On the second day of the Peridot Arena concert, a day that felt heavy with both anticipation and a tremor of fear, Heather found two sleek, obsidian-black tickets resting on her wooden nightstand.
They weren't just any tickets; they were VIP passes, the embossed silver "Lux" logo, the name of Rhys's global phenomenon of a band, catching the soft morning light.
Beneath them lay a folded piece of heavy, cream-colored paper, Rhys's familiar sprawling handwriting filling the space:
My incredible girl,
Two paths tonight. One leads to the heart of the storm, the other to its edge. Backstage, where the controlled chaos reigns and I can steal glances between songs. Or front row, where the energy of the crowd will wash over you, and I'll sing every note knowing you're right there. Your choice, always. Either way, tonight, and every night after, I'm yours.
Rhys
Heather traced the elegant curve of the "L" in the Lux logo, her fingertip lingering on the raised texture. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat mirroring the distant rumble she could already feel in the air, the city buzzing with the electricity of the impending concert.
Marjorie's words from the previous day echoed in her mind, a stark and undeniable truth: "You can't live half in his world, half out, sweetheart. Not with a love like that. It'll tear you both apart."
The weight of that wisdom settled heavily upon her. She couldn't continue to exist in the shadows, a secret whispered in hushed tones online.
Rhys deserved her, fully and openly, just as she yearned to stand by his side without fear.
With a deep breath, a silent acknowledgment of the leap she was about to take, Heather picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over Rhys's contact before she typed a short, decisive message.
Backstage.
The reply was instantaneous, the blue bubble of his message popping up almost before she'd finished sending hers.
Good. Means I get to keep you close. Wear my hoodie too. The way it swallows you whole… drives me crazy. See you soon, love.
A small, involuntary smile touched Heather's lips. The familiar comfort of his words, even in text form, eased some of the tension coiling in her stomach. She pulled his oversized grey hoodie from her closet, the soft, worn fabric still carrying the faint, lingering scent of his signature sandalwood cologne, a scent that always felt like coming home.
As she arrived at the Peridot Arena later that evening, the roar of the crowd was no longer a distant hum but a tangible force, a deep, vibrating energy that permeated the very walls of the backstage area. It was a symphony of anticipation, a wave of collective excitement that made Heather's pulse quicken with a nervous thrill.
She clutched her small crossbody bag, the worn leather a familiar anchor in this unfamiliar world of flashing lights and hurried personnel. She adjusted Rhys's hoodie, pulling the soft fabric further around her, feeling a strange mix of vulnerability and a fierce sense of belonging.
It wasn't just his hoodie anymore; it was becoming her hoodie, a shield and a symbol.
A harried-looking stagehand, his face illuminated by the glow of a nearby monitor displaying intricate lighting cues, approached her. He wore a headset and moved with the focused energy of someone orchestrating a complex operation.
He glanced at her hesitantly. "Heather, right? Rhys's… special guest?" Handing her a laminated pass hanging from a black lanyard. The bold white letters against the deep purple background read "CREW."
"Rhys's orders. You're shadowing me until the encore. Stick close."
Heather frowned, her initial excitement tinged with confusion. "Shadowing you? Why?"
The stagehand shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. Just try not to get lost. This place is a maze." He gestured towards a labyrinth of cables, equipment cases, and bustling figures. "And trust me, you don't want to be anywhere near the pyrotechnics guy before the big finale."
From the shadowy wings of the stage, Heather watched Rhys transform. The casual, loving man who'd held her close that morning was now a magnetic force, commanding the attention of thousands.
Sweat glistened on his brow under the intense stage lights, his movements were fluid and powerful, and his smoldering looks sent waves of ecstatic screams through the arena. His voice, raw and emotive, soared through the vast space, each note hitting with visceral impact.
The audience was a sea of waving hands and adoring faces, their collective energy palpable. Every time he flashed his trademark crooked smirk, a sound like a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
But then, his eyes would flick towards the side of the stage, catching hers amidst the controlled chaos, and the practiced grin would soften, becoming something real, something just for her – a silent acknowledgment, a shared secret in the heart of the storm.
Then, the stage lights dimmed, the frenetic energy of the music giving way to a hush of anticipation. Rhys perched on a stool, an acoustic guitar cradled in his arms.
The opening chords he strummed were achingly familiar, a melody that resonated deep within Heather's soul. It was their song, the one he'd written in the quiet hours after their first real argument, a raw and honest ballad that captured the vulnerability and the fierce connection that had emerged from the tension. It was a song the world had never heard, a secret testament to their increasing love.
"This one's for someone special," Rhys murmured into the microphone, his voice softer now, laced with an intimacy that felt both public and intensely private.
A collective sigh swept through the arena, the audience swooning at the implication of a hidden muse.
Heather's breath hitched in her throat. Her heart pounded in unison with the delicate strumming of the guitar. This was it. The moment of unveiling.
The stagehand's cryptic words suddenly made sense. He wasn't just giving her a backstage pass; he was positioning her for something more.
And as Rhys's gaze found hers again across the vast expanse, a knowing, tender smile gracing his lips, Heather knew that her life, and their love, was about to step into the blinding glare of the spotlight.
As the final, lingering notes of Lux's biggest hit of the night, a thunderous anthem about chasing dreams, finally faded into the echoing vastness of the Peridot Arena, a collective sigh seemed to ripple through the sixty thousand strong crowd.
Rhys, bathed in the sweat-slicked glow of the stage lights, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a genuine, slightly nervous smile playing on his lips. He gripped the microphone stand, his usual rockstar swagger momentarily softened by a palpable vulnerability.
"Y'all mind if I bring out my good luck charm?" he asked, his voice a little rough from the performance, the words hanging in the air, thick with anticipation.
A playful, almost mischievous glint danced in his eyes as he glanced towards the shadowy wings of the stage.
Before Heather, who had been a silent observer in the controlled chaos of the backstage area, could fully process the weight of his words, Jess gave her a firm but encouraging nudge on the arm.
"Go on," he mouthed, his own eyes sparkling with a mixture of excitement and a hint of mischievous glee.
Henry, usually stoic, offered a rare, small smile and a nod of encouragement from behind Jess. Even Emmett gave her a thumbs-up, his usual reserve momentarily forgotten in the unfolding drama. Dave simply grinned, already anticipating the crowd's reaction.
Suddenly, a powerful spotlight, a blinding beam of pure white light, swung from the rafters, cutting through the darkness and locking onto Heather. Her breath hitched in her throat. It felt like being caught in the beam of a helicopter, every nerve ending suddenly hyper-aware.
The roar of the crowd, which had been a steady undercurrent, now surged, a wave of confused murmurs rippling through the stadium. Sixty thousand phones, like metallic fireflies, lifted in unison, their screens illuminating the vast space, capturing her image, broadcasting it to a million unseen eyes.
The initial confusion was deafening – a low, rumbling wave of Who's that? What's happening? – the collective curiosity of an audience witnessing an unexpected deviation from the script.
Before the uncertainty could solidify into anything else, Rhys, with a sudden burst of energy, jogged to the very edge of the stage, his movements fluid and purposeful. He reached out a hand, his strong fingers closing around hers, and with a surprising display of strength, hauled her up onto the stage with one arm.
The unexpectedness of the gesture, the sheer physicality of it, sent a fresh wave of murmurs through the crowd.
Standing beside him, bathed in the blinding spotlight, Heather felt a strange mix of terror and exhilaration. The sheer scale of the audience was overwhelming, a sea of faces stretching into the inky blackness. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the amplified pulse of the arena.
Rhys turned to face the crowd, his arm possessively around her waist, his grin widening, radiating a genuine happiness that seemed to banish the last vestiges of his stage persona.
"Everyone," he panted, his voice slightly breathless but filled with an undeniable joy, "this is Heather. My girlfriend."
And then, with a quick, decisive movement, he leaned down and placed a firm kiss on her lips, a brief but undeniable claiming. The kiss, broadcast on the giant screens, was a bold statement, a public declaration that brooked no argument.
Heather visibly startled, her eyes widening in surprise. The suddenness of the gesture, the weight of all those eyes on them, sent a blush creeping up her neck, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. She instinctively covered her face with her hands, a mix of surprise and overwhelming shyness washing over her.
For a split second, an absolute, stunned silence descended upon the Peridot Arena.
It was a silence so profound, so complete, that Heather could almost hear the frantic thumping of her own heart.
Sixty thousand people held their breath, their phones frozen mid-air, their expressions a mixture of shock, disbelief, and intense curiosity.
Then, the dam broke.
A tidal wave of screams erupted, a sound so immense, so visceral, that it felt like a physical force, washing over Heather and Rhys in a deafening surge of pure, unadulterated emotion.
It was a cacophony of surprise, excitement, speculation, and for some, perhaps, a flicker of possessive disappointment.
The phones that had been still a moment before now flashed like a thousand strobing lights, capturing every angle, every expression on their faces. The digital world was about to explode.
Rhys Connor had just pulled back the curtain on his private life, and Heather was standing right beside him in the blinding glare. Their world had irrevocably changed.