The Spotlight

Chapter 38

The spotlight melts around me as I step onto the stage. The first notes of "The Power of Love" float through the auditorium, but inside, I'm hollow. Empty. The song demands raw vulnerability and soaring hope, but I might as well be singing the back of a cereal box.

I hit every note with practiced precision. My voice doesn't crack or falter. My stage presence is flawless. But the soul—the part that matters—is missing.

The audience blurs into a faceless smudge. I'm watching myself perform from somewhere far away, a stranger in my own body going through memorized motions.

The applause when I finish feels obligatory, almost pitying. Beneath the harsh stage lights, I blink, suddenly aware of how exposed I am—standing alone while four judges prepare to dissect what was clearly a lifeless performance.

Nicole speaks first, her beautiful face pinched with concern. "Riley, honey, technically that was... good. But I'm missing the connection I usually feel from you. It's like you left your heart backstage tonight."

Tulisa nods. "You've got pipes for days, girl, no question. But this is a song about love, and I just didn't believe you felt it."

Louis follows with his typical platitudes about my potential and talent, but even his perpetual enthusiasm seems dampened.

And then it's Gary's turn.

My chest tightens as the camera pans to him. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes visible even through the stage makeup. For the first time since our return from LA, I allow myself to really look at him.

"Nicole and Tulisa are right," he says, his voice flat. "The emotional connection wasn't there tonight." His eyes finally meet mine for a fleeting second before sliding away.

When Dermot asks how I feel about the comments, I manage a weak smile and mumble something about taking their feedback on board. The lights feel too bright, the stage too small, and all I want is to disappear.

The aftermath is a haze of polite congratulations and averted gazes. My usual post-performance ritual of seeking out Gary backstage—hoping for his reassuring nod or a text coordinating a meeting in his dressing room—is conspicuously absent tonight.

I don't see him, and honestly, I don't search.

The makeup artist removes my stage makeup with gentle efficiency, her usual chatter noticeably subdued. I change out of my performance dress—a flowing silver gown that felt like armor rather than clothing—and back into jeans and a sweater.

"You okay, love?" Sofia asks as she hangs up the dress. "You seem a bit... off."

"Just tired," I lie, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. "Big week."

She nods, though her eyes suggest she doesn't believe me. "Well, get some rest. Semi-finals next week—it's going to be intense."

That's if I even make it through tomorrow.

The corridors backstage are a maze of activity—crew members dismantling sets, contestants hugging family members, producers huddled in corners discussing the night's ratings.

As I make my way toward the exit, I catch a glimpse of Gary disappearing into his dressing room, his shoulders hunched as if carrying an invisible weight. For a moment, I almost follow—muscle memory from weeks of stolen moments. My feet actually take two steps in his direction before I catch myself.

That door is closed now. I closed it myself on that balcony in Los Angeles.

David intercepts me, his expression etched with concern. "Riley, are you okay?" he asks, voice soft. "You haven't sung like that all through the competition."