16.
1060 Words
SUMMER'S POV
"I'm going to the administration building," Kingsley said, his jaw locked in a hard, uncompromising line as he stared down at his phone. The toxic comment section of the university forum was still refreshing with new insults every second, each one dragging my name further into the dirt. "I'll make Dira pay for twisting the truth."
"No, Kingsley, don't," I pleaded, my voice sounding desperate as the terror of the anonymous blackmailer's text vibrated through my bones. "Just leave it. If you fight her, it only makes the drama bigger."
But Kingsley was completely furious about the video and how the campus was treating me. The protective, fierce side of him that had saved me from the club basement was fully awake, and he completely refused to let Dira win.
Instead of walking out, he stepped heavily toward the exit, grabbed the heavy brass handle, and clicked the lock into place. He locked the studio door, turned to me, and looked at me with an intensity that burned right through my panic.
"We are doing this duet," he said, his voice dropping into a deep, unshakable register that left absolutely no room for argument. He walked back over to the grand piano, pulling out the bench. "We are going to be so perfect they can't say a damn word. Let them talk their trash on the forums. Next week, we’re going to silence every single one of them on that stage."
I swallowed hard, the phone in my pocket feeling like a ticking bomb. I was entirely conflicted. The trap was flawless. If I sang well, the blackmailer would ruin my life by exposing the hospital photo and my identity to the entire school. If I sang badly or dropped out, my scholarship and my GPA would die anyway. I was damned if I did, and very damned if I didn't.
With a numb heart, I sat next to Kingsley at the piano bench.
I moved like a zombie, sliding onto the polished mahogany wood beside him. Because the studio's rehearsal bench was narrow, our shoulders were touching, sending a sharp, agonizing jolt of electricity straight down my spine. The space was small and suffocatingly intimate, drowning me in his familiar, intoxicating scent of cinnamon and lavender.
"Okay," Kingsley murmured, his eyes scanning the blank manuscript paper I had set out. "Let's find the bridge. We transition from the piano chords of Rewrite the Stars right into the acoustic bounce of "Intentions."
We began to arrange the "Rewrite the Stars" and "Intentions" medley. Kingsley's long, elegant fingers struck the first few keys, a haunting, melancholy melody filling the quiet room. He looked over at me, nodding for me to take the opening verse.
At first, I tried to hold back my vocals to test if I could botch it. I opened my mouth, deliberately forcing my voice to sound flat, airy, and entirely stripped of the rich, soulful resonance I usually possessed. I needed to see if I could fake a terrible performance, to see if I could satisfy the blackmailer without completely destroying my professor's expectations today.
But Kingsley noticed immediately.
He stopped playing, the sudden silence crashing down on us like a physical weight. He turned his body toward me on the bench, his dark eyes studying my face with a mixture of confusion and frustration. He didn't yell. Instead, he reached out, took my trembling hands in his own warm palm, and gently guided them down to the ivory keys.
He looked into my eyes, his gaze so raw, so utterly transparent, that it made my breath hitch. He was begging me to trust him just for three minutes.
"Summer, stop," he whispered, his thumb lightly brushing against the back of my hand. "I know you're terrified because of that video. I know you're hurting. But don't hide your voice from me. Not here. Just give me three minutes. Forget the campus, forget Dira, forget everything outside this locked door. Just sing with me."
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I couldn't stop it. I nodded slowly, unable to speak.
Kingsley smiled softly, his fingers retreating back to the bass keys. He struck the opening chord again, and this time, the slow-burn magic took over the room.
As we sang together, the lyrics acted as a double-edged sword, cutting straight through the lies and secrets we were both desperate to keep. Kingsley took the first line of the medley, his deep, velvety baritone echoing off the acoustic panels of the studio.
When Kingsley sang about wanting to "rewrite the stars" and change their fate, he was looking directly at me.
> "You think I'm easy to find, mister?"
> "No, I think you're... a dirty little secret."
The words of the song mirrored our reality so perfectly it was terrifying. He was singing to me, telling me through the music that he wanted to rip down the walls of my double life, that he wanted to change the cruel destiny that kept pushing us apart.
Then, his fingers seamlessly shifted the tempo, sliding into a gorgeous, stripped-down minor key. The acoustic rhythm of "Intentions" stripped away all our armor. My voice joined his, blending into a breathless, tight harmony that made the very air in the studio become thick with unspoken attraction.
We were singing about pure devotion, about looking at someone and seeing their worth when the rest of the world only saw a mess. Every note I sang was a confession of how much I regretted hurting him, and every note he played was a promise of safety.
The final chord rang out, vibrating through the wood of the bench beneath us, but neither of us moved.
We were breathing heavily, our faces only inches apart in the small room. There was a lingering gaze that lasted a second too long, my eyes dropping to his lips before snapping back to his dark, intense stare. In the suffocating quiet, the agonizing heat of wanting someone I knew I shouldn't have pulsed wildly between us. He was my partner, my savior, and the son of the man who held my leash. I couldn't have him. I shouldn't want him.
But as Kingsley’s gaze darkened, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, the urge to completely destroy myself for him was overwhelming.
- Writer
