The door closed behind Mr. Rick with a soft, final click.
For a moment, no one moved.
The theater felt different now—like the air had shifted and hadn't settled yet.
I stayed where I was, fingers still curled around the paper in my hand, heart beating too fast for someone who had just finished singing.
My throat felt tight, dry, like I'd said something out loud that couldn't be taken back.
Ethan didn't say anything.
He hadn't moved from his seat either.
He was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His gaze stayed on me—not sharp, not confused—just steady.
Like he was trying to understand something he hadn't noticed before.
Not questioning. Not judging.
Just… looking.
It made my chest feel strangely warm.
Liam broke the silence first, pushing himself up from his seat and walking over.
"You know," he said lightly, stopping beside me, "if you ever decide to quit school and run away to sing somewhere dramatic, I call dibs on being your emotional support."
I glanced at him.
He smiled, the usual easy one, but there was something softer under it. Familiar. Safe.
"You were good," he added, quieter. "I mean that."
Emma came next.
She didn't rush. Just stepped closer, hands folded in front of her.
"I liked how you didn't force it," she said gently. "It felt… honest."
I blinked. "I didn't even know I was doing that."
She smiled. "Sometimes that's why it works."
Mark approached last.
He adjusted his glasses—same habit as mine—and stood a little too close, but not uncomfortably so.
"You were nervous," he said plainly. "Your breathing gave it away."
I winced. "That obvious?"
"Yes," he replied. Then, after a pause, "But you didn't stop. That matters."
Our eyes met.
There was no analysis this time. No distance. Just sincerity.
"I'm glad he chose you," Mark added.
I didn't know what to say to that.
Behind us, a chair scraped softly.
Regina stood.
Her movements were controlled—too controlled. She picked up her bag slowly, smoothed her skirt, lifted her chin.
She didn't look at me.
Not once.
She walked past, heels measured, expression perfectly composed. But I saw it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her grip tightened on the strap.
The door closed behind her without a sound.
Emma exhaled quietly.
No one commented.
Ethan finally stood.
He didn't speak.
He just passed by me, close enough that his sleeve brushed mine, and paused for half a second—like he wanted to say something and chose not to.
Then he walked toward the exit.
For some reason, that stayed with me more than anything else.
Liam nudged my arm lightly. "Guess you're stuck with us now, leader."
I gave a small, unsure smile.
My heart was still racing.
But this time, it wasn't from fear.
It was from being seen.
--
Mrs. May stood by the tall window, the city stretching beneath her like something already conquered.
She was dressed in a CEO's precision: a tailored charcoal blazer, crisp white blouse, pencil skirt pressed so clean it held its shape. '
Her hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, though a few strands had escaped, softening nothing about her posture. She stood straight, arms folded, gaze fixed outward—but her attention was elsewhere.
Footsteps approached.
Measured. Confident.
She didn't turn when the door opened.
Mr. Ronson entered quietly.
He wore a cool, perfectly fitted suit—dark navy, expensive without trying.
His blond hair was neatly styled, not a strand out of place, like a man who had learned how to rebuild himself piece by piece.
He closed the door behind him with care.
"You showed up in front of Ayana again," Mrs. May said, voice even, without looking at him.
He paused. "It was a coincidence."
She finally turned.
"I don't care."
The words landed clean. Final.
She stepped away from the window and faced him fully now. "After Ayana and Jake graduate, we're leaving this country."
That did it.
His composure cracked—just barely. His eyes widened, breath hitching before he could stop it.
"Leaving?" he echoed. "Why?"
Mrs. May tilted her head slightly, eyes cold. "Did I ask you why you left when you walked out on us?"
His jaw tightened.
"I went to jail," he snapped suddenly, the control slipping. "What are you talking about?"
She didn't flinch.
She simply watched him.
Then, quietly, "You went to jail because you made a mistake."
He shook his head immediately. "It wasn't me. I was framed."
Her eyes sharpened. "By who?"
Silence.
Thick. Unforgiving.
The seconds stretched. He opened his mouth—closed it. Looked away.
That was the answer.
Mrs. May's voice rose—not loud, but sharp enough to cut.
"You see?" she said. "You still have no answers."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to something dangerous and intimate.
"So stay away from my daughter."
A whisper. A warning.
She turned on her heel and walked out, heels clicking once, twice—then gone.
The room felt smaller.
Mr. Ronson stood there, shoulders slumping as if gravity had finally caught up to him. He bowed his head, one hand braced against the desk, breathing out slowly.
After a moment, he straightened.
He moved to the desk, picked up his phone, hesitated… then pressed it to his ear.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "It's me."
A pause.
"…Coffee. Now."
He ended the call and stared at the dark screen, jaw tight, eyes heavy with things he still hadn't said.
And maybe never would.
Mrs. May was stepping out of Mr. Ronson's building, her heels clicking sharply against the marble steps.
Her hair was tied in a tight bun, a few strands rebelliously framing her serious face.
The city buzzed around her, but her mind was still caught in the tense conversation she had just had inside.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it—her secretary.
"Ma'am," his voice came crisply over the line, "two girls—Ayana and Nena—are complaining about their lipsticks. They're asking what they should do."
Mrs. May paused, her brow furrowing slightly. Then, with a calm, no-nonsense tone, she replied, "Just give them a pack. Problem solved."
She hung up, straightening her blazer, completely unaffected by the trivial chaos.