Chapter 14
Just a few minutes earlier—
“This place is too damn loud,” Julian Carter muttered, tugging at his tie and tapping his glass against the table with impatient fingers.
His friend, Jason Chen, slung an arm over his shoulders and grinned as he pointed toward the stage.
“Don’t bail now, man. I dragged your ass out here for a reason. The girl singing tonight? Total knockout. You’ll regret it if you miss her set.”
Right on cue, the stage lights dimmed. A single spotlight cut through the haze, casting a golden beam on the center of the stage.
There she was—Rue Lawson.
She walked up to the mic stand in a sleek black dress that clung to her curves, her long hair spilling over bare shoulders. Her silhouette was sharp, her presence magnetic.
Julian’s glass hit the table with a sharp clink. He stared, frozen. The way her fingers rubbed the hem of her dress—the same anxious habit Isla used to have when she sang.
Then came her voice—soft, breathy, cracking just slightly on the higher notes. It twisted in his chest like a knife. Her tone, her phrasing, even the way she bit off certain syllables—it was Isla. Every goddamn note was Isla.
By the time she stepped offstage, Julian was already moving, cutting across the lounge with long strides. But as he got close, something inside him hesitated. What the hell was he doing?
The last memories he’d given Isla were nightmares. Was it fair to project all that pain onto this stranger?
Still, he swallowed the words on his tongue, snatched a champagne bouquet from Jason’s hands, and offered it with an unsteady smile.
“You were incredible up there.”
Rue looked up, eyes locking with his.
Julian stood out like a sore thumb in his navy Brioni suit, top buttons undone, like he’d rushed straight from a board meeting to a bar in Brooklyn.
Just as he opened his mouth to say something more, a girl came barreling over and wrapped her arms around Rue.
“My girl just blew the goddamn roof off! You’re the heart and soul of my bar, I swear!”
Shane, the girl’s older brother, followed silently. He plucked the bouquet from Rue’s hands like it was a loaded weapon.
“These stems have thorns. Let me trim them for you,” he said smoothly, brushing against her fingers.
Julian’s smile faltered. His gaze locked on Shane, his bouquet now in another man’s hands.
Why the hell was she so casual with something he gave her? Isla would’ve cradled the flowers like a treasure.
Everything about this scene rubbed him raw—the easy intimacy, the inside jokes, the fact that Rue seemed to belong to a world that had no room for him in it.
As they stepped outside, Julian couldn’t stop staring at her. The urge to close the distance buzzed in his bloodstream.
“Hey—can I get your number? I mean, if you’re performing again, I’d love to—”
Rue was already halfway to the car. She turned, calm and cool.
“Sorry,” she said, stepping back. “I don’t give my number to strangers.”
Shane smirked as he opened the car door for her, his hand hovering at the frame like a silent shield between them.
Julian froze, phone in hand, jaw clenched. He didn’t say a word. Just turned around and walked back inside, pretending the rejection didn’t land like a brick to the chest.
In the backseat, Rue rubbed her temples.
Something about that man made her skin itch. A tightness in her chest, a warning in her gut. Familiar and foreign all at once.
“His pupils were dilated,” Shane said from the driver’s seat, his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. “The way he looked at you? Classic signs of a possessive personality. Obsessive-compulsive traits. Borderline delusional.”
Rue blinked. “You think I should stay away?”
Shane didn’t answer, but the look he gave her said enough.
“Yeah… okay,” Rue said quietly. She wasn’t sure why, but everything inside her agreed.
When they got home, her brother Logan was sitting on the couch, holding a photo like it had just punched him in the face.
“Logan?” she asked.
He handed the photo to her without a word.
Her breath hitched.
A woman in a white wedding dress stood on a beach, laughing, sunlight catching her hair. She looked exactly like Rue.
Exactly.
The date in the corner said it was taken six years ago.
“That’s Julian Carter’s late wife,” Logan said, rubbing his jaw. “Her name was Isla Monroe. He told me he mistook you for her at first. But I looked her up—she died last year. Heart failure.”
He paused, eyes darkening.
“He’s been spiraling ever since. Seeing her everywhere. Or maybe… just in you.”
Rue’s fingers trembled as she pressed her hand to her temple. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Images flickered in her head—waves crashing, a man’s voice whispering vows, blood blooming like ink across white sand.
Then—nothing.
The photo slipped from her fingers. She stumbled, grabbing the armrest for balance, heart jackhammering in her chest.
What the hell was happening to her?
