Damon leads her to the bench, still basking in his own twisted version of fatherly pride. “What was that song you’ve just written, Seren? The one you were working on in London?”

Her face is porcelain; brittle. Hands hovering above the keys like she’s not sure they’ll obey her.

She could bolt. I think she wants to.

Then, her gaze lifts. Across the room; to me.

It’s brief; but it’s real. She’s looking for something. Permission; solid ground.

It’s not really my song to sing , she says.

It’s what she said to me that night in her flat. Only now she says it out loud; to eight hundred people.

I give her the smallest nod. It’s yours.

She turns back to the keys. Fingers trembling; and begins to play.

The first few notes are shaky; fragile. The song might fall apart before it even begins.

But then—the shift.

The melody settles. Her voice wraps around it. It’s always belonged to her.

It’s our song.

Only now it’s hers.

Raw. Wounded. Stripped of polish.

The room is utterly silent. Eight hundred people holding their breath .

When she hits the bridge, our bridge, I feel something inside me split clean in two.

She’s brilliant. Not in the flashy, palatable way this industry sells; but in the kind of way that makes your chest ache and your throat tighten. The kind of brilliance that doesn’t ask permission.

The final note lingers. A heartbeat; two.

And then she’s gone.

Off the bench; off the stage. Moving like she’s escaping a fire.

The applause comes too late to reach her. She’s already gone.

And I’m on my feet before I even know I’ve moved. Fuck the optics; fuck the press. I have to find her.

Because this place will eat her alive. And I cannot—will not—let her disappear again.