Chapter 5: Ashes & Auditions
The rooftop terrace was a lie of a sanctuary. Brooke pushed through the heavy fire door, and the late afternoon sun hit her like a slap. It was too bright, too open. The city hummed around them, a distant, indifferent engine.
Oliver leaned against the wrought-iron railing, backlit, scrolling through his phone. He looked like a magazine spread: effortless, untouchable. The breeze caught his dark hair. She’d come up here for answers, for a fight, for something to claw back from the wreckage he’d left in that closet. But seeing him, her rage solidified into a cold, sharp stone in her throat.
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
He didn’t look up. “Took the stairs? Good cardio.”
She crossed the polished concrete, her dance shoes scuffing softly. “What you said. In there. You meant it.”
“I say a lot of things.” He finally pocketed his phone and turned. His expression was unreadable, the charming mask firmly in place. “Most of them true.”
“I was just a convenient distraction?” The words tasted like rust.
“You were an available one.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Dominic was getting tedious with his jealous glares. It was more fun to give him a real reason.”
The casual cruelty was a skill he had perfected. It winded her. She stopped a few feet from him, the heat of the sun-warmed railing radiating toward her. “You used me.”
“And you used me,” he countered, his voice dropping into a pleasant, conversational tone. “To feel something. To feel famous, maybe. To piss off your boring boyfriend. Don’t pretend you weren’t a willing participant, Brooke. You opened every door. I just walked through.”
He took a step toward her. She didn’t retreat. The stone in her throat pulsed. She wanted to shove him, to see that perfect composure crack against the railing, to watch him plummet ten stories onto the gleam of his parents’ Hollywood.
Her hands came up, flat against his chest, and she pushed. It was a weak, grief-drenched shove. He barely moved, but his back met the metal ledge. The city sprawled behind him, a dizzying drop.
“I want the truth,” she hissed, her face inches from his.
His eyes, a startling shade of green in the sunlight, scanned hers. Then a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. It wasn’t the charming one. This was darker, intimate. A hunter recognizing a familiar trap.
“No, you don’t,” he murmured.
One of his hands came up, not to push her away, but to slide around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The other hand drifted down, over the curve of her ass, under the thin fabric of her warm-up shorts, beneath the elastic leg of her leotard. His fingers found her, still sensitive from the closet, and he pressed the pad of his thumb against her clit with a precision that made her knees buckle.
She gasped, a traitorous sound.
“See?” he whispered into the shell of her ear, his breath hot. “You don’t want the truth. You just want me to ruin you again.”
His fingers moved in a slow, torturous circle. Shame and a jagged, unwanted spike of arousal twisted together in her gut. Her nails dug into his shoulders through his thin t-shirt. She should knee him. She should scream. But her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch, a silent plea for more of the poison that had hollowed her out.
“Everyone thinks they want the spotlight,” he said, his voice a low vibration against her skin. His other hand cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “But it’s just a heat lamp. It shows every flaw. Every bit of dirt. You think I ‘used’ you?” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “My whole life is people using me. For a photo. A connection. A story. You were at least honest about what you wanted. A cheap thrill. I provided.”
His fingers worked her, a ruthless, expert rhythm. Her head fell back, a moan escaping her lips before she could bite it back. The sky above was a perfect, cloudless blue.
“This is all it is,” he breathed, watching her come undone. “A transaction. You let me forget my name for five minutes. I let you forget you’re ordinary.”
The words landed, a final, devastating blow. Ordinary.
She came apart then, a sharp, silent clenching against his hand, her vision speckling with the intensity of it. It was nothing like before. It was angry and desperate and felt like losing.
As the waves subsided, leaving her shaking and hollow, he slowly withdrew his hand. He brought his fingers to his mouth, tasted them, his eyes never leaving hers. “See? No truth. Just biology.”
Revulsion, cold and clear, washed over her. She stumbled back, breaking his hold. Her legs were weak. The wind felt suddenly frigid.
Downstairs, the muffled thump of a bassline pulsed through the building. A group number was starting. Life, the relentless, fucking show.
Oliver straightened his shirt, the picture of calm. He pulled his phone back out. “We’ve got technique in ten. You might want to fix your hair.”
She stood there, exposed on the open rooftop, the scent of him and her clinging to the air between them. He had taken everything—her relationship, her pride, her narrative—and turned it into a tawdry, meaningless cliché. He was right. She had been a willing participant.
But as he turned to leave, a final, brittle thought crystallized. He was just a boy playing at being a monster, using his parents’ fame as both a weapon and a shield. She was just a girl who’d confused wanting to be seen with wanting to be known.
She smoothed her leotard, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The empty feeling wasn’t grief anymore. It was something quieter. Something like resolve.
“Enjoy your technique class, Liam’s Boy,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
He paused, his back to her. The nickname from the audition tapes, the one she’d seen in the closet. A tiny flinch, almost imperceptible, tightened the muscles in his shoulders. Then he pushed through the fire door and was gone, leaving her alone with the vast, indifferent city and the first faint glimmer of the evening’s string lights.