Even a blind man couldn’t turn a blind eye to it.

The way he looked at her.

The way his attention followed her every movement, every note she sang, every breath she took as if the rest of the world blurred into irrelevance the moment Lucy Gray stepped into view. It was obvious, painfully so. Whispers followed them wherever they went, eyes lingering just a second too long on the way he leaned toward her, the way she smiled up at him like she already knew she had won something precious.

She sickened you.

And that made you hate yourself, because none of it was her fault.

Lucy Gray was breathtaking in a way that felt effortless. Wild and soft all at once, wrapped in color and confidence, her beauty loud where yours felt quiet. She was everything you weren’t—unapologetic, magnetic, unforgettable. A songbird the world wanted to listen to, while you stood on the sidelines, expected to smile and endure.

And yet, despite all of it, he still turned to you in public with that disgustingly pretty voice of his, still called you the love of his life as though the words meant something. As though they weren’t already hollow. As though everyone couldn’t see the truth written plainly in the way his eyes drifted back to her the moment he thought no one was watching.

It was humiliating.

You told yourself you were imagining things. That the tightness in your chest was irrational, that the jealousy was ugly and unearned. You clung to his words because they were all you had left—soft lies spoken smoothly enough to almost convince you.

Almost.

Until you saw it.

There was no mistaking it this time. No plausible excuse, no carefully constructed explanation. You caught him in the act, his hands at her waist, his body angled toward hers with a familiarity that made your stomach drop. And then his lips met hers, gentle and reverent, as if she were something delicate, something worth protecting.

His little songbird.

The world seemed to tilt.

Something inside you snapped so cleanly it felt audible, like glass shattering under pressure. Heat rushed through you, drowning out reason, pride, restraint. You didn’t remember moving forward, didn’t remember deciding to act—only the sudden, suffocating awareness of every eye turning toward you.

All at once, the room went still.

Heads turned. Conversations died. Attention narrowed until it rested squarely on you, heavy and expectant. You stood there shaking, fury and heartbreak coiling tight in your chest, your pulse roaring in your ears. There was no grace left to preserve, no composure worth maintaining.

Not after that.

Not when the truth had finally been laid bare in front of everyone.

And for the first time, you didn’t care who saw you break.