Chapter 2

Three days.

I'd kept my phone off for three goddamn days, hiding in my Upper East Side apartment with gauze wrapped around my wounded vocal cords.

But not today. Today I had to stand on Lincoln Center's stage because I'm Serenity Ashwood, and I have professional integrity.

5 PM, backstage at David Geffen Hall. The dressing rooms blazed with lights, mirrors reflecting the controlled chaos of pre-show prep. The moment I pushed through the door, every pair of eyes locked onto the gauze around my neck.

"Jesus Christ, Serenity!" Producer Tom practically jumped out of his chair. "You look like you just escaped from the ER! Should we postpone the taping?"

"I'm a professional, Tom." I settled into the makeup chair, my voice hoarse but steady. "The audience is waiting."

Makeup artist Sarah's eyes went wide. "Honey, this looks serious."

'No, what's serious is my marriage falling apart.' The bitter thought stayed locked inside as I maintained my composure. "Just minor surgery. Nothing I can't handle."

Tom paced beside me, his worry lines deepening. "Serenity, I know you're dedicated, but 'Broadway Tonight' isn't a one-woman show. What if you collapse on stage?"

"I won't collapse." I stared at my reflection—pale, weak, but my eyes still held fire. "I need to finish this job."

'I can't let anyone see me break, especially not them.'

Sarah began carefully applying foundation, trying to mask the sickly pallor. "You know, we've got a mystery guest tonight. Production's been crazy secretive about it—even I don't know who it is."

Tom's expression shifted to excitement. "Trust me, tonight's going to be spectacular. This guest will absolutely blow the audience away."

I didn't respond, just let the makeup cover my exhaustion. All I wanted was to get through this performance and return to my self-imposed exile.

Two hours later, I stood in the wings of Lincoln Center's main stage, listening to the excited chatter from the five-hundred-person audience. Brilliant lights, the energy I usually loved.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The host's voice boomed across the venue. "Tonight we have a very special guest! He's one of Broadway's most successful producers, and—" He paused for dramatic effect. "He's here to find someone! A woman who haunts his dreams!"

The audience erupted in excited screams.

'No. It couldn't be—'

"Please give a warm welcome to Maximilian Cross!"

Spotlight hit center stage, and there he was—my husband, the man who hadn't contacted me for three days—striding out in his signature black custom suit with that devastating smile I knew so well.

The audience lost their minds.

"Max! Max! Max!" The chanting was deafening.

He raised his hand for quiet.

"Thank you, thank you!" His voice was magnetic, commanding. "Tonight, I'm here to find someone special. There's a woman who keeps me awake at night, my creative inspiration, my muse."

He gazed into the audience with practiced intensity, as if searching the crowd. The women in the audience looked ready to faint.

'Who is he talking about? Who is he looking for?'

Then, just when I thought this nightmare couldn't get worse—

"Max! I knew you were looking for me!"

Vivienne Sterling burst from the opposite wing, her golden hair flowing, wearing a stunning sapphire evening gown as she ran toward my husband like some fairy tale princess.

The audience absolutely exploded.

"Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!" The chanting shook the rafters.

And I stood there in the shadows, watching it all like a stranger at my own execution.

Vivienne threw herself into Maximilian's arms, and they embraced under the spotlights while the audience's screams threatened to bring down the roof.

"This is Broadway's perfect power couple!" someone shouted.

"They're so perfect together!"

"When's the wedding?"

My face burned with humiliation while my body went numb. This wasn't a performance—this was a declaration of ownership. In front of five hundred people, countless cameras, my husband was publicly seeking his "true love"—and it wasn't me.

"Serenity!" Tom suddenly appeared at my elbow. "Get ready, you're doing piano accompaniment!"

"What?" I stared at him in disbelief. "Accompaniment?"

"Yeah, Max specifically requested it. Said he needed the most professional pianist for their performance. What an honor!"

Honor?

I was being demoted from featured performer to background music, and this was supposed to be an honor?

But I had no choice. The spotlight was already hitting the stage-side piano, and the host was announcing: "Let's also give a round of applause for tonight's piano accompanist, Serenity Ashwood!"

Scattered, polite applause. Everyone's attention remained glued to the "perfect couple" embracing center stage.

I took a deep breath and walked to the piano.

The moment I sat on the bench, I caught sight of the necklace around Vivienne's throat—a stunning sapphire and diamond piece that caught the lights like captured starlight.

Vivienne suddenly lifted her hand, making the necklace sparkle even more brilliantly. "This is what Max had custom-made for our collaboration—there's only one in the world! It represents our artistic union!"

The audience gasped in appreciation.

Maximilian gazed at her with sickening tenderness. "Art requires true soulmates."

My fingers trembled over the keys.

The music began, and Vivienne started singing the theme from "Midnight Dreams." Her voice was undeniably beautiful, technically perfect, but every note felt like a blade slicing through my chest.

The audience was mesmerized, bursting into applause at every phrase. And I sat there like a human jukebox, providing the soundtrack to their love story.

As the song reached its climax, Maximilian moved toward Vivienne and kissed her softly in front of everyone.

The audience went wild: "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

"Broadway's perfect couple!"

"They have to be together!"

And I forced myself to play the final notes through the blur of unshed tears.

Thunderous applause erupted—not for me, but for the "lovers" kissing under the spotlights.

The show ended with audience members reluctantly filing out, buzzing about the "romantic performance" they'd witnessed. Backstage crew rushed to pack equipment while the air filled with post-show exhaustion and chatter.

I slowly rose from the piano bench, watching Maximilian and Vivienne still surrounded by reporters and staff. They were giving interviews about "artistic collaboration" and "creative inspiration," their faces glowing with triumph.

And I—the woman who'd just been used as a prop—prepared to slip away from this place of ultimate humiliation.