Chapter 1: The Birthday That Wasn’t Mine

I was the secret girlfriend of America’s hottest pop star for seven years.

On my birthday, he led the whole party in singing the wrong name:

"Happy birthday, Lila."

My name caught in my throat, burning, as everyone’s voices rose in a chorus that wasn’t for me.

Lila isn’t me. She’s his high school sweetheart.

His brother leaned in, voice slick:

"Now that Lila’s back, aren’t you tired of messing around with a broken placeholder?"

Chase Preston tugged on my ear, his tone cocky and careless:

"She’s a good time. Maybe I’ll lock it down, who knows."

He didn’t know my hearing had just been restored.

My smile froze as I listened to Chase go on:

"This birthday, just count it as the one I owed Lila. Now it’s paid up."

Seven years, and he still can’t get my name right. I wanted to shrink until the floorboards swallowed me. A wave of embarrassment rippled through me, cheeks burning even as I tried to hold my expression steady. The room shimmered with the glint of string lights, laughter bouncing off walls plastered with platinum records and framed magazine covers. Champagne flutes clinked, and the air smelled faintly of weed and expensive perfume. Someone’s tiny dog barked from a designer tote bag. I clung to my plastic cup, feeling suddenly small among all these beautiful, famous people.

Everyone started booing, calling him a "real romantic."

A few guests clapped ironically, the sound sharp and forced. Someone elbowed a friend, murmuring about how wild Hollywood parties could get.

Finally, someone stared right at me and asked:

"Aren’t you worried she’ll find out?"

Their gaze was direct—almost sympathetic, but the curiosity behind it stung. I gripped my cup so tight the plastic creaked, heartbeat thumping behind my ribs. I felt my pulse thrum in my ears, wishing I could disappear behind the massive birthday cake.

Chase cocked his head, looking amused:

"Worried about what? That she’ll latch on and never let go?"

Laughter erupted around the room.

It wasn’t warm, not really—it was forced laughter, sharp and echoing, like everyone was in on a joke I never heard. I felt their eyes flick toward me, then away.

"Seriously, a deaf girl stuck with Chase Preston for seven years. That’s wild."

"If she didn’t kinda look like Lila Evans, would she even have gotten a shot?"

Every comment landed like a slap. The words echoed through the airy living room, bouncing off the polished hardwood and open windows, mixing with the faint city noise from outside.

Amid the teasing, Chase leaned down and put a party hat on me.

His face, so close, was still cold, aloof, impossibly handsome.

I could smell his cologne—something sharp and expensive, tinged with the faintest hint of bourbon. The room’s golden light cast shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him seem even more untouchable.

Someone asked, "But she’s been with you for seven years and she’s gorgeous. If she leaves... could you really let her go?"

The question hung in the air, and I saw several heads turn, curiosity flickering behind their eyes. My heart thudded in my chest, dread curdling in my stomach.

Chase’s hand trembled, the hat sitting crooked on my head.

A small tremor—barely noticeable, but it made my scalp tingle. The hat's elastic bit into my chin, grounding me in the moment.

After a moment, he gave a cold smile:

"Lock her up. Who said she could leave?"

A hush fell, the kind that means everyone’s waiting to see if the punchline turns into a headline. The silence was absolute, as if someone had sucked all the air from the room. I heard the distant drone of a siren from outside, the refrigerator clicking on, the rustle of someone shifting uncomfortably.

No one took it as a joke. The Prestons had money and influence, and Chase was reckless enough to mean it.

But for what?

Chase patiently straightened the hat, his brows soft but his words razor-sharp.

He moved with careful precision, fingertips brushing my hair, but his voice was a blade, slicing through any pretense of affection.

"I waited for Lila for seven years, just for her to come back."

"I wish I could keep her in my heart every day. How could I ever say a harsh word to her?"

"Keeping a placeholder around at least gives me somewhere to let out my frustration, right?"

Everyone laughed again.

They laughed at how he knew to treasure someone—and at how pathetic and ridiculous I was.

My nails dug into my palm, my whole body shaking with pain.

I squeezed my hand tighter, feeling the crescent moons my nails left in my skin, biting back the urge to scream or cry. All I could do was hold myself together—just barely.

Chase put his arm around my shoulders and held his phone in front of me:

[Be good, make a wish. Everyone’s wishing you a happy birthday :D]

The screen flashed with emojis and party poppers. His arm was heavy, and the words felt like a chain. The light from the phone washed my face in blue.

I covered my ears and blew out the candles.

The waxy scent of melting candles mixed with the sugar rush of icing, but all I tasted was humiliation.

Everyone shouted again in unison:

"Happy birthday, Lila!"

I don’t know who added: "Wishing Chase a successful proposal!"

There was a chorus of oohs and fake gasps, a few people whistling and clapping, cell phones held aloft to capture every second for social media.

Chase sneered: "What, you guys lose your voices? Yell louder!"

The next second, my phone buzzed with his message:

[C’mon, birthday girl, what’d you wish for? Don’t tell me it’s another platinum album—your boyfriend’s already a legend.]

I swallowed my tears, bit by bit.

My vision blurred as I stared at the message, a lump forming in my throat. I wished, just for a second, that I was someone else—someone he could love.