Backstage at the Grammys.

The velvet rope of my dress feels heavier than it should, the slit up my thigh suddenly too risky as I peek through the gap in the curtain. The stage is a cavern of light and shadow, waiting for me.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a traitorous drumbeat counting down to something I can't control.

I scan the tables. Platinum-card silhouettes. Champagne flutes catching the spotlights. And there—

Table seven.

Gemma's red hair catches the light first. Then Anne, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue before I've even sung a note. Mitch is beside them, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth.

And next to him, in a forest-green blazer with his curls swept back—

He's looking right at the stage.

Right where I'm about to walk.

The stage manager's hand lands on my shoulder.