Love Stories for Those Who Refuse to Make Themselves Small
Through the Glory and the Mess
A love story that’s too messy for the charts.
He’s her muse. She’s his melody. But fame keeps breaking the song.
Trigger & Content Warnings:
This excerpt contains themes and content that may be triggering
for some readers, including:
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gaslighting,
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emotional abuse,
-
smear campaigns,
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trauma recovery,
-
misogyny in media,
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and public scandal fallout.
(All handled thoughtfully and with care.)
Strong language and mature themes
Explicit sexual content (18+)
Please read with care.
Chapter 1
Gravity's Pull
Emma
“It’s like gravity pulling, moth to a flame
The tide to the beach, the stars in the sky
The pull of the moon, the earth’s spinning axis
No matter the distance, it leads me to you”
– “Gravity’s Pull”, Chaos in Bloom, Album No. 1, 2017
I felt the pressure of the night bearing down on me, like a lead weight. Launch night. My collaboration with one of the most renowned high-fashion houses in the world, Valois, was about to make its debut.
Valios x Emma Hartgrave.
I was Emma Hartgrave.
At least that’s how the world knew me. The enigmatic, genre-defying lead singer of The Hartgrave Tellers. The girl with the big voice, bigger dreams, and a runaway heart.
The girl who had left home at eighteen with nothing but a guitar, a wing, and a prayer. Riding off on the back of a motorcycle with some guy she barely knew, desperately chasing her dreams of rock stardom. Becoming exactly who I was now.
The reality was so much messier.
Our rise to fame was meteoric.
My sister Susie and I were discovered by Wade and Andy, managers, mentors, and chaos-wranglers.
They introduced us to Liam, Max, and Dan. These gritty, raw-as-hell, gorgeous British boys. They were touring the West Coast and Lower 48 as The Tellers, trying to make a name for themselves. Salima Chari was the last addition.
And the Hartgrave Tellers were born.
Our first album, Chaos in Bloom, hit like a detonation. It was a raw, genre-bending debut that shattered expectations and topped every chart, from pop to rock to country. It earned us countless Grammys, a world tour, and a slightly unhinged fanbase. Titan Records locked us down. Signed us for eight more albums over ten years. Curated the brand. Built the myth. Guaranteed us a legacy.
One day we were writing songs in the dingy loft apartment Andy and Wade rented for rehearsal space, fuelled by caffeine and heartbreak, and the next, we were selling out stadiums, drowning in fans and camera flashes.
It was the dream we had all been chasing.
And we gave it our everything to keep it alive.
The industry was a machine. And it chewed up and spit out artists faster than anyone could produce music for them.
Wade and Andy knew the game. Evolve, morph, lead the pack. We did whatever it took. To sell the band and carve out something real amidst the spectacle.
This Valois collab was another rung on the ladder. Merchandising. Branding. Longevity.
I watched as the Valois team moved around me like a well-oiled machine, a seamless orchestra of designers, event coordinators, and assistants, all operating in perfect synchronization. Every detail was triple-checked and then rechecked.
My stomach turned in knots.
Ashley, the band’s PR team manager and label-appointed crisis handler, entered my field of vision. Her voice sliced through the whir of blow dryers and conversation as she barked orders into her phone.
“No, absolutely not. We’re not addressing those rumors tonight,” she snapped, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Stick to the approved talking points or… No, I don’t give a shit. Only what’s approved. That’s it. Your girl deviates, and I swear to God…”
The social media team got into position behind me, wanting to capture a behind-the-scenes moment. I smiled. The camera flashed. They moved on. Capturing more moments, more content, more glamour. Every post had to be curated for maximum impact.
Models lined the space, swarmed by stylists adjusting hems, pinning fabric, and checking accessories. Their faces impassive, their bodies draped in the couture pieces that bore my name. Designs that had taken months of brainstorming, sketches, revisions, and late-night conversations to perfect.
It was a big night. One of many big nights ahead. The Hartgrave Tellers’ sixth album, Revelations, was dropping in six weeks, and we were in New York for the Valois collab debut but also a lengthy press run. Promotion. Interviews. Photoshoots. Guest appearances. We had one hell of a week ahead of us.
And after a long, arduous album creation, I was exhausted. We’d poured everything into this one, every heartbreak, every gut-wrenching moment.
Getting this album to where it needed to be had been a battle, to say the least.
But when Valois reached out, I didn’t hesitate.
Not for a single damn second.
I should have. The cracks beneath the surface weren’t just showing tonight. They were splintering. I was splintering.
Because I was about to walk onto a makeshift stage.
Every gaze, every camera, every question would be aimed at dismantling me piece by piece.
I didn’t know if I could survive it this time around.
The band was barely holding it together. Add to that, I had just gotten out of a soul-sucking relationship. My media-fuelled breakup was threatening to overtake everything about this launch.
My ex, Rick Bradley, was Hollywood’s golden boy. The newly crowned Superman. He was a lot of other things, as well. Charming, ambitious, impossible to ignore.
For almost a year, I lived in his world. A blur of red carpet premieres, award shows, wild after-parties. The kind of relentless media attention that drained you because it was suffocating.
When I first met Rick, I was in a bad place. I thought it would just be a fling, something to blow off steam. Nothing that would consume me. Rick had other plans. He liked a leading lady by his side. And slowly, before I even realized it, I had been cast in a role I never auditioned for.
The worst part was his grand finale. A public proposal.
I had tried to leave him multiple times. Each time, he turned it into a negotiation about the perfect timing. But his goalposts kept moving. After award season, once filming started, after the movie premiere.
The proposal was a move so calculated, so perfectly executed, that when I turned him down, because he knew I would, I was instantly vilified.
I remember the fight like it was yesterday.
He’d dragged me into the green room at the conference center, his grip too tight on my arm as people congratulated us. It was unnecessary because I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say anything. They were just oblivious to the storm brewing behind our polished PR smiles.
Rick spun me inside, shut the door, and tore into me.
“Emma!” he shouted. “Why the fuck are you freezing up like some deer caught in headlights? It was supposed to be a romantic moment, and you fucking ruined it!”
“I told you, very clearly, that I want out, Rick. That was a fucking ambush.”
His eyes flashed. “When are you going to stop with these childish meltdowns?” he barked, pacing like a caged animal. “I will not let your petulant emotions ruin everything I worked for.”
I clenched my fists.
“That’s not how this works.”
He exploded, slamming his fist into the wall.
His words flew like daggers. He hurled them with precision. He used every insult he could think of, hoping one would land. Hoping that if he threw enough, one would stick.
But he couldn’t make me stay.
So instead, he tried to make me feel small enough, guilty enough, to bend. To say yes. To be his fiancée, for an undetermined amount of time, while he jet-setted off to a movie set and fucked his co-stars, like his latest conquest, Cece Aims.
I would never give up my life, my career, my people, because he wanted more press, more photo-ops, more red carpets. More time as the fake, polished couple we pretended to be.
I was done. Done hurting the people I loved through my mistakes.
Rick had been one of the biggest.
Rick released a statement about our separation before the ringing in my ears had stopped.
His PR team painted me as the villain, of course.
The woman who shattered Hollywood’s golden boy.
The heartless, ungrateful, conniving bitch who had never really loved him.
I could still see the posts, the endless social media feeds flooded with outrage.
Emma Hartgrave humiliates Rick Bradley in shocking public breakup. Did she ever love him at all?
Emma Hartgrave chooses career and the band over life with Superman.
Emma, the Ice Queen of Rock, will she ever settle down?
Like I was some cold, calculating mastermind.
Like I had orchestrated the whole thing. Used Rick for clout, then tossed him aside the second he wasn’t useful anymore.
Like I had wanted to humiliate him.
Like I hadn’t spent months suffocating under the weight of his expectations, while the polished veneer of our perfect relationship cracked at the seams.
And yet, here I was. The villain of his story.
The truth didn’t seem to matter.
It only mattered to me.
The truth was messy and complicated. But it was the only thing keeping me going, right now.
I didn’t love Rick.
That part was genuinely true.
But I was capable of love, as career-obsessed as I was.
The truth was I was spoken for. At least my heart was. It always would be.
Before I could spiral any deeper in my own head, Gerry approached me. He was Valois’ fast-talking, sharp-dressed, high-strung fashion show director. He descended on me like a controlled tornado.
“Emma, sweetie. There’s been a change to the lineup.”
His tone was urgent, but not panicked. Not yet.
I grumbled out some curse words as I massaged my left temple.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Why?”
“One of the models had a last-minute emergency. It’s… messy. Best you don’t know the details.”
He rubbed his thumb, middle, and index fingers together, like he was ridding himself of those details like crumbs.
“So… we need you to wear the Winged Victory piece instead of Every Rose has its Thorns.”
I exhaled sharply.
“Christ.”
The Winged Victory was the edgiest, sexiest, most unapologetic look in the entire lineup. A huge, sculpted leather-and-lace lingerie piece, with sheer panels and gold embroidery.
My nerves skyrocketed into overdrive. I gripped the makeup chair I was sitting in like it was the only thing tethering me to the earth.
Fuck.
This was the last thing I needed after the breakup heard ‘round the world.
“Will it even fit?” I asked, fumbling for an excuse to say no. “Maya’s so much thinner than I am.”
Gerry waved a hand.
“It will have to.” His sharp eyes flicked over me, assessing. “You may just be a bit bustier. And hippier.”
The fucking fashion industry, I swear to God.
“Thanks, Gerry,” I said, deadpan.
“It’s lingerie, babe. It’s fine if the hips and bits put on a show.” He leaned against my chair, smirking. “It’ll just be Valois’s version of Feral Femme meets T&S… but that’s fine.”
I inhaled slowly.
“It’ll be fine. Fine.” He exaggerated every fine, like he was trying to convince himself more than me.
I forced a composed nod.
“Fine. Whatever it takes, right?”
“That is the spirit. We are going to blow them away tonight,” he called out as he walked off with a trail of stylists, assistants, and PAs following close behind.
Chapter 2
Last Call
Liam
“It’s the last call, and she’s moving on,
Every step she takes feels so wrong.
I’m rooted here, drowning in my pride,
Watching her leave with someone by her side.
Every glance, every move, every smile she gives,
Feels like the end of the life I wanted to live.
It’s the last call, and I’m standing still,
While she’s walking away against my will.”
– “Last Call”, Break the Chains, Album No. 2, 2018
I was leaning against the bar at the Soho Grand Lounge, nursing a whiskey neat. Basically, a shot. But language mattered.
Order high-end whiskey neat, and bartenders treated you like someone who knew what they wanted.
A table of three young women laughed loudly, casting coy glances and waving my way. I shot them a sidelong glance.
They were all magazine-perfect.
And far too young for me.
They looked to be in their early twenties.
I’d had my share of young female fans fawning over me, calling me everything from “Daddy” to the internet’s boyfriend to their dream crush.
I took it all in stride. Had to. Being a heartthrob came with perks and drawbacks.
When fans were too young, I made sure to be respectful and maintain clear boundaries.
One of them lifted off from the table and strutted her way over to me. Confident as a runway model.
I inhaled deeply, prepared myself, and met her gaze.
“Liam Teller.”
Her voice was smooth as sin.
“The one and only,” I said, lifting my whiskey.
“Thought so. My girls and I are in town for a modeling gig. We’re huge HGT fans.”
“Appreciate it. Truly.”
“Saw you and the band in L.A. a while back. Heart Lines tour. Show was deadly.”
She emphasized the word ‘deadly,’ like it carried the weight of her whole experience. Eyes lit.
“We’re here for the weekend,” she went on, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear. “Grabbing drinks before dinner, then we saw you. Over here. All alone. Feels kinda… fated.”
A blush bloomed on her cheekbones.
“Why’s that?”
“You’re my number one celebrity crush.”
“Really?” I said it like I’d never heard that before, taking another sip of my whiskey.
It was like slipping into a role.
One I’d been hoping to avoid. At least until later tonight.
But even when I was off duty, taking a moment for myself, clinging to the idea of a brief, quiet pause, peace was never really an option for me.
Flying under the radar was nearly impossible.
Overexposed to the ninth degree.
Bloody understatement.
“I’ve always wanted to meet you,” The young woman said.
“Well, I’m flattered,” I responded smoothly.
I was Liam Teller, after all. Lead guitarist and reluctant leader of one of the biggest bands in the world.
The tabs had their version of me. The Prince Charming of Rock. Brooding, bad-boy guitarist and lyricist. The emotional storm of my band. The older brother to the world’s most reckless rock star, since Keith Richards and Steven Tyler combined. Yet, somehow, still the fan favorite.
The title came with weight, pressure, intense scrutiny, twisted narratives, and objectification that tried to drag me under more times than I could count.
Thankfully, I wasn’t alone in it. Not even close. I had the band. My brother, Dan. My other brother, but not by blood, Max. Sal. Susie. And Emma.
Emma… she was the voice of the band. The flame at the center of everything we created.
To the world, we were The Hartgrave Tellers. Genre-defying. Chart-topping. Stadium-filling.
The band of a generation.
The truth was a much darker tale no one knew. As dangerous as it was unspoken.
“You really are the brooding, silent type, huh? Not much of a talker.” Her smile widened in a way I didn’t think possible.
I nodded, sipping from my tumbler again. The whiskey was smooth, but it left a faint burn as it slid down my throat.
The clink of glasses echoed through the room. A lounge pianist played a slow, haunting version of “The Way You Look Tonight,” the chords curling around us like smoke.
“I just love the way you write. Your lyrics are so pointed, the way you own the stage…”
“It feels like watching a legend-in-the-making. Especially when you and Emma are up there together. The way you two just—”
I stilled as I caught the split-second realization that formed on her face, which was followed by a brief hesitation.
My expression shifted, sharp, unguarded.
I saw it land.
She knew she’d just veered into dangerous territory.
Emma and I were a loaded topic. Everyone knew that. Especially after the year we had. Her with Rick.
And me?
Well… spiraling.
In a way I was not proud of.
Emma and I were two halves of the same storm. That’s how we moved on stage. Played together. Wrote together. Circling, colliding, pulling apart. It wasn’t by accident or chance.
The label sold it that way on purpose. The fans grabbed on to it. Spun stories, built myths, created edits and videos to our own songs, and even wrote fan-fiction about us.
But what they didn’t know was how close to that edge we actually lived, every damn performance. Every time we were close.
And I spent years shoving it down. Pretending it was just creative partnership. Friendship. Chemistry. While we’d moved at breakneck speed. The last five years had been some of the hardest years of my life. The grinding, the writing, the playing, the touring, the posing, answering question after question about my love life, about Emma. All while navigating an industry that was rotten at the core.
I did my best to manage the chaos. Took the hits. Hard ones. So the band didn’t have to. So Emma didn’t have to.
I had been feeling all of it lately. For the last few months, actually.
Tonight, I was drowning in it.
She shifted, trying to recover.
“I’m hovering,” she said, gesturing to the stool beside me. “Do you mind if I sit?”
I exhaled sharply, exasperated.
“I was just about to—” I motioned to the glass doors at the entrance of the bar, and to the lobby beyond it.
She followed my hand and ignored my gesture, sinking into the chair gracefully. She crossed her legs with effortless confidence.
“You know,” her voice lifted slightly, “I think Heartbreakers is my favorite album.”
Oh bloody hell.
“That’s not surprising,” I offered, doing my best to hide my ire for it.
I hated that album.
The album was about excess and desire.
It was our third album. The one that catapulted us into the stratosphere.
The fame. The recognition. The adoration. But that album was a double-edged sword. For us, it wasn’t just music. It was survival, and we barely made it out alive.
“I love every track,” her eyes locked onto mine. “But ‘Dark Desires’? That one sends me.”
I exhaled again.
That bloody track sold the album, but it nearly broke us. Because of one man. Henry Mac. The producer. A menace and a psychopath in a Prada suit.
It was all his creation. His vision. Everything from the videos that were dark, warped fever dreams filled with sex, lust, and rock and roll, to our look and our brands.
And he used what was between Emma and me to sell it all. Put it on display for the world to devour as some heartbreak-riddled addiction, a twisted, unhealthy attachment.
It worked. It worked too bloody well.
It solidified our allure to the masses. Cemented our image as untouchable icons.
And it locked me into a role I could never quite escape.
I went from the magnetic, slightly obsessive, yet talented guitarist and frontman, rock’s Prince Charming, to Liam Teller, the bad boy of rock and roll.
Emma went from fashion It Girl, beautiful, enigmatic, a poet with substance and a past, to a center-fold pin-up girl.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d heard fans reference ‘Dark Desires’, ‘Let the Games Begin’, ‘Queen of All Kings’, or ‘Dangerous Addiction’, usually young women, typically when they were angling for a night with a rockstar to live out their fantasies.
It never worked. At least not with me.
Because they didn’t know the truth behind those tracks. Behind that album.
It was bloody torture.
I could feel her move coming, like a movie I’d seen one too many times. One I never liked, but was forced to watch anyway.
She leaned against the bar, her confidence sharp and deliberate, like she had nothing to lose. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she assumed she could get it.
“Well, you certainly are impressive, live and in person. Especially with that accent. Tall too. How tall are you, exactly?”
My eyes met hers, measured and controlled. “Six-three and change.”
She bit her bottom lip, her gaze flicking up and down.
Her perfume lingered in the air between us, vanilla with something darker underneath.
She was beautiful.
I didn’t care.
I wasn’t about to let anyone, or anything, distract me from being exactly who I wanted to be tonight.
And that was whatever Emma needed.
Even if it wasn’t what I wanted.
Yes, I was her bandmate.
Her creative partner.
I would play the part of the supportive best friend. The tux-wearing, red-carpet-strutting counterpart to her front-woman persona.
If she needed me to, I would be.
It was Emma’s night.
What I wanted was… more.
A hell of a lot more.
But she didn’t need me piling my feelings for her on top of everything else she was already carrying.
She had a fashion gala to pull off, launching her collaboration with Valois, just weeks before our sixth album, Revelations, dropped.
The press run surrounding it had been meticulously orchestrated by our managers and PR team at the label. This week was a relentless whirlwind of interviews, appearances, and photo ops.
I was bracing myself for all of it, pacing my energy, knowing I’d need every ounce of focus not to slip up.
The young woman at the bar leaned in closer, lips curling, tilting her head just so.
“So… what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”
I mulled it over in my head. I knew buying her a drink might signal interest. But it was the least I could do for a fan, even if I had more important things on my mind.
I could pay for a drink, then make a clean exit. That way, I wouldn’t end up with a blind item painting me as some absolute sod. I also wouldn’t have to entertain a twenty-one-year-old, or close to it, any longer than I wanted to.
I raised a hand to summon the bartender.
“Well?” I asked, friendly but detached, tilting my head slightly as I gestured toward the young woman with a questioning look.
“Charlotte,” she said, smiling coyly.
“Charlotte,” I repeated with a faint grin. Turning to the bartender, I added, “Drinks for Charlotte. My tab.”
The bartender gave me a small nod, then turned to her.
“A vodka martini. Double the olives,” she said.
He got to work, pouring and shaking.
Her smile widened.
“Talented, generous, and charming. What kind of bad boy are you?”
“A proper shite one, honestly,” I said lightly as I took a slow sip of my whiskey. “Don’t dob me in to the tabs, yeah?”
“Your secret’s safe with me, Liam. My friends and I would love it if you came over to our table. Maybe we can have some fun… later. All of us. Together.”
She gestured across the room to a table where her friends sat.
I smiled politely, glancing down at my drink.
“Pass. Big night ahead,” I said, then looked back at the bartender. “Their drinks? On me.”
He nodded again and went back to shaking her martini.
Charlotte’s smile widened. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
“It was lovely to meet you, Charlotte. Enjoy the drinks and your evening,” I said with a polite wave to her mates.
The table erupted in giggles and whispers as I took my weight off the bar. Ready to head for the exit.
“Are you sure?” she pressed, one brow arching in a curve. “We could always meet you here afterward. You know, after your big night.”
I quickly crafted a polite, firm decline in my head.
But, as luck would have it, I didn’t need to. An exit strategy arrived in the form of a six-foot-tall, dark-haired bassist, with a flair for the undignified, and exactly the kind of distraction Charlotte and her friends were hoping for.
Chapter 3
Figure It Out
Liam
“The thunder rolls, the sky turns black,
There’s no going forward, there’s no turning back.
The chaos screams louder, it drowns me out,
A deafening silence full of doubt.
I can feel the weight, I can feel the strain,
But I can’t fix what I can’t explain.”
– “Figure It Out”, Revelations, Album No. 6, 2024
Dan, my younger brother, the band’s bassist, and one half of the duo affectionately (and accurately) referred to by the HGT fandom as the Chaos Twins, approached us.
“Liam!”
Dan strolled up, all swagger and mischief, like he’d timed his entrance for maximum dramatic impact.
The relief that flooded my system was almost laughable.
Dan slid in beside me at the bar, immediately catching sight of Charlotte.
“Brother, are you going to introduce me to this vision of loveliness?”
Charlotte giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly charmed.
“Please… grant me a name, for that which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.”
Bloody hell.
Trust Dan to turn a simple introduction into a full-blown Shakespearean performance.
“Wow. Shakespeare?” she said with a coy smile. “You must be Dan Teller. I’m Charlotte.”
Dan pressed a hand to his chest like Cupid’s arrow had fatally struck him.
“Charlotte,” he repeated, savoring the name like a fine wine. “Ugh. A name as exquisite as the woman who bears it. The poets of old would weep.”
“Dan,” I scolded. Then I turned to Charlotte and gestured to him with a mock flourish. “This lad is more than capable of keeping you and your mates entertained… for a short while.”
Dan’s grin stretched wider as his gaze flicked toward Charlotte’s table, eyes lighting up like it was Christmas morning.
Charlotte arched a brow, smirking. “The Dan Teller? I’ve heard stories about you. They say you’re a real challenge.”
“Is that what they say about me? I hadn’t heard. I don’t pay attention to all that nonsense.”
I fought the urge to snicker.
“I can confirm that I am a bit of a challenge. But not for the reasons you think,” Dan said smoothly, his grin sharp with mischief. “The real question, Charlotte, is whether you're ready to find out if you can keep up.”
Christ, this bit was as insufferable to watch as I’m sure it was to endure.
She bit her bottom lip.
Guess not.
With an exaggerated flourish, Dan took Charlotte’s hand and pressed a lingering, theatrical kiss to it, holding her gaze the entire time.
Right on cue, Max strolled over, his easy grin lighting up his face as he took in the scene. His relaxed confidence was infectious, and he played his part flawlessly.
“Liam,” he greeted, clapping me on the shoulder as he took in the scene.
“Maxwell.” I nodded.
Then he immediately saddled up next to Dan, right beside Charlotte.
“Well, hello there.”
“Max,” Dan said, grinning, “Charlotte and her lovely friends are in need of some distraction, and looking to do so with a few handsome, available rock stars.”
Dan shot me a pointed look.
Max’s eyes lit up, and that brilliant smile of his went full megawatt.
Dan and Max had been best friends since they were kids. Together, they were the beating pulse of the band, our rhythm section. Solid. Unshakable when it came to the music. In every other area of life, they were loud, messy, and absolutely wild.
They were like an old married couple, if that couple constantly bickered, caused absolute mayhem, wore leather pants, were covered in tattoos, and never ever put on shirts.
Somehow, they always managed to land on their feet. Every bloody time.
Charlotte glanced past them at me, amusement sparking in her eyes. “These two seem… entertaining.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said.
“Come on, you two,” Charlotte said, tilting her head toward the table. “We’d love you to join us. Liam offered to get our tab.”
“Liam’s buying? Excellent! I’ll take it from here, mate,” Max said, already peeling away and making a beeline for the table.
“Ladies, how’s the night treating you so far?” he asked as he approached the three young women.
I shook my head, letting out a quiet laugh.
“Not too long, lads,” I called after them. “We’ve got the gala in two hours.”
“Please,” Dan said, voice dripping with exaggerated confidence. “It doesn’t take me that long to get pressed and suited up.”
“Dan, tonight’s important. Emma needs us on our A-game. You will be red-carpet ready within the hour. No exceptions.”
For a fleeting moment, his playful bravado dimmed. His grin softened, and something more sincere flickered across his face. He met my gaze and nodded.
“Fine. I’ll behave. Scout’s honor, or whatever these Americans say.”
Satisfied, I turned back to the bar, downing the rest of my whiskey. Savoring the slow burn as I signaled the bartender to keep my tab going.
I slipped out into the hotel lobby, seeking the quiet to clear my head.
The air was cooler. I felt calmer.
I let out a slow breath. As I cut through the lobby toward the elevator, security fell into step behind me. A few of them stayed behind to keep an eye on Max and Dan, though I feared it wouldn’t stop them from finding trouble. But knowing someone was watching them freed up a little headspace. Headspace that was immediately filled with thoughts of Emma. Who was in Chelsea, presently.
I knew, without a doubt, she was sitting in a makeup chair, getting done up to perfection. And the whole time, the weight of the night was settling on her shoulders as she silently panicked. Overthinking was her default. Overanalyzing was her way of coping. That way she could convince herself she had everything under control.
I glanced down at my phone, hoping for a message from her. Something, anything. Even a pointless meme to remind me she was still there.
But there was nothing.
The need to check in on her gnawed at me, not just for her sake, but for mine.
I exhaled slowly, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
What the hell was I supposed to say?
“You good?”
It didn’t seem like enough.
And how many times had I been in this exact position?
Aching to reach out.
Hesitating.
Not knowing if I should say what I really needed to.
Fuck it.
Before I could overthink it, I stopped in my tracks and turned to security.
“Change of plans, lads,” I said.
Cliff, our head of security, a six-foot-four wall of muscle with a bald head and the patience of a saint, arched a brow and smirked.
“Chelsea?”
I smirked, nodding.
Moments later, I was in the band’s ride, an extended luxury SUV with tinted windows, heading to the art gallery, the venue, her.
Chapter 4
Come Through
Emma
I’ve been standing here, watching the door,
Heart on the line, can’t take much more.
The silence echoes, the night feels cold,
I’m waiting for you, a story untold.
Every glance, every touch, every word unsaid,
It’s you I’m holding onto in my head.
I know it’s hard, I know it’s a fight,
But I’m still here, burning in the light.
If there’s a chance, just one small sign,
Come through, and make it mine
– “Come Through”, Maggie C. Ft. Liam Teller,
Collaborations, 2023
I sat there on the edge of my chair, clutching the arms, trying to shake the feeling that I was walking into some kind of gauntlet. I felt like I was preparing for my own execution. Already sentenced by the court of public opinion.
My chest tightened. My pulse pounded.
I needed something. A shot. A slap. A fucking Ativan. Anything to slow my thoughts. To ground me.
I was having a panic attack at the worst possible moment.
It felt like I was 24 again, about to step onto the Grammys stage for the first time, to perform in front of all my idols, industry leaders, and peers. I ended up throwing up in the ladies’ room, in my black, see-through Valois dress.
Back then, the only thing that got me through it was… Liam.
“It’s just you and me up there, Hartgrave. No one else,” he’d said. “Just keep your eyes on me.”
And that’s exactly what I did. We blew them away that night, too. With an unrelenting 4-minute mashup of every nominated song.
We walked away with seven Grammys. We’d been nominated for eight.
I forced myself to loosen both grips on my chair. I grabbed my phone, the case flexing as I held on to it for dear life.
I turned it over and stared at it. Opened the messaging thread between Liam and me.
Willing myself to come up with something, anything, to send.
But the only words that came to mind were ones I wasn’t prepared to type, let alone send.
Not after the year we’d had.
Everything was so… complicated between us.
It was getting better. But slowly. Too slowly.
There was nothing I could write to Liam that could convey what I needed to.
Right now? I wasn’t just some celebrity musician coming off a messy breakup. I wasn’t just HGT’s lead singer, who needed her bandmate and lead guitarist as backup. I was a woman who needed the only man on earth who had been beside her through every hard moment.
“Emma,” Ashley said, interrupting my thoughts.
She looked down at me. Her straight, glossy dark hair fell over her shoulder. Her grey suit was lightly pinstriped, the cut tailored within an inch of its life.
“Yes,” I replied, not lifting my gaze from my phone.
“Eyes here.”
I finally looked at her.
Her deep brown, knowing eyes met mine, long lashes flicking.
“You gonna be okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, as I reanimated myself slowly. The constriction in my chest eased, infinitesimally.
“You sure? Because you look like you’re about to burst into tears and then throw up.”
“I might,” I muttered. “I haven’t ruled it out.”
“You can do this, Emma,” she whispered, low enough that only I could hear her.
I nodded. Staring at her, all I saw were eyes just like mine staring back. Only mine were blue, but no less worn, tired, and worried.
Then her phone buzzed.
“Oh, hell,” she sighed, looking down at it in her hand. “I’ll be right back. Do not have a breakdown on me.”
My phone buzzed in my hand.
I looked down at it, and the relief that washed over me was immediate.
Liam: I’m here. Absolute mayhem out front.
I let out a long breath.
I typed a response and hit send.
Me: It’s not much better in here, tbh.
My phone started buzzing again as headlines flooded my feed.
“Liam Teller Arriving Backstage at the Valois x Emma Hartgrave Collab!”
“Liam Visits Emma Ahead of Her Big Night.”
“Who Are Those Drinks For, Liam Teller?”
“Does the Queen of Rock Have Her Prince Charming Back?”
“Prince of Rock or King of Emma Hartgrave’s Heart?”
Paparazzi shots followed. Images of Cliff leading the entourage as Liam stepped out of the band’s ride, a black extended SUV, flanked by security. He looked effortless, as always, in his signature look. The kind of look that was technically casual but still had a way of making every headline.
His expression was unreadable beneath sunglasses and the glare of flashing cameras. His posture was relaxed, exuding that easy, unshakable confidence that had been his trademark since the beginning.
My thoughts about him barely had any time to settle before I sensed him in the room.
And a second later, there he was. Moving through the backstage prep area with that quiet, commanding aura he always had, owning the room without even needing to try. He was surrounded by perfectly styled models, and still he stood out.
Black faded jeans that clung in all the right places, paired with black boots worn just enough to whisper of tour buses, stages, and sleepless nights chasing something bigger than all of us.
He looked exactly like he had in the pap shots. With a tight, black T-shirt under a worn leather jacket. Liam never tried to look like the leading man in a rock-and-roll fantasy.
He just was.
Dark waves of hair fell into his eyes like they didn’t mean to. His eyes, bright green, sharp yet warm, locked on mine from across the room. Those eyes could pin me in place or pull me under. Right now, they were doing both.
He looked so good. Like trouble. The kind you knew might ruin you, but still made you want to fall, headfirst, heart open, no brakes.
And I’d been doing just that, every damn day since I met him.
The flutter in my chest grew worse as he moved toward me with long, easy strides.
“Hartgrave,” he called out. “You weren’t joking. It’s madness in here.”
He stopped in front of me, pausing for a moment as he took me in, then handed me one of the to-go cups in his hands.
“Here.”
“Oh… thank you.”
I took the cup without hesitation, wrapping my fingers around it, letting the heat sink into my skin. I lifted it to my lips and inhaled the scent, Earl Grey and honey. Not my favorite drink, but my favorite if I’m drinking tea. When you had British bandmates, having a favorite tea became a requirement.
Liam dropped into a model’s chair next to me, casually, stretching out his long legs like he had all the time in the world. His broad, muscular, 6’3” frame commanded the attention of every model within view. He had that unfair, soul-crushing kind of handsomeness that short-circuited the brains of anyone within ten feet of him.
He raised an eyebrow as he took in the scene, the models staring while getting last-minute adjustments, the Valois team darting around with tablets and headphones, the press already positioned for some exclusive shots.
“This is a fucking monumental feat, innit?”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a grin. “Big night. Big chaos.”
His gaze flicked back to me, lingering just a little too long.
I felt a heat creeping up my neck.
“From what I’ve seen, everything looks incredible, Em. Well done.” His voice softened, his expression shifting just enough to send something sharp through me. “You should be bloody proud. I’m proud as hell.”
I swallowed and cleared my throat before it could tighten up on me. His words hit harder than expected.
“What’s going on, Em? You’re quiet,” He said. His voice low. “Spiraling in that head of yours? Overthinking every move you’ve made since… the beginning of time?”
I exhaled sharply. It unnerved me how well he knew me. I had no place to hide around him.
I forced myself to meet his gaze and gave a small nod.
“Emma.”
“What? It’s a big night. It’s a lot,” I argued.
“It is.”
“I regret saying yes to this,” I admitted.
“Are you joking? You live for this shite. You wear it everywhere. Valois fills your whole bloomin’ closet. Which is the size of this room, by the way.”
“Haha! It’s not that big, Teller.”
“It’s damn close, Em.”
I exhaled, shifting in my seat.
Liam watched me, his green eyes steady, locked onto mine.
“What I mean is, I shouldn’t have agreed to walk in the show. I should just be sitting in the seats with the other celebrities, with you and the band. It feels like I’m setting myself up for a teardown. Like, no matter what I give, they’ll find a way to rip it to shreds.”
He let out a sharp breath.
“Doing anything this... daring, Emma, anything that matters, in the public eye is always a risk.” His voice was quiet but firm.
I shook my head.
“I know that. But I don’t know that I want to give them anything else to distort, to spin. I’m just… tired of the games.”
“I hear you. But the press are gonna do what they’ve always done. It’s not right. It’s downright fucking cruel sometimes, but that’s how the machine works. All bluster and bloody noise, trying to get clicks and bait people. You know all that. More than most.”
I nodded absently.
“And you’ve never been one to let that stop you. It’s never been your style, Hartgrave.”
“My style is apparently walking half-naked down a runway in front of fashion royalty. There’s a short film, which I am practically naked in. All the looks, and the lingerie. I didn’t think this through.”
“Yes, you did. You think everything through, Em. And I was at the shoot. You made an artistic decision. You were confident in it, at the time.”
Liam leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His hand reached for mine. He brushed my fingers with his. Subtly. A deliberate, careful touch that grounded us both. It always had.
“You’ve been pushing boundaries and toeing the edge with fashion and your own personal style for years. You’ve been half-naked on stages before, in music videos. For photo shoots.”
“That’s fair. But it’s the timing that’s getting to me,” I said with a huff.
“And there aren’t even that many videos,” I added.
He lifted an unimpressed eyebrow.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. It’s been… a lot.”
“You love all of this, the fashion, the creation, the collaboration. Pushing the art.”
“Yeah, I do… But—”
“No buts. Don’t let them take this from you. They’re the ones obsessed with tearing down any successful woman who tries to experiment and create. Eventually they’ll move on to whatever titillating piece of gossip is trending or a celebrity PR stunt.”
Liam watched me closely.
“I didn’t anticipate feeling so exposed,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. “I’m tired of… pretending. That I’m some perfect human. I’m not. I fuck up. A lot. All the time, actually.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me. No one knows that better than I do.”
I became suddenly, sharply aware that most of the people in the room were watching us.
“I’m being serious, Liam.”
“I know you are. But you don’t have to be perfect, Emma.” His voice pulled me back, low and firm. “Doing so won’t protect you. Or their commitment to misunderstanding you. Just show up as you. Keep creating and making your art. They’re just bloody lucky to see it, hear it. And yes. They may still tear you down. But that’s on them… not you.”
He paused, letting the words settle before adding, “You’ve done something bloody incredible here. If they’re smart, they’ll come ’round to see it. The people who matter already do. If they don’t, though. Fuck ‘em. They won’t ever get it.”
He said it like it was an absolute, undeniable truth.
I shook my head at him.
“Just fuck ’em, huh?”
“Yeah. Bloody right.”
I held back a smirk, both hands wrapped around my tea as I brought it to my lips, testing if it had cooled enough to take a sip. It hadn’t.
I removed the lid and blew on it, taking a cautious sip, careful not to smudge the lipstick the makeup artists had applied so perfectly.
“But maybe… they’re right. I’m a screw-up. I have been for a while now.”
Liam was silent for a moment, studying me as I put the lid back on my tea, making sure it was snug and secure.
Then he stood, tapping me lightly on the knee.
“Alright, up. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”
I blinked. “Are we jailbreaking?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not getting off that easy, Hartgrave. Let’s just find a quiet corner.”
“Where? There are models, stylists, and Valios staff everywhere.”
"There’s gotta be somewhere we can escape to," he said, already scanning the room for an exit. “Somewhere I can think straight, and you can actually breathe.” His eyes flicked back to me. “Where’s your coat?”
I pointed to my things nearby, and before I could reach for them myself, he grabbed them, then hauled me up from my chair with effortless strength. Without another word, he led me down a long corridor, weaving past models and frantic stylists, before slipping us into a stairwell.
Chapter 5
Ride or Die
Emma
You’re my ride or die, baby, my reason to breathe,
Through the highs, through the lows,
it’s just you and me.
When the world gets cold, I’ll keep you warm,
Through the fire, through the storm,
I’ll keep you strong.
They can’t touch us, we’re unbreakable ties,
Forever yours, and you’re forever mine.”
– “Ride or Die”, Break the Chains, Album No. 2, 2018
Minutes later, we emerged onto the roof.
Dusk had settled over New York, the sky a wash of deep blues and fiery oranges, the last hints of daylight fading behind towering glass and steel. Smoke curled lazily from distant heat stacks, blurring the edges of the skyline. The air was crisp, the kind of damp April evening where the chill seeped all the way to your bones.
I yanked on my coat and pulled the hood up, curlers tucked beneath it to shield against the wind. Beside me, Liam slipped one hand into the pocket of his leather jacket while the other held his tea. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the crisp bite of the air. I did the same.
We stood near the edge of the roof, looking at the city, the constant hum of New York filling the silence between us. I wrapped both hands around my tea, letting the warmth seep into my skin.
“Better?”
“Getting there,” I said. “The fresh air helps.”
For the first time all day, the chaos felt distant.
“Fresh as New York air can be,” I added.
Liam smirked.
“Do you remember…” he started slowly. “That chat we had during the ‘Wild Fantasy’ video shoot?”
I raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the reference.
It took me a second to recall the memory, the time, the place.
“‘Wild Fantasy?’ Wow! That’s a callback.”
“It was a while ago,” he added. “Four or five years now, actually.”
I remembered. We were in the desert. A 50s-style music video shoot for a song about disappearing for a while and living out your fantasy with someone you loved but couldn’t be with long term.
Liam was at his wits’ end with our image, with Henry Mac. With all of it. We had no idea then how much worse it was about to get.
I let out a long breath.
“The one where you spent the entire shoot, miserable, trying to dodge that model who kept slipping you the tongue during your make-out scene?”
Liam shot me a look over the rim of his cup, shaking his head as he took a sip of his tea. “That was a gut-wrenching conversation, Emma, and that’s what you remember about that day?”
“No, of course not. I remember it,” the teasing tone leaving my voice. “You were our British James Dean, all brooding and effortless swagger.”
“And you were our Marilyn Monroe, red lips and finger curls, flowing white dress among the sand dunes,” he smirked.
“The video turned out fairly well. Fans still love it.”
Liam nodded.
“That poor model was just doing all she could not to combust,” I added.
His chuckle was a low rumble, rich and warm. It did something to me. “And you said you’d ‘take her out’ if she tried to slip me the tongue during the re-shoots.”
“I might’ve been mildly to dangerously jealous,” I admitted, taking a sip of tea to mask the flush creeping up my neck.
Liam’s lips curled. “Says the girl whose cut scenes revolved around being wrapped in bed sheets and nearly naked with that actor…”
He paused, his thick, dark brows drawing inwards.
“Christ, forgot the sod’s bloody name… what was it, again?”
“Gabe Reeds. The grandson of that old-timey gangster film legend, Red Reeds.”
He groaned, “Oh, right. Hated that bloke.”
“He was dreamy,” I smirked. “Also, handsy.”
“That’s something you should’ve told me before this moment,” Liam said, pointing at me with his cup.
I shrugged.
“Should have told you a lot of things back then, Liam.”
His smirk faded, his expression shifting into something serious and raw. He cleared his throat and looked down at his feet.
I deflected, quickly.
“Besides, I was too busy giving you the gears about how most 27-year-old men would’ve been in their glory, making out with a hot brunette on a vintage motorcycle.”
“The Norton? I loved that part,” he admitted. “Not being shirtless in low-slung leathers on a bike with a stranger straddling me and shoving her tongue down my throat like I asked for it.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re gonna give me the ‘I’m immune to beauty’ speech, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve been thoroughly desensitized,” he said. “I have a gorgeous blonde rubbing up against me on stage almost every night, in all kinds of suggestive positions. It’s practically a professional bloody skill at this point.”
“Being impervious to twerking?”
I let out a laugh as he nodded.
“You’re just as bad, Teller. Don’t even try to deny it. You turn into a menace the second you strap on that Gibson. All complicated finger work and dropping to your knees while doing it.”
A wolfish grin spread across his face, slow and knowing.
He didn’t need to say anything. We both knew. We let all the tension between us out on stage. Poured it all into our performances.
The air grew quiet, and Liam’s expression turned introspective.
“Okay, real talk now. I was miserable at that shoot,” he admitted. “Like you are right now.”
I exhaled.
“Henry was being an insufferable asshole the whole shoot, though. We were all miserable.”
Liam nodded.
“And I’m not miserable, Liam. I’m just… tired.”
“You’re something, Hartgrave. And you need a good bloody pep talk.”
“Is that what this is? You giving me the ‘what’s it all for?’ talk? Like I gave you that day?”
He nodded.
“Yep.”
The memory hit me like a slow burn.
“Do you remember it?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “You said you felt more like an image than a musician. That it was all starting to overtake us, to swallow us whole. Our careers were spinning out of control, because the universe was punishing us for making a decision you weren’t sure was the right one. Some kind of karmic justice.”
Liam didn’t speak, but his eyes stayed locked on mine, sharp and unwavering.
“You weren’t miserable either, Liam,” I said, my voice softer now. “You were in a bad place. You just weren’t…”
“Happy,” he finished.
I nodded, remembering the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he was carrying, the unspoken words he didn’t need to say out loud. I remembered how much it broke my heart. Liam had said what he thought would’ve made him happy.
I had felt the same. But too much had happened. The timing was too complicated. He had a girlfriend, and I was falling deeper into the chaos of the industry with Greg, Henry Mac, and Titan. I was trying to make every sacrifice mean something. I was trying to convince myself that if we just kept moving forward, played the long game, everything would fall into place. Eventually.
“God, what a mess we made of it all,” I murmured, shaking my head. “I didn’t understand what it took to build a legacy.”
“Neither did I.”
“I was sure that if we just kept going...”
That dull ache, the one that never really left, settled in my chest. Raw and unrelenting.
“We were both so hell-bent on solidifying that eight-album legacy deal. So sure we were doing what we had to, even when it was killing us. All of us.”
For a moment, the weight of that shared history hung between us, the deal we’d made with the label and with each other. Heavy. Crushing.
And yet, somehow, we survived it. We were still here.
“Things didn’t exactly work out according to plan,” Liam said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I thought we were losing everything that mattered back then. Turns out, it was just the beginning of everything falling apart and coming back together. Once or twice.”
I nodded, my throat tight. “Or thrice,” I murmured.
“We’re still here, Em. After everything. That’s the most important part.” Liam’s voice was laced with the kind of understanding only shared scars can bring.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “We are.”
“So we keep fighting. Through all of it,” he added. “We do what it takes.”
I nodded.
Chapter 6
Find Our Way Back
Emma
“Sometimes love needs the room to grow,
To find its truth in the letting go.
And even when the flame seemed gone,
I knew deep down it would carry on.”
– “Find Our Way Back”, Shane Gonzalez ft. Liam Teller,
Collaborations, 2023
I sipped my tea as a gust of wind ruffled my curlers. We watched the skyline as lights filled the darkening sky, scattered like stars across the city.
The truth hung in the air between us like smoke, thick, lingering, impossible to ignore.
Liam was the first to speak and break the silence.
“Do you remember the rest of the speech?” Liam asked.
“Do you remember it?” I asked.
“Yes. Every word.”
I leaned back with a dramatic sigh, searching for the memory.
“I remember you said we should run away together,” I teased.
“To Mexico.”
“Baja. Which was my idea, by the way,” I said, lips curving into a grin.
“The whole bloody thing was my idea, Hartgrave,” he shot back.
“You were all about the concept, Teller. I nailed down the specifics.”
“And?” he said, holding out his tea like a challenge, pointing it at me as if daring me to leave anything out.
“I said that even if we gave it all up and ran away together, you’d last… maybe three weeks.”
“You said I’d be begging you to come back to write and make another album,” he finished for me.
“It’s in your blood, Teller,” I’d said, my voice softening.
It was something I’d always known about Liam. Since the moment we met. Something I felt every time we wrote together. Every lyric. Every night. He was born for it. He was a musician through and through. A poet, an artist. Liam Teller would never be able to give it up. Any part of it. He could play anything, with any instrument, and he often tried. It was inherent to who he was. Primal and mystical all at once.
Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
And all at once, I was there again. Back in that moment with him.
I remembered exactly what I said to him that day in the desert. It washed over me like a balm I didn’t know I needed.
He’d looked at me with the same burning green eyes, hair tousled by the wind. The sand whipped around us as we leaned on a black, vintage roadster.
“People who don’t understand you or your calling, who make you doubt yourself or the choices you need to make to fulfill that purpose,” I said, looking at him. “They don’t matter. Not really. Whether they like it or not, they don’t get to call the shots. Because they’re not that powerful.”
I took a breath.
“They don’t have the power to separate you from your God-given birthright. The reason you were put here, on this earth, at this time, in this place.”
Silence stretched between us, thick with something I wasn’t ready to discuss.
“That was it,” he said. “You knocked the breath right out of my lungs that day.”
“It was all true, Liam. I meant every word of it. But I was also incredibly naive,” I said.
“You were a force. You still are,” Liam said simply, his voice soft but unwavering.
“I was running on adrenaline and blind ambition. I thought I knew what the hell I was doing. All the while, the industry was gearing up for my destruction.”
“You survived every time they’ve tried to take you out. While pulling me through some hard fucking times.”
“None of it made a difference.”
“Yes, it did,” he said. “It helped me fight the next leg, when you cracked and crumbled. And here we are again. And I’m sure we’ll keep coming to these moments and keep pushing each other through them. Because that’s what we do for each other. What we’ve always done for each other. Whether it makes a difference to anyone else but us.”
I turned to look at him, and for a second, it felt like time held its breath. His green eyes locked onto mine, holding a certainty that held me, steadying me and unraveling me all at once.
“So please,” he said, his voice low but brimming with quiet conviction, “don’t let that bloody arsehole Rick Bradley, or the press, or anyone ever make you forget who you are and why you’re doing this. You have an incredible talent, Emma. A phenomenal voice. One that fills stadiums effortlessly. Your music. Your songs. The way you see the world, it all comes from your heart. Your fire. It resonates. You’re an artist. You always have been. You were born for this.”
His words hit me like a tidal wave, breaking through every ounce of doubt that had wrapped itself around my chest.
“You once told me music saved you more times than you can count. That you wanted to share that with as many people as you could. You’ve done it. Keep doing it. Don’t let anyone stop you.”
“Jeez, Teller, you’re such a sop.”
He shook his head at my teasing.
“This is… a really good pep talk. Solid 9 out of 10,” I quipped, arching an eyebrow.
“Where’d I lose the point?” he asked. He let loose a slow, devastating grin as he leaned back.
“Nowhere,” I said with a shrug. “I just didn’t want to inflate your ego too much by giving you a perfect 10.”
“Really? My downfall was my own hubris. Didn’t want me getting too cocky, eh?”
“Exactly. Can’t have you strutting around thinking you’re a perfect 10… at pep talks, at least.” I laughed, shaking my head. “Honestly, though, you should save this one.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, standing up straighter. “I’m planning to give a version of it to the band while everyone’s getting ready for the red carpet.”
“Yeah, that’s fair. The last year’s been… rough,” I admitted, my laughter fading slightly as I nodded.
The flow and the banter came easy between us. My feelings for him once again felt impossible to ignore.
I did my best to stay in the moment, not think about the fact that in an hour I would be walking onto that runway in 4-inch heels, and 6-foot leather wings strapped to my back.
My anxiety spiked. I rubbed at my chest.
“What if instead of me walking down the runway, we go back to the hotel? Get in our comfy sweats, stay in, order pizza? Tell everyone I was sick?” I offered.
“I’m only agreeing to that if we order Hawaiian,” he replied, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me. His dark, tousled hair was ruffled by the wind. Making it even messier than before.
“Absolutely not. You know I don’t like it. It’s vile.”
“It’s culinary genius, Hartgrave. I’m determined to change your mind about it,” he countered without hesitation, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“You don’t even like it, Teller,” I accused, narrowing my eyes. “You’re just trying to wind me up.”
His grin widened, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re easy to wind up, Hartgrave. And you love arguing with me. Pineapple on pizza is disgusting. It’s too early for metal. You can’t wear flip-flops with socks.”
“You can’t—”
“Arguing with me is one of your many talents.”
“I can’t let you think you’re right all the time, Teller.”
“See?” he said, his voice softening, turning tender. “You’re maddening. You’ve been driving me mad every night since that night we fell asleep together in that shitty flat in Silver Lake. You spent hours arguing with me about every bloody word choice.”
“That song launched us, Teller. It was only mildly essential to our careers.”
“And because of you, we have careers.”
“Oversimplification.”
“Coachella. The Calgary Stampede. The Glitter Foundation.”
“All fair points. But I didn’t pull those off alone.”
He shook his head at me, that small, fond smile still playing at his lips.
“Fine. Then, just remember who you are, yeah? And get your arse on that stage. Because you’re Emma fucking Hartgrave. And no one… no one, gets to take that away from you.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“Okay. I will do my best.”
“Your best? Do you want me to keep going, then? Until it’s a known fact in that beautiful head of yours?” he asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m enjoying the praise more than I thought I would.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I’m here all night. Though the second it turns into feeding that little praise kink of yours, I’m legging it.”
“Don’t be a brat, Teller. We both know you’re the one with the praise kink.”
“Emma,” he murmured.
“What?”
“You’re devious.”
“Maybe. But you? You always know what to say to help me get out of my own head and let go a little. How do you always do that?”
He smiled with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
“Because I know you. Every version of you. And I’m…” He paused, his jaw tightening, as if wrestling with the words. “I’m always going to be here for you. To remind you.”
Then came that lopsided grin of his, the one that had wrecked me more times than I could count.
My chest tightened, but this time, it wasn’t from anxiety. It was something warmer. Softer.
I swallowed hard.
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed three times in quick succession, Gerry’s name lighting up the screen.
“Glam squad downstairs calling you back?” Liam guessed, raising an eyebrow.
I exhaled, the weight rushing back all at once. “Yes. I don’t want to go back down there. Not yet.”
Liam chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re going to be brilliant, Em. You’re brilliant at most everything you do, bloody infuriating, really.”
“Not true. I can’t cook to save my life. It evens things out.”
“It really doesn’t, Hartgrave.”
A laugh slipped from my lips, soft, unbidden.
“I cry over romcoms and then try to blame it on allergies,” I added. “Mostly, because I’m an ugly crier.”
“You’re not an ugly anything. Ever. You do have an unnatural devotion to the world’s worst-flavored ice cream known to man, though.”
“Hey, mint chocolate chip is top tier, Teller,” I said, my voice lighter now, though it still quivered slightly.
“It’s toothpaste-flavored ice cream, Em,” Liam shot back smoothly, the faintest glimmer of dry amusement flickering through his otherwise serious tone.
I shook my head, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Go,” he said, shoving me lightly. “Go knock ’em dead. I’ll be there, front row, center, you know, in case you decide to fling a heel at me again. Maybe even on purpose.”
“I did that one time, Liam.”
“And it earned me the ‘Prince Charming of Rock’ title. It stuck, Emma. Stuck for bloody years,” Liam said, feigning exasperation. “I had to claw my way back to my gritty, northern bad boy roots.”
“Not my fault,” I said with a grin. “I just showed the world what was already there. They ran with it, and still are, apparently.”
“What? You’re having a go at me.”
“Nope. Check the headlines, Teller.”
“Ah,” he grumbled. “Bloody maddening, the tabs.”
“Just try to remember who you are underneath it all, Liam. A gritty Northern British boy with too many tattoos and an obsessive need to remember every classic rock riff known to man.”
“Touché, Hartgrave.”
Our laughter echoed off the stone walls, that quiet warmth settling between us. Familiar and enduring.
“Okay. I gotta go now,” I finally said.
He pushed himself off the railing and stood tall, his muscular frame looming over me with a casual grace that somehow made the space between us feel charged, like it always did when he was near.
“Then go already, Hartgrave.”
He leaned in, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear that had blown out of its curler. His fingers lingered, trailing slightly along my jawline. The warmth of his hand sent a shiver through me, and my breath hitched, my heart stuttering in my chest. I let out a slow, grounding breath, trying to regain some semblance of control.
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“Thanks, Teller.”
“Always, Hartgrave.”
I turned and headed for the door.
“Oh, shite! I almost forgot,” he called to me.
I turned back just in time to see him pull a flask from his coat.
I burst out laughing.
“You brought me a shot?”
“Figured you’d need one.”
“Teller, the man that you are. See? Prince Charming.”
“Stop.”
I took the flask and knocked it back.
“What are you—sip it, Hartgrave!”
I coughed, choking slightly as the scotch burned its way down my throat. I should’ve known it would be something ridiculous, like twice-aged, barrel-smoked scotch.
“Oh, my God, Liam. I take it back. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
“Emma,” he said, tone half-incredulous, half-amused, “you just pounded that like it was bottom-shelf whiskey.”
“It’s awful. Why do you drink that stuff?”
“Because it’s actually good when you don’t knock it back like that. You’re supposed to drink it with some actual respect.”
He glanced down at the flask, shook his head, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
“See.”
“Alright, I’m going for real now. Before Gerry sends out a search party.”
Forcing myself to turn, I started toward the door again.
“Emma,” Liam called after me, his voice softer now, quieter, tinged with something more profound.
I paused, my hand on the doorframe, and glanced back at him. “Yeah?”
“Just remember, don’t let them decide who you are tonight. You get to do that.”
I nodded, my lips curving into the faintest smile.
“What did I ever do to deserve you, Teller?”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that rumbled through the space between us.
“Probably lost a bet,” he said. “Or maybe I was just assigned to you as karmic retribution for all my bloody sins in another lifetime.”
“You just had to ruin it, didn’t you?” I teased.
He nodded and shot me a wink.
“So freakin’ cheeky,” I shot back.
I felt everything I’d ever felt for him all at once. A spark in my chest. Burning brighter with each breath, blooming through my heart, impossible to ignore.
“Well,” I said, with a smirk, “Not the worst-case scenario, as far as karma goes. Might as well look for the silver lining… or the gold one.”
Liam let out a chuckle.
“Cheers to that. See you out there, Hartgrave.”
I bounced my way down the stairs. Feeling lighter and more like myself than I had in months.
* * *
“Emma, all done with touch-ups. No more running off before the show,” said Finn, breaking me out of my thoughts.
Finn was one of the makeup artists for the show. He was massively talented. His bleached blond hair fell over one eye as he studied his work in the mirror.
“Scout’s honor,” I said.
“I think you’re ready, then.”
“Yes,” added Pam, his assistant, a short, muscular woman with tawny skin, a sharp pixie cut, and eyes as dark as night. She stood beside him, studying the look. “Flawless.”
“Helps when the beautiful Emma Hartgrave is your canvas,” Finn said with a grin.
I looked in the mirror. There she was.
The girl who picked up her first guitar at fifteen and wrote songs that felt like lifelines.
The girl who survived a childhood marked by expectations she could never meet.
The girl who had been reduced to nothing but a pretty face and body, over and over again.
The girl who wanted nothing more than to connect with people through music, because it had saved her more times than she could count.
The girl who had been through worse than Rick Bradley, battles no one knew about, and had walked out the other side. Stronger. Seasoned. Still fighting.
“Looks fabulous,” I offered.
“Okay, let’s get hair to pull these rollers,” Finn called as Shane, the hairstylist, stepped over and began unpinning my hair. One by one, the golden strands tumbled down my back. I leaned into the chair, my head tilting, hair cascading behind me.
Liam was right.
I wasn’t lost. And I didn’t need to have all the answers tonight.
All I needed was me. And him. And my truth.
Rick wasn’t my story.
He wasn’t even the plot twist.
He was just a chapter.
And like every chapter, his had an ending.
I felt it then, that ember of strength I’d always relied on. Still glowing deep inside me. Like it had never left.
Liam’s voice echoed in my mind, clear and unflinching, ‘Don’t let them decide who you are tonight. You get to do that.’
Tonight, the story was no one’s to write, but mine.
