Page 14 of Rush

Philippa is juggling the Montgomery empire and wedding prep—duties I should be helping with as her maid of honor, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Mortimer called, but I send him to voicemail every time.

Broderick is still overseas.

Everyone else moves forward, their lives unfurling in an easy rhythm.

I remain; stuck in the space between what was and what’s left behind.

It feels like my first album launch all over again—Mom had taken a turn for the worse, and when my music dropped, so did my world.

Why does this keep happening?

Instead of riding the wave of excitement around this new album, I’m hiding away from the world.

Sitting with my knees to my chest, staring at the dark screen of the TV. It hasn’t been turned on since everything fell apart, but I like staring at the blank screen, getting lost in the shapes of the reflection as the light in the apartment changes from morning to night.

I begged off a few press engagements—siting illness. With the album’s success so far, I hope they won’t hold the contract over my head.

But, the apartment feels like it’s shrinking around me. The silence buzzes in my ears. The wall on the clock like a metronome.Tick, tick, tick.

My phone lights up on the coffee table for what feels like the hundredth time. I don’t bother to check it.

I already know—headlines, PR statements, sympathy texts from people trying to say the right thing.

Mark begging me to get my shit together. Kylie insisting this was good press, no matter how much it hurts.

None of it matters.

I can’t even leave. The paparazzi are camped out below like vultures.

So, I stay.

Stuck.

Waiting for something—anything—to hurt less. It plays on loop in my head, a sick soundtrack to the last few months. This was supposed to be a new start. Instead, it feels like I was back there again.

Being dragged back into the dark. Grief rotting me from the inside out. Wanting to fall asleep and never wake again.

I hate myself for being this weak.This foolish.

A soft knock at the door breaks the silence.

My back shoots up, unsure if the sound was real or my imagination.

Another knock.

Definitely real.

I don’t respond. If I pretend no one’s home, maybe they’ll go away.

“Elena, it’s me,” Philippa calls gently through the door.

I close my eyes, a fresh wave of emotion tightening in my chest.

My sister. She’s here. It’s enough to break me open again—but I’m dry. Empty from everything I already shed.

I hear the key click. The door creaks open—of course she has a key—and her heels tap softly across the floor before she slips them off.