The Spotlight

Chapter 41

The limousine glides through London's evening streets, each turn bringing us closer to the Charity Gala. I sit rigidly in the sleek black dress I'd chosen for tonight—a floor-length sheath with a modest slit, elegant in every deliberate line. The fabric rustles softly against the leather seat whenever I shift, which isn't often. I'm trying my best to stay perfectly still, to breathe normally, to exist without disturbing the carefully constructed tension filling the car.

David sits across from me, his excitement palpable as he stares out the window. He looks handsome in his tuxedo, the formal wear highlighting his athletic frame. Every few minutes, he points out another London landmark as if we're tourists rather than residents, his natural enthusiasm cutting through the strained atmosphere.

"I heard Elton John might be there," David exclaims.

Gary nods, finally pocketing his phone, "He's been a patron for years."

Gary sits diagonal from me, as far as the confined space allows. He's been glued to his phone since we left the studio, thumbs tapping out messages with laser focus. The few times I've glanced his way, his gaze has been firmly fixed anywhere but on me—out the window, at his phone, at the ceiling. Anywhere I'm not.

It's as if I've become invisible again. After all his praise at Alan Carr's show, after the way his eyes sought mine during our conversation with the host, after the brief touch of his hand against mine as we left the stage—he's retreated completely. The Gary who spoke with such passionate honesty about my talent might as well have been a figment of my imagination.

"Looks like we're getting close," David says, peering out at the growing crowd of photographers lining the street. "Quite the turnout, huh?"

I make a noncommittal sound, suddenly aware of how unprepared I am for another public appearance. After the emotional rollercoaster of the talk show, all I want is to curl up somewhere quiet and process everything. Instead, I'm about to smile for cameras and make small talk with strangers while pretending my heart isn't in pieces.

The car slows to a stop, and I watch as flashbulbs begin to pop outside the tinted windows.

The driver opens the door, and Gary is the first to exit. He buttons his jacket, immediately adopting his public persona—confident, charming, professional. The cameras go wild as he steps onto the red carpet, his name being called from every direction.

David follows, grinning widely as he emerges from the car. The crowd's reaction is joyful—he's become a fan favorite, and it shows in the increased volume of the cheers.

Then Gary turns back toward the car, extending his hand to help me out. My heart stutters at the unexpected gesture. It's the first direct acknowledgment he's given me all evening, and even though I know it's just protocol, just good manners, just for show, my fingers still tremble as I place them in his.

His hand is warm and solid, just as I remember. For a fraction of a second, his grip tightens around mine, steadying me as I navigate the awkward exit in my long dress and heels. But his eyes never meet mine—they're scanning the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, smiling for the cameras. Even in this moment of physical connection, he's miles away.

As soon as I'm steady on my feet, he releases my hand and steps away, turning to greet someone from the press line. The momentary contact leaves my skin prickling, a phantom pressure where his fingers had been.

"Riley Scott! Over here!" A photographer calls, and suddenly I'm engulfed in the madness of the red carpet.

I plaster on my best smile, trying to channel the professional poise that Gary demonstrates so effortlessly. The questions come rapid-fire as I make my way down the line.