The guitar was his own foundation. His first love. The instrument that carried him from obscurity to superstardom. And yet, watching Elena handle a left-handed guitar with that kind of mastery…
It pierced him.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was something worse.
Fear.
He gritted his teeth, voice low as if speaking to a rival standing right in front of him.
"I thought you were a pianist," he muttered. "Why are you playing the guitar like you're… like you're Enrique Valdez?"
His fingers tightened around the neck of the guitar.
The moment the performance ended, he shut off the TV and came straight here, as if the walls of his bedroom had suddenly become too small to contain his unease.
He didn't watch her solo performance.
He didn't hear her announce her engagement.
None of that mattered.
All that mattered was the feeling that crawled up his spine while watching her play.
A sense of urgency, sharp as a knife.
