The Spotlight

Chapter 45

Eight months later, I stand in line at Grind Coffee on Wardour Street, scrolling through my phone while the morning rush swirls around me. The noise of West End life hums in the background—tourists clutching theater programs, actors hurrying to rehearsals, the perpetual energy of a district that never quite sleeps.

I've become part of this world now. Riley Scott, leading lady of Moulin Rouge! at the Piccadilly Theatre. The reviews called my Satine "luminous" and "heartbreaking." The Evening Standard said I was "a star born from real pain, transformed into transcendent art."

If only they knew how accurate that assessment really is.

My phone buzzes against my palm. Emily's name flashes across the screen, and I answer with brightness.

"Morning, sunshine," I chirp, shifting my weight as the line moves forward.

"Don't you 'morning sunshine' me," Emily's voice crackles through the speaker. "I want details about last night. How was your date with Chris?!"

I reach the counter and order my usual—oat milk latte, extra shot—while keeping the phone pressed to my ear. The barista recognizes me now, offers the smile reserved for regulars, and I return it with the same polished warmth I've perfected for everything else in my new life.

"It was nice," I say, stepping aside to wait for my drink.

The word hangs in the air between us like a deflated balloon. Even I can hear how hollow it sounds.

"Nice?" Emily's voice sharpens with the precision of someone who's known me for years. "Riley, the man took you to Sketch. That place costs more than my rent. 'Nice' is what you say about the weather."

I collect my latte, wrapping my fingers around the warm cup as I navigate toward a corner table.

"He's lovely, Em. Really. He's thoughtful and funny and—"

"And?"

The pause stretches too long. In that silence, the truth sits like a stone in my chest. Chris is safe. Chris is uncomplicated. Chris doesn't make my pulse race or my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm. Chris doesn't look at me like I'm the only song worth singing.

Chris isn't—

I cut that thought off before it can fully form. I've gotten very good at that particular skill over the past eight months.

"And nothing," I say firmly. "He's great. Perfect, actually."

"Oh, honey." Emily's sigh carries the weight of eight months of watching me pretend. "You're still comparing everyone to him, aren't you?"

I take a sip of my latte, buying time. The coffee is exactly the right temperature, expertly crafted, utterly predictable. Like everything else in my carefully constructed new life.

Eight months since I walked off that stage. Eight months since I shook his hand and we had our final goodbye. Eight months of building this new life, this new version of myself who doesn't look back, doesn't wonder, doesn't—

"I know exactly how long it's been," I snap, then immediately soften my tone. "I mean, I'm not counting or anything. I've moved on. Completely. I even invited Chris to see the show tonight."

"Ooh, bringing him to see you in your element," Emily says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Very sexy. Maybe tonight's the night you finally seal the deal."

She makes exaggerated kissing noises that would normally make me laugh, but instead, something desperate and slightly manic bubbles up in my chest.

"Maybe I should," I hear myself saying. "Maybe I should sleep with him."