Page 73 of The Sound Between Us

Tiny; fast. Not for the cameras. Just for her.

And I swear, for a fraction of a heartbeat, her mouth almost curves. Then she looks away.

It’s not Harrison Carter, pop star, charming an audience. It’s Harry; trying to tell her: I see you. I still do.

The compère moves on, voice climbing as he lists off tonight’s honourees, but I’m not listening.

I’m watching her. The way her hand fidgets with the base of her glass; the way she keeps space between herself and the people who share her surname. The way she looks as though she’s holding something in—sharp and burning and dangerously close to cracking the surface.

And I’m thinking about escape routes. Because something tells me she’s going to need one before the night is over.

The awards ceremony drags on with the kind of hollow self-congratulation that makes my skin itch.

Lifetime achievement for a producer who’s been coasting on ghostwriters since 2009. A songwriting award for lyrics that sound as though they were A/B tested to death. Polite applause for people who’ve long since forgotten what music is supposed to feel like.

I nurse the same whisky for over an hour, letting the burn remind me I’m still here. Still watching; still waiting for the moment I know will come. I told myself it was worth it—just for those two minutes with Seren. Just to say the things I should’ve said months ago; just to see that flicker of almost-smile when I winked across the ballroom and tried to reach the part of her that still believes in me.

But Christ—if this is addiction, then I’m well and truly fucked. Because this isn’t craving; this is need. That bone-deep ache for just one more moment. One more look; one more second of being let in. Maybe this is what Dex feels all the time—chasing a high that doesn’t deliver.

The compère returns to the stage, high on his own importance. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to tonight’s most poignant honour. The posthumous Lifetime Achievement Award for Arrangement and Composition, presented to Faith Jones.”

The room stills.

Screens light up around the ballroom with grainy footage—Faith Jones at a piano, laughing, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Seren’s eyes; Seren’s mouth. A voice of smoke and honey and loss.

The kind of woman you remember even after the music stops.

I watch Seren instead.

She sits statue-still, but everything about her is braced. Spine bolt upright, jaw clenched, white-knuckling the stem of her champagne glass. It’s holding her together.

When the video cuts to Faith playing the same piano where Seren and I wrote our song—I see her flinch, just slightly, but enough.

The montage ends to applause that actually means something. No networking, no obligation—just real, raw feeling.

Then Damon stands.

Straightens his jacket. A man stepping into character. But the edges are too frayed; there’s a slackness to his movements, a wet sheen in his eyes, the faint slur that makes my stomach drop.

He’s drunk.

“Thank you. Faith would have been... so proud to be here tonight.”

A pause; a sway. The room holds its breath.

“But you know what she’d be most proud of?” His gaze lands on Seren. “Our daughter. Our incredibly talented daughter who’s sitting right there, trying to hide her light under a bushel because she’s too bloody modest for her own good.”

No. No, he wouldn’t…

“Seren, love, come up here.”

The spotlight swings. A weapon, pinning her in place.

I watch the colour drain from her face, her expression going sheet-white except for two bright blotches blooming on her cheeks.

She’s shaking her head; tiny, invisible shakes. No no no no.

But Damon’s already gesturing, coaxing, performing. “Come on, don’t be shy. Everyone wants to meet the daughter who’s more talented than either Faith or me ever were.”