♫ Don't go before I get to say I'm sorry I caused you sorrow
Tonight I really want you to know ♪
(Lykke Li—Bad woman)

Coralie's half-day at the label rolled by fast, thankfully; because she didn't have the focus or energy to waste after her insane night at Chester's. She knew Chester wasn't working that day, so she didn't have to dodge him—but she did have to dodge calls from Ryan and several panicked messages from Michael. She eventually answered one of the latter—pretending not to be feeling well—but by the time she got home that night, she considered once more turning off her cell for the evening.

How many hearts would she soon break? Two? Three? Four, if she counted her own? The longer she went back and forth and ignored the choice she had to make, the riskier her situation. She didn't want to lose any of these men but couldn't accept that she didn't have any alternative. Someone, two of them, possibly all three, had to go.

She became a recluse for the evening. Even Delilah had no means to communicate with her, as she did all she could to avoid her, too. She took a longer than usual shower, ate dinner while Delilah was in the bathroom, and hid her head under her pillow, feigning sleep, whenever Delilah tried to chat with her.

"Fine, be that way," Delilah had said, snapping the curtain between their rooms shut with such force that the hinges rattled, and the whole set-up almost collapsed.

The next day, Coralie woke to a frantic voicemail from Ryan—"I know you're busy, but come on, Cora!"—to a quick get-well soon video from Michael, and a cryptic text from Chester, which seemed to imply that he missed her.

Too confused by his intense emotions, she deleted the message. And in a rage, she deleted the entire thread; it was all too much, too shocking, too difficult to handle. With so much to think about already, and a massive decision to make, she didn't have the space for Chester to squeeze in and try to steal her heart.

At the label, she found herself overcome with a wave of creativity. All her repressed sentiments, her conflicted thoughts about Michael and Ryan and Chester came to fruition. Her inability to figure out what and who she wanted translated into a surge of lyrics. And they were the type of lyrics Nikita had claimed the bosses wanted. The morose moodiness, the dramatic verses, the melodious sorrow they'd signed her on because of. Drawled out sentences with heavy meanings and ridiculous rhymes she doubted she'd be able to sing. In truth, some of it resembled more poetry than song, but it all flowed and rang in her ears with a lovely rhythm that she couldn't get out of her head.

By noon, she'd composed four sad songs that she printed out and threw onto Nikita's desk.

"Here," she said, as Nikita hung up the phone call she'd been on and gaped at her in awe. "This is the shit they wanted."

Without a word, Nikita plucked the papers and gazed at them, squinting and widening her eyes, wincing and smiling, nodding and hissing.

Fuck. Is it too much?

When she flipped to the second page, Coralie reconsidered her hastiness. It was trash, right? She'd lost so much of her motivation to come up with the depressing stuff she was known for. Despite her life taking a crazy turn down a lane she did not need to be on—the cheater lane—she still couldn't write the crap her managers had requested.

"Wait," she said, reaching out to stop Nikita from reading any further. "This isn't the correct stuff, I printed out the wrong—"

"—wrong?" Nikita scoffed and looked up from the paper, her eyes twinkling. Her bubblegum pink lips spread into a grin. "No, not wrong. This is it, Coralie. These are the types of songs we were missing. Especially this one." She waved the second page—the one Coralie had been most proud of but scared about. "Explicit, yeah? Interesting title. Very... catchy. And not explicit at all, which I find ironic. And I like it."

Coralie gulped. Hearing the title out loud hit her harder in the face than it had when she'd written it. Explicit—a group of verses and a chorus that explicitly referred to Chester, in all but the name. It mentioned messy mishaps, adventures in the sheets, minty breaths, dangerous kisses, and all while not cursing or downright detailing the threesome from the other night, though implying it had happened. When she'd reread it, she'd been surprised by her own prose; flowery and evocative, pointing at trashy behavior but remaining proper and pretty.

And if Chester were to read it, hear it... he'd know right away that it was about him. It was so obvious—the title was the same as his poetry book, for crying out loud—and he'd have no trouble deciphering the suggestions, the conflict and confrontation, the perfumed atmosphere she described in the first section.

How would he react? Would he become angry that she'd shared something so personal, so intimate, and didn't ask him first? Would he request rights to the song though he wasn't specifically singled out? Or would he be flattered and fall harder for her, rendering her decision even tougher?

"I... it's a mistake." She shifted her weight and averted her gaze to the floor. Twiddling her thumbs to prevent Nikita from seeing how she shook, she chewed on her lip. "Rough drafts, that's all. I should have polished them more."

"Coralie." Nikita deposited the songs and stood up to walk around her desk. She then hopped onto it, right by where Coralie was, continuing to look at anyone but her. "These aren't rough drafts. You've been working on them all morning! I saw you typing up a storm on your computer. You can't fool me."

"Yeah, but—" Coralie sighed and deflated into the chair nearest her. "I... can't. I'm not... confident about them."

"You're lying." Nikita dropped from the desk and onto her knees, before Coralie. "These are about someone in particular, right?" She winked. "That hot dude from the gig?"

As before, Coralie didn't want to divulge to her boss that she had multiple men vying for her affections, so she shrugged.

"Oh, wait." Nikita took Coralie's chin and lifted it. "You don't want him to figure it out, do you? You're freaked out?"

Coralie nodded. She sensed tears starting to gather at her lash-line—from the fear of the truth, the pressure of her decision, or Nikita's insistence, she couldn't tell. She sucked in her lips to fight the waterworks brewing under her hardened facade.

"It's not that obvious," said Nikita, straightening up. "And we can revise things, work them around a little. If it helps you feel better... we'll only feature one or two, yeah? And maybe we'll keep the Explicit one for round two?"

"Round..." Coralie's neck snapped up. "Round two? What... what are you saying?"

Nikita smirked as she grabbed the documents and handed them to Coralie. "That these could make your career. Adding these to what we already have—your ballads, your rocking-out songs, your drunken debauchery tunes, even your sexy-time stuff... that's it. That's all we need to start putting together an album. And if it does well, if it attracts more fans... then there will be another one. And another. Round two, round three, even."

Coralie accepted the documents, but her eyes were about to pop out of their sockets. "Just like that?"

"Hun." Nikita set her hands on her hips, posing behind the desk, like a model bracing to march down a runway. "We had our sights on you a while ago, remember? We were waiting to polish you up, to get you out of your shell, to see what you could do under severe stress. And those?" She gestured at the songs. "You delivered. You succeeded, girl. This is what you wanted, yeah?"

"I..." Coralie perked up. "My songs are my life. This is my life."

"Perfect." Nikita clapped—one of her telltale signs that she was ending the conversation—and jutted her chin at the door. "E-mail these to me in WORD format, and I'll submit them to the others. And if they like them, we'll send you the consent form to record. And once we record... we'll work on getting you more gigs and getting your name out there. Coralie Amber Watson, you're on the right path."

Later that day, as Coralie escaped her office, balancing her laptop, her purse, and a few files of research on hip bars and Instagram accounts to talk to about promotion, she had her head in the clouds.

"You're on the right path."

Nikita's speech resonated within her, repeating, amplifying, distorting, screaming. It felt too easy, too fast; but Nikita was right. Poisoned Paradise Records had been pursuing Coralie for longer than she'd thought, and they'd been prepared for her. They'd scoured her songs, pulled them apart, tore at their seams, and educated her on how to perfect them. And somehow, her fucked up predicament had, against her initial thoughts, helped her.

So caught up in her daydreams of singing in a packed arena, she bumped into a massive wall of a being outside the building. Her first instinct was to run—it was Chester, right? Spying on her, waiting for her, taking advantage of her inattention—but upon stabilizing herself and realizing who the person was, she stilled.

"Ry... Ryan?" She tucked a wild hair behind her ear and swallowed the acid that had climbed up her throat.

"Cora." He extended an arm to ensure she wouldn't topple over, then took a step back, giving her space.

She clutched her purse and files to her chest and peered left and right at the busy pedestrians scrambling past. "What are you doing here?"

"You wouldn't answer my calls," he said, his voice simple, sad—no hint of anger or cruelty in it. "I... worried."

She cringed. "Unnecessary, Ryan. I'm fine."

"Are you?" He started to step forward, then decided to keep his distance. A few individuals walked around him and grunted about him blocking the passage, but he cared little for them, concentrating on Coralie only. "I thought we ended things well, last time I saw you. I thought we... were okay. And then you go and... what's that word? Ghost me. Are you mad at me again?"

She huffed. "Ryan—"

His ocean eyes glittered as he shook his head. "I'm not mad. I don't mean to sound rude when I say again. But did I do something inappropriate? I've been a... a jerk, lately, it's true. I asked for forgiveness, but maybe I didn't do enough. Maybe... the sex isn't good anymore, is it? You didn't cum as usual—"

Letting out a squeak of shame, Coralie seized his sleeve and tugged him away from the curious ears of passersby. "Ryan, what the fuck?" She dragged him between two pillars, and Ryan, tall and muscular as he was, was pressed up to her, a little too close for comfort.

"It's true, no?" He'd lowered his voice, but Coralie still perceived the disappointment in it. "You usually... well, you're loud. And last time... you weren't. I didn't want to believe it was me, but then you begin ignoring my calls, and you grow distant... what's up?"

The acidity from earlier grew worse, twirling around her tongue and making her want to gag.

Shit. Shit. I'm going to lose him before I get a chance to figure myself out.

"It... it's true, but it wasn't you, Ryan." She swiped a hand over her sweaty forehead. "It's work. Still. I'm under a lot of stress, and sex is... it isn't helpful when I'm like that. Doesn't unwind me like it should. And that's not your fault, and I should have specified that, and I'm sorry—"

"—babe." He pulled her into his arms so fast she had no time to protest or refuse. Yet it soothed her, and she hated it. "And here I am making everything about me. About you breaking up with Michael. And for weeks you've been telling me the label has been tough, and I didn't trust you, and I..." So tight in his embrace, she stuffed her nose into his shirt and sniffed in his cologne—the spicy one he wore when he wanted to seduce her. "I'm an asshole. Every damn day. Please, let me make it up to you."

She wanted to shove him off and kick him and ask him why he was choosing now, of all moments, to realize how much of a dick he'd been. Now, when she understood the heaviness of her actions, the weight of her choices, the consequences of her thinking with her vagina and not her brain. Here was Ryan, finally sounding sincerely sorry for his pushiness, and she didn't have the heart to tell him how she'd been the asshole. How she hadn't broken up with Michael—and suspected she wouldn't be able to—and how she hadn't enjoyed sex with Ryan as usual, and how she'd had a threesome with her fuck-buddy-best-friend from many moons ago. She'd wrinkled her nose at Ryan and despised him for his annoying attitudes, but in reality... she was the villain, wasn't she? It was her life these men were wrapped up in, trapped in, and she refused to let them out.

"H-how?" She managed to pry from his arms, but didn't back off, hypnotized by his scent and drawn in by his presence. "Not with sex, correct? Because I just said—"

"—a night in. Takeout, a movie, wine, a bubble bath? No sex." He narrowed his gaze and puckered his lips—his semi-serious face that meant he might mean what he claimed. "Comfort. A massage? One that won't lead to nakedness, unless that's what you want." When she growled, he raised his hands in surrender. "I mean it, Cora. You're the driver tonight. But let me take care of you, okay? If you're nervous and stressed and need a break... let me get you through it. Please? I've been all about the sex, using it to keep you close, to persuade you to end things with him... but my tactic isn't working. I need a new approach. So allow me to try one, yeah? I love you. I don't want to lose you."

It went against all she'd promised herself—isolation, no physical contact with the boys who controlled her heart—and yet the appeal of resting in his arms, of falling asleep next to him, and of no expectations... it allured her.

So next she knew, she'd switched out her purse for an overnight bag, scarfed down some Chinese food in Ryan's luxurious kitchen, and shed her clothes to slide into a lavender bubble bath. Ryan joined her, and though both were in the nude, all he did was hold her, rocking her, reassuring her.

It was this version of him that she preferred—the nurturing, kind, attentive man she'd been best friends with in high school. The one who'd listened, who'd let her confide in him with no judgment, who never asked for anything in return. Why this part of him had been dormant beneath his heaps of sex-appeal and cravings, she wasn't sure; but she appreciated having the real Ryan back.

But how long would this behavior last? Would he change once she broke up with Michael? Worsen if she chose not to? Become violent if she took her time? Was Ryan the one she had to hang on to? Out of the three, she had the deepest feelings for him. But her sentiments towards Michael grew stronger by the day, and her intrigue with Chester never ceased.

Secure in Ryan's arms, she ignored a call from Michael, allowing it to go to voicemail. She'd speak with him later, but for now, she wanted nothing more than to lounge in the bubbles in Ryan's oversized bathtub. And forget about everyone and everything, if only for a few hours.

♥♥♥