Chapter 4: Falling for the Golden Boy

I truly fell for him during one of my performances. The last scene was a solo dance, but that night, the sound system failed. I stood alone in the spotlight on that huge stage, no music, just spinning in silence.

The silence was deafening. Every eye in the audience was fixed on me. Panic clawed at my throat. Help.

Then Marcus came out from backstage with a cello.

The audience murmured, a few people gasping. My heart stopped. He looked almost ethereal in the stage lights, the cello cradled in his arms. The first notes were soft, hesitant, then bloomed into Bach’s “Air on the G String.”

The music wrapped around me, filling the empty space. I danced—not to a recording, but to him. Just him. Every step was a conversation, every turn a confession.

As I spun, our eyes met. In the dim light, his gaze was soft, almost tender.

For the first time, I saw the man behind the mask—vulnerable, hopeful, maybe even a little scared.

When the solo ended, he smiled and reached out his hand. “Come here.”

His voice was gentle, almost pleading. I hesitated, heart pounding, then walked to him, feeling like I was floating.

I stared at him for a long moment before, in front of everyone, placing my hand in his and bowing together.

The applause was thunderous, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat. In that moment, nothing else mattered.

As the red curtain slowly closed, in the darkness backstage, he leaned in and kissed me.

It was soft, hesitant—a question, not an answer. I closed my eyes, letting myself believe in the possibility of something real.

I raised my hand to his chest, but in the end, I didn’t push him away.

His heartbeat was steady under my palm, grounding me. I let myself hope, just for a second.

That was Marcus—graceful, magnetic, the golden boy everyone wanted but couldn’t have. Yet he singled me out, relentless and persistent.

It was intoxicating, being chosen by someone everyone else wanted. Dangerous, too. I knew that. But I couldn’t help myself.

So, I finally let myself fall for him.

I tumbled headlong, ignoring every warning bell in my mind. I wanted to be the exception.

Clutching the front of his shirt, I said, “Marcus, I’m not one of those women you keep with your money. I take love seriously. If you’re not serious, don’t mess with me.”

My voice shook, but my resolve was clear. Still, a tiny voice in my head whispered, What if you’re just another conquest? I needed to hear him say it.

He laughed softly, kissed me, and said, “You’re not.” He paused, then added, “I really like you. This is the first time I’ve ever felt something like this.”

His words were gentle, almost shy. I wanted to believe him. For a while, I did.

To be fair, it’s not that Marcus didn’t love me.

He tried, in his own way. There were moments when I felt cherished, seen. But there was always something restless in him, a part that couldn’t settle. Sometimes it felt like loving him was like trying to hold onto smoke.

Maybe he did, but he was like Gatsby—always reaching, never satisfied.

He was always chasing the next thing, never content to land. I saw it in the way he looked past me, searching for something I could never give him.

We had a sweet relationship, but it was short-lived. The days blurred together, time slipping by too fast. I’d wake up and realize weeks had vanished.

When he loved me, he put me on a pedestal. It felt like he’d bring down the stars and moon for me. He cut off everyone else, kept only me by his side, always told me where he was going, no matter how busy he was, and called every day.

He made me feel like the center of his universe. For a while, I believed I was.

I let myself fall for him, fully aware of what I was doing. Or so I thought.

But when he stopped loving me, he was just as cold and ruthless.

The shift was sudden—a door slammed shut. One day he was attentive, the next he was distant, unreachable. I felt the air go out of the room.

I was the girl Marcus pursued the longest, the only one he ever admitted was his girlfriend. Of course, when I agreed to be with him, people warned me, “Autumn, a guy like Marcus never loves for real. Have your fun, but don’t lose yourself.”

I brushed off their warnings, convinced I was different. Ha. I wanted to believe I could change him.

Back then, I was naïve and fearless, ready to bet everything on his affection. “He treats me so well—how could it not be real?”

I defended him to anyone who doubted us. I thought love could conquer anything—even a heart like his.

I thought I was the exception.

I wore that belief like armor, never realizing how thin it really was.

But life isn’t a romance novel.

Real life is messier, crueler. There are no neat resolutions, no guarantees of happily ever after.