Completely.
Hilary is sitting across from me in the limo, angled just enough toward the window that the city lights flicker across her skin as we cross into Manhattan.
Soft gold.
Warm.
Alive.
Bella is practically glued to the glass, hands pressed flat, eyes wide.
“I can’t believe it!” she squeals. “Larry, can you believe it? I’m going to sing on DJ Mars’ new hit song?”
I glance at Hilary.
She smiles at the kid—soft, proud, steady.
“It is something,” she says.
“It’s not a hit yet, kiddo,” I remind her gently, but she just scoffs.
“Yet being the key word! I mean, you’re DJ Mars!”
I grin and shake my head. It’s nice that the kid is a fan, but this business is hard. Hopefully, by introducing her to the right people from the start, she won’t have to learn that.
Because Bella is good. Better than good. She’s got something raw, something real.
With Nathan and me on her side, she’ll go far. I have no doubt. And if I can springboard that, I will.
But that’s not what I’m watching.
It’s Hilary.
Always her.
She doesn’t look at me.
Not really.
Not the way she did before.
Not the way she did that night in the back room—eyes wide, lips parted, like she already knew what I was going to do and didn’t stop me anyway.
Not the way she looked at me when I kissed her like I was starving.
Like I needed it.
Like I needed her.
I wonder what she’d say now if I told her it wasn’t a moment.
That it wasn’t a mistake.
That it wasn’t something I could walk away from.
I wonder what she’d do if I told her it feels like breathing.
Like if I don’t have her, I suffocate.