The Music I Found When I Stopped Being invisible Novel – My phone buzzes at 2 AM with a TMZ notification that makes my stomach drop. PIANO PRODIGY LYRA BLACKWOOD SPOTTED AT LAX—WHO’S THE MYSTERY MAN? My sister’s face fills the screen, looking absolutely stunning as always. Designer everything, perfect hair, that confident smile that’s made her Instagram followers worship her for years.
She’s got 2.3 million of them now, all obsessed with her “classical goddess” aesthetic. But it’s not Lyra that makes me sit up in bed. It’s the man opening her car door. Even with his face strategically angled away from the cameras, I’d know those broad shoulders anywhere. The way he moves, protective and careful, making sure she doesn’t hit her head getting into the car. The custom Tesla with the vanity plate I picked out as a wedding gift—CHASE1. My husband.
I screenshot the article and scroll through the comments. Lyra’s fans are losing their minds, trying to figure out who this “gorgeous mystery man” is. They’re calling him everything from “daddy material” to “classical music’s new power couple.” If only they knew he was married. To me. I stretch out across our California king bed, claiming all the space for once. The Egyptian cotton sheets feel cool against my skin as I scroll through more photos. There’s one of them at Nobu, her hand on his arm.
Another outside the Beverly Hills Hotel. My phone lights up with a text from Lyra: Hope you don’t mind me borrowing your husband I don’t bother responding. Around 3 AM, I hear his key in the lock. I should pretend to be asleep, but something keeps me awake. Maybe it’s the way the bed dips when he sits on the edge, or how he just stays there for a moment, like he’s working up to something. “You awake?” His voice is softer than usual, almost uncertain. “Yeah.” “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” I turn over to face him. The hallway light catches his profile—sharp jaw, dark hair still perfectly styled despite the late hour.
He’s still in his work clothes, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. There’s a faint trace of Lyra’s perfume on his shirt. “Rough night?” I ask. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, not meeting my eyes. “Long one.” “I saw the photos.” His hands still for just a second. “It’s not what you think.” “I didn’t think anything.” He turns to look at me then, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. Guilt? Regret? Or maybe just exhaustion. “She needed someone to take her around the city. That’s all.” “You don’t owe me an explanation, Rhys.” But he keeps going anyway. “Her manager canceled last minute. She called me.” “And you went.” “Yeah.” He sits on the bed, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body. “Yeah, I did.” The silence stretches between us.
Then his hand finds my hip, fingers sliding under the silk of my nightgown. His touch is gentle but insistent, like he’s asking a question. “Is this okay?” he whispers. I nod, and he leans down to kiss me. His lips taste like whiskey and regret, but his hands are sure and warm as they map the curves of my body. When he reaches for the nightstand drawer, I already know what he’s looking for. “Damn,” he mutters. “We’re out.” “I forgot to reorder,” I admit. He pauses, looking down at me with those dark eyes that never give anything away. “I’ll pick some up tomorrow.” “A whole box?” The corner of his mouth almost curves into a smile. “Optimistic, aren’t I?” But we both know it’s not about optimism.
It’s about going through the motions, checking off boxes on our marriage to-do list. Have conversations. Show physical affection. Maintain the illusion that we’re actually a couple. He settles beside me, and I can feel the tension in his body even as he tries to relax. “Rhys?” “Hmm?” “How long are we going to keep doing this?” He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is so quiet I almost don’t catch it. “I don’t know.”