The lights of the hall burn white and gold, too bright, too clean. Elias stands when everyone else stands, applause rolling like weather through the room. He feels misplaced in his tailored jacket, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes fixed on the stage he was never meant to step on tonight.

Rowan Hale walks toward the microphone alone.

She looks unreal under the lights—auburn hair falling in long, soft waves over her shoulders, the white vintage dress catching every movement, embroidered flowers shimmering faintly. The sweetheart neckline frames her collarbones; silver hoops glint when she turns her head. She looks exactly like the version of her the press loves. Confident. Effortless. Belonging.

Elias swallows.

This was his idea. It’s important, he had told her when they asked her to perform solo. Don’t burn bridges for me. She had looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. He’d mistaken silence for agreement.

The music cue comes. Rowan lifts the mic—then stops.

The room quiets, confused.

“I can’t do this alone,” she says, voice steady, carrying easily. “This album wasn’t written by one person. I won’t perform it without the man who built it with me.”

A ripple of murmurs. Cameras swing.

Her eyes find him instantly.

“Elias,” she says, softer now. “Come here.”

For a second, he doesn’t move. His heart slams so hard it’s painful. This isn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t allowed. He shakes his head once, reflexively, but she’s already waiting—patient, stubborn, familiar.

The applause swells, urging, demanding.

Elias exhales and steps forward.

The walk to the stage feels unreal, like crossing a border he never intended to cross. Rowan doesn’t move until he reaches the steps. Then she turns fully toward him, smiling—not for the audience, but for him.

They take their places. The first notes begin.

As they play, she leans back against his shoulder, light but deliberate, grounding him. The way she always did in cramped studios and empty rooms when a song finally clicked. Elias closes his eyes for half a second and lets muscle memory take over.

Her voice rises, clear and full. His hands steady.