Page 3 of The Song We Lost

I close my eyes as another memory rises.

Of our first apartment in Nashville. We had no money and slept on a mattress on the floor in the living room. We had a folding table that was more duct tape than anything else in our tiny kitchen.

Luke used to sit cross-legged beside me with a guitar, writing until sunrise because we couldn’t afford anything else to do. Because it is all we wanted to do.

Music was our way to better our families lives, to give us all a future to be proud of.

One day stands out. We were laying on our mattress sheets tangled around us, I was stressed about money, about the decision we made to leave our families and take this risk. Luke had pulled me close, kissed my temple, and whispered "One day, Bailey, this’ll all be worth it. I promise you."

The car slows, and I can hear the crowd react. We've arrived.

The door opens, and the noise intensifies instantly, shouts, cheers, cameras firing in relentless bursts. I step out, smoothing my dress, lifting my chin. The red carpet is a blur of lights and voices.

“Bailey!”

“Look this way!”

“Opening the show tonight, how does it feel?”

"Where's Luke tonight?"

"Are the rumours true?"

“You won New Artist last year, and are up for Artist of the Year tonight! With your upcoming tour are you going for the triple crown?”

“Any chance of a collaboration with...”

I don’t answer. I smile. I wave. I move. There’s no time to stop. No time to pose. Security ushers me straight inside, down a corridor that feels charged with electricity.

The stage manager taps my arm. “Thirty seconds.”

The lights drop and inside the venue, the sound swells. The noise crashes over me in a wave so loud it vibrates in my bones. My band is in place, I hear my intro and there is no stopping this. I take a deep breath, put on my practised smile and walk onto the stage.

The spotlights blinds me for a second, but practice and muscle memory takes over. My voice fills the room, strong, steady, exactly what they expect from me. I let go of everything else and I sing. I sing about endless love while my heart is breaking. I sing about forever when I don't know if I believe in it anymore. I push the pain away and give them what they want. The Country Princess version of me. For three minutes, nothing exists but the music.

When the song ends, the crowd is on its feet, and then in a blur, they call my name.

They say words likeiconandbreakoutandvoice of a generation. They talk about records sold and charts climbed and barriers broken, when I win Single of The Year. They hand me an award before I’ve even caught my breath.

My team meets me backstage and they clip on a tulle and crystal skirt that turns my Country Siren look into that of a Perfect Princess.

They hand me over to an usher who guides me toward the front row, a gentle hand light at my elbow. My stomach knots as we move closer to our seats...Luke’sseat.

I can already see it in my mind, the empty chair, the questions that will follow, the way people will notice even ifthey pretend not to. I brace myself for it, heart thudding, breath shallow.

And then I see him.

For a split second, my heart soars and relief crashes through me so fast it almost knocks me off balance. He came. Somehow, impossibly, he made it. I take another step and the world corrects itself.

It’s not Luke.

It’s Jackson Reed.

He stands as I approach, tall and composed, dark suit cut clean over polished cowboy boots, his hat tucked under one arm instead of on his head. The kind of man who knows he belongs in rooms like this. His dark hair is brushed neatly back, his expression open and warm.

He is the label’s favourite suggestion. The collaboration I’ve refused for years. The safe choice.

My heart doesn’t break. You can't break what's already broken.