Page 69 of The Sound Between Us

15

dad of the year

Seren

The red carpet stretches ahead—hungry, glistening, rolled out to taste our collective humiliation.

I stand behind Dad, watching him perform for the photographers with the ease of someone who’s been famous longer than he’s been honest. Flashbulbs pop; too bright, too frequent, each one cracking against my skull. I flinch behind my sunglasses because yes, I’m that girl tonight—wearing sunglasses at night. A tragic B-list cliché. But it’s that or let them see what’s really going on behind my eyes.

And no one wants that. Least of all me.

“Damon! Over here!” “Can we get the family together?” “Serendipity! This way, love!”

They know my name. They know my name. And I want to unzip my skin and vanish into the Hollywood pavement cracks.

Felix is in his element—part Greek god, part Prada campaign, all cheekbones and effortless smugness. Hailey clings to him. Jewellery, radiating high-gloss energy in a dress that could finance a small island nation. They’re glittering and golden and exactly the kind of people photographers write poems about.

And then—there’s me.

Black dress; minimalist. Not chic enough to be a statement, not edgy enough to be ironic. Just... simple. I don’t do flashy. But beside them, I look like someone’s frumpy cousin who got tagged in last-minute. The cameras flick past me. Scenery.

“Seren, darling, come stand with your father.” Kimba’s voice sugarcoated with that tight, glittering tone she uses when she wants obedience fast.

Dad turns to me, megawatt smile deployed. Extends his arm. We’re close, we’re ever in the same orbit. “Come on, treasure.” As I edge towards him, his hand ghosting the small of my back. “Just a few shots.”

The cameras explode again, and I feel my face contort into something I hope passes for a smile. It doesn’t feel mine.

“Beautiful! Perfect! Can we get one more?”

I lean in, just enough. Just close enough for him to hear me over the shouting, the chaos, the preening. “I’m only here because of Mum. Not for this life you’re desperately trying to rebrand.”

His smile doesn’t crack—he’s too well-trained for that—but I feel the twitch of tension beneath his fingers. “Noted, love.”

“Gorgeous! One more with the whole family!”

So we pose; mannequins in a shop window. Dad in the centre, naturally. Kimba pressed to his side. A surgically attached accessory. Felix and Hailey flanking them in perfectly curated angles. And me—on the end. Always on the end. Trying to disappear into the Beverly Hills night.

The flashes go on forever. My cheeks ache. I can already hear tomorrow’s headline: Rogers Family Reunite for Faith Jones Tribute—under a photo where I look as though I’ve been held hostage by Botoxed demons.

Finally—mercifully—we’re released, allowed to melt into the hotel’s marble-and-crystal sanctuary.

The Beverly Hills Grand is everything you’d expect of a venue built for royalty in leather jackets and Grammy plaques. The kind of place that doesn’t need to brag about its wealth because it knows you already feel inferior. The air smells of eucalyptus polish and chilled rosé; even the floors gleam as though they’ve been polished with regret.

Inside, it’s hell.

The ballroom is full of air-kisses and false laughter and people who think networking counts as personality. There’s a carpet of murmured brand names and last-season whispering, and the ambient lighting has been filtered through such an aggressive golden tint that everyone looks as though they’re glowing with self-importance.

I snag a champagne flute from a tray—golden, dry, brutally expensive—and start weaving toward the far wall, aiming for the shadows. If I can hide long enough to survive Mum’s tribute, I can leave with my dignity mostly intact.

“Serendipity, sweetheart!” A hand brushes my shoulder—Gregory something, Dad’s old A&R guy with veneers. Tombstones. “Your mother was a genius, you know. A proper bloody genius. Still got that track she arranged on my wedding playlist—sends the missus weepy every time.”

“Lovely.” I extricate myself. Another exec with a Chanel lapel pin and too much cologne materialises beside him, winking. “Rogers blood runs rich, eh?”

I nod. Pretend I didn’t hear; pretend I don’t want to scream.

Conversations wash over me: “—sold out Madison Square three nights—” “—testing well with the Gen Z demo—” “—Met Gala dress? Absolutely iconic⁠—”

I’m halfway to my little corner of invisibility when fingers touch my elbow—warm, firm, too familiar. I turn, fully expecting another middle-aged man with an NDA and a business card.