Page 27 of Rush

We finish breakfast, and eventually Philippa slips out for a menu tasting with Andrew. Riley leaves soon after, off to her studio—newly struck by inspiration.

Alone again, I stand in my doorway for a long moment, staring at my unmade bed. Then I pull the sheets free—the ones that no longer smell like Alex—and toss them into the wash.

The first step toward moving forward.

I think.

Chapter 3

Take Me Home

Apparently, heartbreak is great for business—at least in this one. The label is placated by the other night’s club appearance, for now. But I’m still processing the wreckage of my love life while the world dissects it for views and likes.

I promised Philippa I’d show up, so here I am—war paint on, chest hardened—sitting in a boardroom at a post-release A&R meeting, to “monitor progress” and “discuss future direction”.

What it really means is—smile, behave and play nice with the men who sign the checks. A not so subtle reminder that they took a seven-figure risk on a girl, that was all but washed up, to deliver three-albums in six years.

So I sit here, biting my tongue, watching as the same people who were vilifying me weeks ago now fawn over my numbers. Patting themselves on the back, toasting to the success of an album they rebranded fromgrief over my mother into heartbreak overhim.

“We’ll want to get you back into the studio,” says Suit One.

“There’s sure to be a U.S. tour on the cards,” adds the other.

“You’re trending,” says Kylie.

“Well done,” adds Mark, his face beaming with pride.

“Sounds great,” I say, teeth clenched, practically crawling out of my skin.

Iwantedto be back at work.

But this? This wasn’t it.

I stand—rather abruptly—over this shit.

“Please excuse me—I’m hit with a wave of inspiration,” I say, my voice dripping with disdain. I can’t be here another second.

I’d rather be in the studio or at home in my music room writing and working through this heartache the only way I know how.

The chair scrapes against the polished floor, loud enough to make them pause, though no one says a word as I grab my bag and head for the door. I’m sure they’ll chalk it up to another temperamental tortured artist.

Listening tothemis torture.

My heels echo down the hallway as I move fast, if I don’t get out now, I might actually scream.

The elevator feels like it takes forever, and my reflection in the metal doors stares back at me—haunted eyes, pale skin, lips pressed in a hard line. I try to breathe through the vice gripping around my ribs.

I don’t even think as I rush through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk, the fresh air hits me but so does the roar of bodies.

“ELENA! ELENA, OVER HERE!”

“Who is Sparks about?”

“Is the album about Alex?!”

“Are you and Alex done for good?”

“Are you and Cooper Witney an item?”