The Spotlight

Chapter 32

The beaded fringe of my dress catches the light with every breath, thousands of tiny crystals throwing sparks across the narrow backstage corridor. My fingers find the cool metal of the wall, steadying myself against the vertigo that has nothing to do with the four-inch heels strapped to my feet. Big Band week. The words taste like brass in my mouth, like the sharp tang of nerves and hairspray and that particular brand of terror that comes from knowing you're about to bare your soul to millions.

Sofia outdid herself this time: champagne color that deepens to black at the hem, the bodice fitted like a second skin before flowing into a bias-cut skirt that pools just right when I move. Very 1940s Hollywood glamour, very appropriate for what I'm about to do.

"Two minutes, Riley!" The stage manager's voice cuts through and my stomach performs a somersault.

Two minutes until I sing "Fever" on national television. Two minutes until I channel every ounce of longing and desire I've been carrying since that morning by the lake into three minutes of choreographed seduction. The song choice had been Gary's suggestion during Monday's session, delivered with studied casualness that fooled neither of us.

"It'll show your range," he'd said, fingers stilled on the piano keys, not quite meeting my eyes. "The judges want to continue seeing versatility."

Versatility. That's what we're calling it. Every time I rehearsed those lyrics, "when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight," I'm instantly taken back to the sensation of his hands on my skin and the intense heat of his lips pressing against mine.

Not the way my voice naturally drops into that smoky register when I remember the weight of him above me, the grass cool beneath the blanket, the entire world reduced to just us and the endless sky.

In moments, I'll be out there, under those burning lights, singing words that feel too intimate for public consumption while pretending they're just lyrics, just a performance, just another Friday night on the X Factor.

"Riley?" David appears at my elbow, resplendent in his vintage-inspired suit. "You alright? You look a bit..."

"Nervous," I supply, managing what I hope is a convincing smile. "Big song."

His hand briefly squeezes my shoulder, warm through the thin fabric. "You'll be brilliant. You always are when it counts."

If only he knew what's actually counting tonight. Not just votes or judges' comments, but the possibility of conveying everything I can't say aloud through three minutes of stolen glances and perfectly pitched yearning.

"Places!" The stage manager's voice brooks no argument, and David gives me a final encouraging nod before disappearing.

I move toward the stage door on legs that suddenly feel disconnected from my body. The sounds of the studio audience filter through—thousands of voices creating a low rumble of anticipation that vibrates through the floor and up into my bones. Somewhere out there, Gary sits at the judges' table, maintaining his professional distance while I prepare to demolish it with every note.

The door opens, and I'm hit with a wall of sound and heat.

Dermot's voice booms through the space, his exuberance carrying over the crowd noise. "Up next is Riley Scott!"

The applause crashes over me like a wave, and I step forward into the carefully marked spot where the spotlight waits. Heat immediately engulfs me—not just from the lights but from somewhere deeper, a fire that's been banked since last Saturday but never fully extinguished. The orchestra holds a breath of silence, waiting for the conductor's cue, and in that suspended moment, I let myself search for him.