Chapter Two
Joyce was a vision-unapologetically vibrant, breathtakingly unique. Her aura demanded attention without even trying. People gravitated toward her like moths to a flame, mesmerized by her rhythm, her laugh, and most notably, her dance.
It wasn't just how she moved-it was how she became the music. At every event, her hips told a story, her feet painted emotions on invisible canvases, and her eyes-those captivating, honeyed eyes-lit fires in unsuspecting hearts. They called her "Joyce with the moves," but more popularly, she was known for her cheeky slogan: "I have a boyfriend because of dance and uniqueness." It wasn't just a quip. It was her defense mechanism.
People constantly asked for her number, her Instagram, her Snapchat. It didn't matter if they were men or women, fans or fellow dancers-everyone wanted a piece of her. But her answer never changed.
"I have a boyfriend."
It became her shield, her mantra, her badge of loyalty to James.
And yet, it wasn't enough to stop the whispers, the subtle touches, the lingering gazes. It wasn't enough to stop James's heart from tightening every time he saw someone lean too close to her, touch her lower back after a performance, or offer compliments that sounded just a little too hungry.
James tried to trust her. He did. He loved Joyce with a ferocity that scared even himself sometimes. But he couldn't deny it-the jealousy ate away at him like a slow-burning fire.
"Did you see that guy today?" James's voice was low, almost too controlled, as he and Joyce walked to the car after her performance.
Joyce sighed. "Which one? There were like ten of them swarming me after I danced."
"Exactly." He tossed the car keys into his hand. "Why do you let them get so close, Joyce?"
She stopped walking. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
Joyce turned to face him fully, folding her arms. "James, I was dancing. That's what I do. That's who I am. You knew that when you fell for me. You saw me on that stage before you ever knew my name."
James looked down, jaw tightening. "Yeah, and I fell for you hard. But now I have to share you with everyone."
Her voice softened, barely above a whisper. "You don't have to share me. You have me. All of me."
The tension between them pulsed like an electric wire in the rain. Joyce took a step closer, her eyes shimmering under the streetlights. "James, I don't give them my number. I don't flirt back. I say no. Every. Time. For you. Because I love you."
He swallowed, conflicted. The emotion in her voice clawed at his guilt. She always defended their love, even in rooms full of temptation. Yet the fear of losing her-to fame, to flattery, to someone taller, richer, smoother-never fully left him.
"I just... I can't stand the thought of someone else touching you," he said, finally, his voice cracking slightly. "Or looking at you like you're not mine."
"I'm not a possession, James." Her tone was sharp, but her eyes remained soft. "But I chose you. I keep choosing you. Every day."
He looked into her eyes and saw the truth-raw, unshaken loyalty-and something inside him cracked open.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Joyce stepped forward and pressed her forehead against his. "I get it. I do. You're protective, and maybe even a little territorial," she smiled. "But I'm yours. Let that be enough."
Their love was an intense flame-bright, warm, but dangerously close to burning too hot. They were passionate in everything: in their laughter, in their arguments, in the way they made up. Every fight ended in fire, and every reunion was a slow dance of skin and soul.
James, often captured Joyce mid-dance. He told her that no lens could ever contain her energy, but he still tried, over and over. His gallery at home was full of her-laughing, spinning, glowing under strobe lights and sunshine. He wanted to preserve every moment she shined because he feared the world might steal her glow one day.
Joyce wasn't oblivious to James's jealousy-sometimes, she even found it endearing. It reminded her that he cared, that he felt deeply, perhaps even too deeply. But other times, it wore her out. The constant reassurance, the endless effort to keep the peace between her career and his insecurities-it was exhausting.
Yet, she loved him. Fiercely.
They had something rare-an imperfect, blazing kind of love. The kind that made people stare and whisper. The kind that was envied and misunderstood in equal measure.
Their social circles buzzed with gossip. Friends described them as the "celebrity couple of the block"-two stars in their own orbits, constantly drawn to each other, even when gravity threatened to pull them apart.
Joyce was magnetic, expressive, sensual. James was protective, intense, quietly proud. Their differences were many, but their hearts beat in rhythmm.
Emotional Tense
The following week brought unexpected silence.
Joyce hadn't replied to James's texts after her late-night rehearsal. Normally, she'd video call him, flushed from dance, hair damp with sweat, laughing about the smallest things. But tonight-nothing.
James paced in his living room, phone in hand, anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. His thoughts spun into dark corners: What if she's with someone else? What if this is the beginning of the end?
He wasn't proud of those thoughts, but they came anyway.
He finally called. It rang and rang. No answer.
When she finally texted-three hours later-it was a simple: "Sorry. Long night. Exhausted. Talk tomorrow?"
He stared at the message, his jaw tensing. He typed, deleted, typed again.
"I just want to know if you're okay. I miss you."
No reply.