Chapter 50 – A Kiss That Changes Everything
Backstage was colder than the stage lights ever let on.
The hum of generators, the hiss of headsets, the occasional bark of a producer—all of it melted into static as I pressed my back against the wall, knees drawn close, and let the tears fall. They weren't the delicate, movie-perfect ones, either. These were hot, messy, streaking down my cheeks no matter how furiously I tried to swipe them away.
I hated crying here. Where someone could always be watching. Where vulnerability was less an emotion and more a commodity for ratings.
But tonight—it was too much.
The rival's latest whisper campaign, the producers' relentless pressure, the suffocating weight of the cameras—all of it had cracked me open. And once the dam broke, there was no holding it back.
"Hey."
The voice was quiet. Rough, but careful. Like he was afraid too much sound might shatter me entirely.
I looked up.
He stood a few feet away, shadowed by the glow of a single stage light leaking through the curtains. His tie was loosened, his hair a little mussed, his expression… raw. Not the polished version the cameras adored. This was Dante, stripped of pretense, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Don't," I choked, pressing a hand to my face. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm about to break."
He stepped closer. Slow. Steady. "Maybe because you are."
The simple truth in his words broke me further. A sob tore out of me, ugly and unfiltered. I turned away, ashamed of how wrecked I must look. But he didn't let me retreat.
His hand came to rest on my arm, warm and grounding. "Hey. Look at me."
I shook my head. "You'll just—"
"Please." The word was so gentle, so earnest, it undid the knot in my chest.
I lifted my eyes, reluctantly. And what I saw there… it wasn't pity. It wasn't even sympathy. It was recognition. The same exhaustion. The same frustration. The same fierce, protective anger at the way this whole production had chewed us up.
"You shouldn't have to hold this alone," he murmured.
And then he pulled me into his chest.
It wasn't the dramatic swoop you'd see in the scripted version of our lives. It was firmer, messier, desperate in the way only real embraces are. My face pressed against his shirt, damp with my tears, and his arms tightened around me like he'd been waiting years to do it again.
I sank into him, my body molding to the familiarity I'd sworn I didn't need anymore. But I did. God, I did.
"I hate them," I whispered into the fabric of his shirt. "I hate what they're trying to make me. I hate that they know exactly where to hit so it hurts most."
His hand slid up my back, fingers threading into my hair. "Then don't let them win. Don't give them the part of you that belongs only to you."
A bitter laugh escaped me. "What's left?"
"Me." The word was muffled, buried in my hair. Then, clearer, firmer: "Us."
My heart stuttered.
I pulled back just enough to see his face, inches away, his eyes burning with conviction. "You can't say things like that," I whispered. "Not when—"
"Not when what?"
"Not when it feels like I might still love you." The confession slipped free, raw and unpolished, and once it was out, I couldn't take it back.
His jaw tightened, his breath catching as if the ground had shifted beneath us both. For a heartbeat, I thought he'd run, the way we'd both run before.
But instead, he cupped my face in his hands.
"You don't have to hide it anymore," he said, voice rough with the kind of emotion that costs years to admit. "Because I never stopped."
And then—he kissed me.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't testing. It was years of anger, longing, regret, and love crashing into one desperate moment. His lips were firm, demanding, but they softened as mine trembled beneath them. My fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, terrified he might vanish if I let go.
The kiss deepened, hungry and aching, as if we were trying to rewrite every mistake we'd ever made with the press of our mouths. The world outside—the cameras, the producers, the rival scheming in the shadows—it all dissolved.
There was only this. Only Dante. Only me.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together, my chest heaved like I'd just run a marathon. His thumbs brushed the damp streaks on my cheeks, gentle now, reverent.
"That," he whispered, "is the only truth I care about."
My laugh was shaky, choked with relief and disbelief. "You have no idea how much trouble we're in now."
His answering smile was crooked, dangerous. "Let them try to make trouble. I'll protect you again. And again. As many times as it takes."
The sincerity in his tone made my throat ache. For the first time in weeks, maybe years, I felt like I could breathe.
But then—movement in the shadows.
I stiffened. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the unmistakable glint of a sequined dress and a phone held just so, angled toward us.
The rival.
Her smile was poison-sweet, her eyes gleaming with victory. She mouthed a single word before slipping away into the darkness.
Gotcha.
The bubble burst. Reality came crashing back, sharp and merciless. Our kiss, our reconciliation, our truth—it had all been witnessed. Captured. And now, it was ammunition.
I clutched his shirt tighter, my pulse spiking with dread. "She saw."
He followed my gaze, his jaw clenching when realization hit. "Let her."
I shook my head. "No, you don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." His voice was steel, but his hand stayed cradling my cheek, anchoring me. "They can spin whatever story they want. But we'll decide how it ends."
The conviction in his eyes steadied me, even as fear gnawed at my insides. Because if the rival had her way, this kiss wouldn't just be our salvation. It would be the weapon used to destroy us both.
And yet… even knowing that, I didn't regret it. Not one second.
Because for the first time in forever, I'd chosen love over fear. And maybe—just maybe—that was the cliff's edge we were meant to stand on together.
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