He’s standing over you with the paper, the studio lights still humming softly above, like they don’t know anything happened. The page trembles between his fingers. Your handwriting looks smaller than you remember.

He hit me and it felt like a kiss.

Augustine reads it once. Then again. He hums low in his throat, approving, thoughtful. He licks his lips and nods to himself.

“It’s a good lyric,” he says, calm as ever. Professional. “It’ll land.”

You’re sitting on the floor near the couch, your back pressed into the corner like you chose it on purpose. Your body hurts—everything hurts—but it’s the same ache you’ve carried your whole life. You look up at him through your lashes and think, dimly, that pain has always been the price of being seen.

You learned that early.

You were a kid when your father left. Standing in the street, barefoot, screaming his name until your throat burned while his car disappeared down the block. Your mother didn’t hug you. She signed you up for singing lessons that same week. Told you to put your feelings somewhere useful.

From then on, your life was studios and mirrors and instructors who didn’t ask if you were tired. Nine hours after school. No lunch breaks. No bathroom breaks. No crying unless it came out in tune. Your mother worked and worked to pay for it, and you learned quickly that pain meant progress. Pain meant praise.

And it worked.

By the time you were a teenager, people were calling you extraordinary. Your songs were charting before you understood contracts. At eighteen, you finally left home—and your mother sued you. Took half of everything you’d earned. You let her. Peace felt more important than justice.

For a few days, you stopped making music.

Those days were quiet. You slept. You laughed once. You felt… free.

Then the calls came. The label. The pressure. The hunger for another song. And you realized something that terrified you—you didn’t know how to write when you were happy.

That’s when Augustine stepped fully into your life.

He was already your manager by then. The one who spoke for you in meetings. The one who decided your schedule, your image, your sound. He told you he’d never let anyone exploit you. Said the industry was cruel, your mother was worse, and the fans didn’t love you—they loved what your pain gave them.

“I’m the only one who stays after the lights go out,” he told you once.

You believed him.

You kissed him first. Reckless. Desperate. You told yourself it was love.

At first, he was gentle. Proud of you. Protective. He held you after shows when your hands shook and said you were doing amazing. You thought maybe this time you could write something soft. Something warm.

Then he hit you.

And suddenly, the words came back.

Now you’re nineteen. A legend already. Stadiums scream your name like it’s scripture. Your songs play everywhere—heartbreak dressed up as art. Nobody sees the bruises under the stage lights. Nobody hears the silence after the crowd leaves.

Sometimes your mother still comes by your place. You never fully cut her off. You don’t know how.

“You’re an idiot,” she says flatly when she notices the way you move, careful and slow. Her face never changes enough to tell if she feels sorry for you.

Tonight was bad.

You tried to leave.

Augustine didn’t like that.

Now he folds the lyric sheet carefully, like it matters, like you matter. He crouches down in front of you, lowering himself to your level, close enough that you can smell his cologne—familiar, grounding. His hand brushes your jaw, gentle now. Apologetic.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” he murmurs. “You know how much pressure I’m under too.”

He leans in and kisses you. Soft. Controlled. The same way he always does after.

Relief floods your chest before you can stop it.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching your face like he’s checking his work.

“Does it feel the same?” he asks quietly.

And the answer scares you—not because you don’t know it.

But because your body already does.