I’m feeling remarkably calm, after the incident with my father. At least… until we pile out of the elevator into our penthouse and find it empty.

No Ryder.

I don’t truly start to worry about him until the first half hour has passed. I don’t begin to panic until the one after that has slipped away.

Where are you?

Where are you?

Where are you?

Linc, Aiden, Carly, and I sit on the sectional, staring at each other in silent worry. Ryder’s phone is going straight to voicemail. Our dinner reservation has come and gone. The show is scheduled to start in three hours — soon, we’ll have to depart for the Garden.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to play, tonight?” Carly asks, for the thousandth time.

“Yes.” I rub my temples. “If I don’t play, my father wins. And he doesn’t get to control my life — not anymore. I’m getting on that damn stage, and I plan on giving the best mother-fudging show of my life.”

Linc lifts his beer in a toast to my declaration.

Aiden chain-smokes another cigarette, staring at the clock.

With growing worry and no other options, we call the security team. They’ve scarcely finished dealing with my last crisis when I shove a new one into their laps.

“Ryder’s missing,” I say as soon as York and Stevens step through the door. “He hasn’t been here for over an hour. I’m worried something might’ve happened to him.”

The guards trade a meaningful glance.

“What?” I snap. “What is it? Is he okay? Did my father— Did something happen?”

“No, Miss Wilde.” York’s eyes are steady on mine. “Mr. Woods is fine. He was away from the hotel during the incident. Smith is with him. He’s told us to assure you all that he will be at the venue, as scheduled.”

I blow out a breath, relief flooding me. “Oh. So… he’s okay? He’s not hurt or maimed or lying in a ditch somewhere?”

“Not last I checked, ma’am.” Stevens’ eyes gleam. “But if you’d like us to check in with Smith for a status update, we’re happy to do so.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I blow out a breath and plop down on the sofa, my body going limp as tension leaves me. “I’m glad he’s okay. In fact, I’m glad he wasn’t here. If he’d seen my father…” I shake my head. “He probably would’ve killed him.”

Linc snorts. “Tortured. Then killed. In that order.”

“Verbally berated. Then tortured. Then killed,” Aiden amends. “In that order.”

I sigh, but don’t disagree with their somewhat dark assessment. York and Stevens are fading toward the door when I call them back.

“Does Ryder know about what happened yet?” I ask. “Did Smith tell him?”

“No, ma’am.” York’s eyes are intent. “We thought we’d leave that to you. But if you’d like us to call him—”

“No!” I exclaim sharply, making everyone jump. I mellow my tone. “No. I think, honestly, it’s best if we wait to tell him about this until after the show.” I glance around at Linc, Aiden, and Carly. “Otherwise, he’s just going to flip out. And the show…”

“He won’t play,” Carly murmurs.

“If I know Ry, he’ll blow a fucking gasket when he hears.” Linc winces. “Still, I don’t like lying to him.”

“Not lying,” Aiden murmurs. “Delaying the truth until a more opportune moment.”

“So, lying,” Linc says bluntly.

“It’s a sold-out show. In New York City. At Madison Square Garden.” Aiden’s tone never rises, but his words carry weight. “We’d be insane to cancel two hours beforehand. We’d be insane to cancel, period.”

Lincoln grits his teeth, but doesn’t disagree.

“We all have to be on the same page, here.” I blink at the boys. “So? Do we wait to tell him?”

They both glance at me for a long moment, then nod.

“We wait.”

Standing in the dark backstage, I adjust my sparkly dress one last time and try to breathe. I can hear the swelling applause as the lights begin to dim. The crowd is growing increasingly restless as they wait for us to start — we were supposed to be out there fifteen minutes ago.

“Where the fuck is he?” Aiden mutters, looking like he’s about to blow a gasket.

“He’ll be here,” Carly says, her tone soothing. Without thinking, she reaches out and puts her hand on Aiden’s arm. As soon as their skin brushes, they both leap apart. Carly mutters something about checking the dressing rooms as she hurries away, cheeks aflame.

I watch her go, brows raised.

Lincoln snorts. “Those two get weirder every damn day.”

Another few minutes pass, the cheers growing to a dull roar. We’re seriously considering starting without him when Ryder finally steps through the back door, Smith following him.

“Fucking finally,” Aiden mutters, signaling to the tech crew. “He’s here, let’s get going.”

I look into Ryder’s face as he stops beside me in the wings and know, within the first instant, that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. His eyes are rimmed with red and dark with thoughts I can’t decipher.

“Are you okay?” I ask, grabbing his hand. It’s limp — he doesn’t lace his fingers through mine, or return my warm squeeze. “Ryder, you’re scaring me. Look at me.”

My breath catches as he complies. His gaze locks on my face, so empty you’d think he was staring at a stranger.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I say, feeling my eyes start to prick with tears. “Tell me what happened.”

But there’s no time. The house lights go down as Linc and Aiden run out. The audience screams their approval, more than ready for us to finally start our set. The roadies are pushing us forward, signaling for us to take our spots centerstage.

“Ryder,” I whisper in the dark, trying to keep hold of his hand. Trying to hold onto him, when I feel him slipping away from me.

He lets go.

When he speaks, he only says one word, his tone so devoid of hope and love and that infectious charm of his, I barely recognize it.

“Later.”

He’s off, that much is clear.

At first, I think he’s drunk, or maybe high. But I’m not so sure, anymore. His words aren’t slurred. His eyes aren’t hazy. He’s simply…

Not himself.

I can hear it in his inflection, see it in the stiffness of his posture, the tension in his hand as he grips his guitar, the veins in his neck as he leans into his mic. As though the Ryder I know, the Ryder I love, is somehow lost, buried beneath this closed-off stranger singing beside me.

Thankfully, the audience is so enraptured, they don’t seem to notice.

My heart races almost as fast as my mind while we blunder through our first five songs. I can’t fathom what could’ve set him off like this. Can’t imagine what could be bad enough that he’d disappear for hours on end, blowing off our date, nearly missing our show…

“You’re the moon, I’m the sun, stuck in distant skies…” I sing, trying to catch his eyes.

“I’d gladly burn out, to see the light in your eyes,” he echoes, avoiding mine entirely.

I grit my teeth and carry on. There’s no other choice, with twenty-thousand people watching our every move.

We just have to make it through this set.

Then we’ll deal with…

Whatever the hell this is.

We’re almost done, almost through… one song away from our curtain call… when someone in the front row screams, “Play Move the Stars!” during the brief interlude before Faded.

At those words, Ryder’s whole body goes stiff. He glances at me, shakes his head, and snatches his microphone off its stand.

“Y’all want to hear Move the Stars?” he asks the crowd, sounding nothing like himself. It’s as though someone else has overtaken his body.

The audience screams at the top of their lungs.

“Well…” Ryder’s eyes narrow. “Unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to sing that one tonight.”

The crowd boos.

Aiden, Lincoln, and I trade anxious glances.

“Don’t worry! I have something that’ll make it up to you. I’m always the one doing solos… Why don’t we give someone else a chance?” His eyes slide over to me. His voice booms out over the speakers, totally devoid of feeling. “I think Miss Felicity Wilde might have something up her sleeve for y’all! How would you feel about that?”

The crowd goes absolutely crazy — I never do solos.

“Ryder!” I hiss lowly, taking a few steps toward him, a fake smile affixed to my lips. “What the hell is your problem?”

He ignores me, leaning back into his mic. “You heard them, Felicity! They want to hear you sing!” His smile is arctic cold, his gaze burning into mine. “How ‘bout you do that new one you’ve been working on… Nineteen?”

I don’t hear the crowd chanting my name, voicing their support.

I don’t see the looks being traded between the bassist and the drummer.

I just see him — the lines of grief and pain on his face, the utter desolation in his eyes, the broken twist to his smirking mouth.

Realization crashes through me in a heartbreaking tide.

He knows.

I’m sure he expects me to walk off stage.

To make some excuse, to play one of the other songs in my repertoire.

Because the only thing that overtakes the pain on his face is the look of sheer surprise that twists his features when I adjust my guitar strap and turn to the crowd, a determined set to my shoulders.

“You know… this song I’m about to play for y’all… I’ve never done it before.”

They applaud like their lives depend on it, and I let the sound fill me up, buoy me along this tidal wave of pain.

“Felicity—” Ryder whispers, but I ignore him.

“This song is about the hardest year of my entire life. A year I lost not one love, but two.”

The crowd’s murmurs ripple all around me.

“I wasn’t planning to play it tonight, but I think…” I look over at Ryder, who’s standing there like a ghost — his face bloodless, his eyes hollow. “I think, sometimes, the only way to rid yourself of darkness is to shine a light.”

They scream again, louder than ever.

I glance at Aiden and Linc, reading the worry on their faces as I strum the first notes. They’re frozen, not knowing what to play, not knowing whether or not to improvise an accompaniment.

I shake my head, to let them know I’m okay on my own.

My guitar sounds lonely in the vast arena — my chords frail and fleeting as butterfly wings as they fly out over the hushed crowd. I smile, though my heart is in a thousand kinds of pain, lean into the mic, and let the words fly straight from my soul.

As I watch, a single, glistening tear streaks down Ryder’s face. I watch it roll from the corner of his blue-brown eye, over his chiseled cheek, past his stubbled mouth. I watch it hit the ground.

Splat.

“Thank you,” I say to the crowd in a voice I don’t even recognize.

Turning, I walk off stage, into the wings, leaving behind the thunderous crowd, my loyal bandmates, and the man I love.

I don’t look back.