There’s a metallic click. From the other side, Marjorie’s voice calls out muffled. “You can come out when you figure out you’re in love!”
Rhonda exhales sharply. “Unbelievable.”
The studio is chaos. Rhonda groans and runs a hand through her hair. “You know this is your fault.”
You turn slowly. “My fault? You grabbed me first.”
“That was branding.” Her eyes flash. “We agreed this was fake.”
“It is.”
“Then stop looking at me like that on stage.”
You laugh, humorless. “Like what?”
“Like I’m—” She cuts herself off. You step closer.
“Like you’re what?” She doesn’t answer. Instead she moves past you toward the couch. “At least I care about the music.”
You bristle. “Excuse me?”
She gestures around wildly. “You hide. You let Marjorie write all the feelings yet you’re not exactly emotionless on stage.”
You scoff. “That’s performance.”
Her jaw tightens. “Is it?”
The tension shifts. The hum of amps fills the silence. You sit at the piano just to have something to do. It echoes as Rhonda watches you. “You know why fans ship us?” she says after a moment.
“Because they’re delusional?”
“Because we look real.”
You don’t look at her. “That’s called acting.”
She steps closer. “No. It’s not.”
She stops. Not close. But not safe either. “You hate me,” she says.
“I don’t. You act like I’m replaceable.”
Her expression shifts. “I have never acted like that.”
“You don’t let me in,” you fire back. “You barely let Marjorie in.”
“She writes about things I don’t know how to say.”
You finally look at her. “And me?”
The air feels heavier. She hesitates. “You don’t talk about anything real.”
You laugh quietly. “You don’t listen.”
For a long moment, neither of you speak. Then— “That bridge in ‘Glass Ceiling’?” she asks softly. “You wrote that,” she says.
You look away. “That was just structure.”
“Just structure.” She steps closer. “You wrote that the first time we fought.”
Your fingers still on the keys. “It fit the chord progression.”
“It was about me.” You don’t answer. Because it was. The way her voice cracked in rehearsal that day. The way you wanted to fix it but didn’t know how.
Rhonda kneels slightly so she’s level with you at the piano.“You think I don’t see what you do?” she says quietly.
“You see what you want to see.”
“I see someone who writes like they’re terrified of being known.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me.”
“You don’t get to pretend the way you look at me is fake.” You stand abruptly.
“You said it’s fake.”
“Because it was supposed to be easier.”
“Easier than?” She doesn’t answer immediately. Her voice lowers. “Easier than admitting I don’t know where the performance ends. You roll your eyes at me in interviews and then write melodies that only work when I sing them.” You hate that it’s true. The studio feels smaller suddenly. The racks of clothes like witnesses. The lyric sheets like evidence.
“You think I enjoy this?” she says, softer now. “Pretending?”
“You’re good at it.”
Her eyes flash. “I’m not pretending when I touch you.”
“You don’t touch,” you say, but your voice isn’t steady.
“On stage.”
“Choreography.”
Her hand moves. Not grabbing. Just hovering near your waist. “Is this choreography?” she murmurs.
The space between you is thin as a guitar string pulled too tight. “You started this.” you whisper.
“That was for PR.”
“It didn’t feel like PR.” Your pulse is loud in your ears. You swallow.
“You’re my enemy.”You glare at her.
“Then why are you shaking?” Her lips twitch faintly.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You exhale slowly. “This is exactly why fake dating was a mistake.”
“Because it’s not fake anymore?” she asks quietly.
The words sit unavoidable. “If Marjorie comes back and we’ve broke each other, it’s on you.”
Her breath ghosts over your lips. “If she comes back and we’re kissing, it’s on you.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. Then— You close the distance. It’s not polished. Not staged. Not choreographed. It’s messy and real and slightly desperate.