The Spotlight

Epilogue

The studio lights cast long shadows across the soundproof glass, painting Gary in gold and amber as he adjusts his headphones. His fingers tap a beat against the microphone stand—a steady rhythm that speaks not of nerves, but of a man completely in his element. This is where he belongs. I watch him through the glass, my breath fogging the surface just slightly, the diamond musical note on my ring finger glinting with every shift of my hand.

A year.

Twelve months since Simon sat in my dressing room like some kind of puppet master, pulling strings I didn't even know were attached to me. Twelve months since Gary walked into that same room with fire in his eyes and fought—not just for me, but for us, for the messy, complicated, beautiful thing we'd spent so long pretending wasn't real.

I press my palm against the glass, as if I could reach through and touch him. The ring still feels new, though it's been seven days since he dropped to one knee on that Malibu beach, the same stretch of sand where I first called us scar mates, where I tangled my fingers at the nape of his neck for the first time and felt the world shift beneath my feet.

The press had a field day, of course. "WHAT'S REALLY GOING ON? Gary Barlow's 'Special Bond' with Riley Sparks Rumors", "Gary Barlow's Midlife Crisis: Did He Ruin Riley's Career Before It Began?", "X FACTOR'S HOTTEST DUO! Exclusive to Gary & Riley's Date Night Out—And Why Simon Cowell is Their Biggest Supporter". But Gary kept his promise. He didn't flinch. He stood in front of every camera, every microphone, every sneering journalist and said, "Yes, I love her. Yes, it's real. And no, I don't give a damn what you think."

And then there was the judge's chair. A year of sitting beside Gary on that panel, watching wide-eyed contestants stumble through auditions, their dreams trembling in their throats. Some days, I'd catch Gary looking at me the same way he had when I was the one standing on that stage, terrified and hopeful and alive. Other days, we'd bicker like an old married couple—or glance at each other when we thought no one was watching.

My album went to number one.

Gary was the first to call.

"Riley," he'd said, voice rough with something like awe, "you bloody did it."

And then, just last week, he'd taken me back to the beach.

The Pacific had been restless that evening, waves crashing against the shore like they were trying to tell us something. Gary had been nervous—actually, properly nervous, the kind of jittery energy that made him talk too fast and trip over his own feet. He'd led me down to the water's edge, where the sand was damp and cool beneath our bare feet, and then—

Then he'd gone down on one knee.

Not with some grand, rehearsed speech. Just Gary, looking up at me with those piercing green eyes of his, his voice unsteady as he said, "I thought about getting you something traditional. But nothing about us has ever been traditional. And you... you're music, Riley. You're every song I've ever wanted to write."

The ring wasn't a diamond solitaire. It was a note—a delicate musical symbol crafted in white gold, a single diamond nestled in its curve like a star caught in a melody.

I'd laughed, because what else was there to do when your heart was trying to climb out of your chest? "You absolute sap," I'd whispered, pulling him up to kiss him.

Now, in the studio, Gary catches my eye through the glass. He grins—that grin, the one that still makes my stomach flip like I'm sixteen again—and leans into the microphone.

"Okay," he says, voice warm, intimate, like he's speaking just to me, "this song's about all those wonderful, incredible things in life. Especially this person stood right in front of me right now." His gaze locks onto mine, steady and sure. "I hope you are feeling special—I'm singing this song right to you. Oh yeah! Are you ready, boys? Here we go! Okay. With a one, two, one two!"