Page 10 of Every Shattered Note
I liked it.
I also liked seeing her rattle when I played.Liked knowing she was recalculating—trying to reconcile the soaked stranger from the lobby with the man behind the guitar.She wanted to dismiss me.I could see it in her eyes.But she couldn’t.Not anymore.
And yeah, maybe it started as a middle finger to the universe—or to her—but somewhere between the first note and the applause, something shifted.
It felt right.
It was me, the stage, and music I haven’t played in ages.Music that sometimes the guys and I just had fun with while trying to come up with our next album.The best part: No screaming fans.No bras thrown on stage.No lights blinding me while I tried to find the beat beneath the chaos.Just candlelight, linen, and the occasional clink of champagne flutes.
Peace.
I love my fans—I owe them everything—but at some point being Dexter Vaughn became a job instead of a life.
And tonight?It didn’t feel like a job.
The music came easily.
I could breathe again.
That hasn’t happened in a long time.
And now, the ballroom is nearly empty.Half the centerpieces have already been carried out.The band’s packing up.Catering’s rolling out carts of uneaten canapés and crumpled napkins.
And Alyssa Stone?
She’s still here across the room, issuing orders like a general after battle.Her dark hair's slipping from its bun, a few strands clinging to her neck.There’s a faint smudge of something—frosting maybe—on her elbow.
She doesn’t notice me watching.
She’s too busy directing staff, making sure every chair is returned to its precise place, every flower stem finds a vase, every leftover gift gets tagged and logged.
There’s a rhythm to her.Not like music.More like control.
She walks with purpose, clipboard balanced on one hand, a pen tucked behind her ear.Her voice is calm, clipped.No one dares argue.They just nod and move faster.
She’s trying to restore order.
I get it.I live for that feeling too—when the noise quiets and you’re the only one who knows where it all goes.
A young server approaches, holding a piece of leftover cake wrapped in foil.Alyssa doesn’t even blink.“Take that to the suite fridge.Label it with the newlyweds’ name and tonight’s date,” she says, pointing toward the service elevator.“They should be in their room in a couple of hours after the after party is over.”
Her voice is hoarse.Frayed around the edges.
She’s probably spoken more today than most people do in a week.
It’s wild how much I notice.The way her hand drifts toward her temple when someone asks her a question.The way her brow tightens when she glances at the time.The subtle slump of her shoulders when she thinks no one’s looking.
She’s running on fumes.And somehow, I know she won’t stop until the last ribbon’s tied, the last candle blown out.
There’s something in that—in her refusal to rest until everything’s perfect—that stings a little.
I used to be like that.
Before everything turned into noise and schedules and a crowd chanting my name instead of listening to the music.
Watching her now, I recognize the same desperate need for control that once kept me sane.She’s holding her world together with to-do lists the way I used to with guitar strings.
Maybe that’s why I can’t look away.
