Chapter 89
[Alexander's POV]
I sat on the edge of the leather sofa, phone clutched in my hand, watching Grandfather pace back and forth in front of the massive projection screen. Christopher stood by the window, pretending to review documents on his tablet, but his eyes kept flicking toward the screen.
"She'll make it," Grandfather muttered for the fifth time in as many minutes. His fingers worried the gold chain of his pocket watch. "Rose always keeps her promises."
I checked my phone again. Still no new messages. The last text from Rose had come at 3:47 AM: Working on final calculations. Will leave as soon as possible.
That was four hours ago.
The projection screen flickered to life at exactly nine o'clock, displaying the cheerful opening credits of American Dream Star. The studio audience's applause filled our living room, jarringly loud against the tense silence we'd maintained all morning.
"Welcome back, America!" Dylan's voice boomed. The camera panned across the audience, capturing their excited faces, their homemade signs supporting various contestants. I spotted Rachel's fan section immediately—a coordinated sea of purple shirts and professionally printed banners.
My stomach twisted.
Christopher moved away from the window, joining us in front of the screen. None of us spoke. We just watched as Dylan reviewed the previous week's performances and introduced today's format.
"Eight teams remain," he announced, his smile brilliant under the studio lights. "But by the end of today, only five will continue their journey to stardom."
The camera cut to the backstage preparation area, where contestants were warming up, applying last-minute makeup, going through vocal exercises. I searched each frame desperately for a glimpse of Rose's face, but she wasn't there.
"Third team, please line up for roll call," a production assistant's voice came through clearly.
My heart stopped.
Seven girls filed onto the small backstage stage, their faces painted with forced smiles that didn't reach their eyes. Ava stood in the center where Rose should have been, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
One by one, he went through the roster. When he reached Rose's name, the silence stretched like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point.
"Rose Evans?"
Ava stepped forward, her voice trembling despite obvious efforts to keep it steady. "She had an extremely urgent matter to attend to. She'll be here soon."
The studio audience erupted in whispers. I could practically hear the speculation spreading like wildfire through the crowd.
"I see." Dylan's expression shifted to professional concern. "Well, we'll have to proceed without her for now. Team Three is currently incomplete."
The live broadcast chat exploded across the bottom of the screen. I couldn't help reading them, each comment a knife twisting in my gut.
Rose playing diva already?
Who abandons their team like this?
#RoseEvansIsOverParty
At least Rachel would never do this to her group
"Those bastards," I growled, my grip tightening on my phone.
"Alexander." Christopher's voice carried a warning. "Don't engage."
"But they're—"
"Making it worse would only prove them right." Christopher's jaw was set, his eyes hard. "We wait. We trust Rose."
Grandfather had gone completely still, his face pale beneath his tan. He sank into his armchair without a word, both hands gripping the armrests so hard I could see the tendons standing out on the backs of his hands.
On screen, Dylan continued with the formalities. "Alright, team captains, please come forward for the performance order drawing."
Hannah walked to the front of the stage like she was heading to an execution. Her hand shook as she reached into the glass bowl filled with numbered ping pong balls. I held my breath as she withdrew one, turning it to face the camera.
Number eight.
"Eight," Dylan announced. "Team Three will perform last."
Hannah's entire body sagged with relief. Behind her, the other team members clutched each other, hope flickering across their faces for the first time since the roll call.
"Thank God," Grandfather breathed. His eyes were suspiciously bright. "She has time. She still has time."
I pulled up my phone, opening the location sharing app Rose had grudgingly agreed to install. The little blue dot showed her still at Lincoln Laboratory, thirty miles away.
"Forty-five minutes," I calculated aloud. "It takes forty-five minutes from Lincoln Lab to the studio in light traffic."
"There's no such thing as light traffic at nine AM," Christopher said flatly. But I caught the way his shoulders had relaxed slightly, the first sign of hope breaking through his rigid control.
The first team took the stage, launching into an upbeat pop medley that had the audience clapping along. I tried to focus on their performance, tried to distract myself from the constant urge to refresh Rose's location, but my eyes kept drifting back to the small backstage camera feed where Team Three sat huddled together.
Team Two. Team Four. Team Five. Each performance blurred together, the songs and costumes becoming indistinguishable as my anxiety mounted. I checked my phone obsessively—every thirty seconds, then every twenty, then every ten.
Rose's dot crept closer to the studio. Painfully, impossibly slowly.
Team Six finished their performance to thunderous applause. Dylan announced a brief intermission before the final two teams would compete.
"Fifteen minutes," the production assistant's voice carried clearly through the backstage microphone. "Teams Seven and Eight, please begin final preparations."
The camera focused on Team Three's preparation room. The atmosphere was suffocating, several girls openly crying while others sat in stunned silence. Ava stared at her phone, repeatedly refreshing something I couldn't see.
One girl—I thought her name was Sophia—broke down completely. "We're done. We're going to be eliminated because our captain decided she had better things to do."
"Rose didn't decide anything," Ava snapped, but her voice lacked conviction. "She'll be here."
"When? We go on in ten minutes!"
I couldn't watch this anymore. I stood abruptly, needing to move, to do something. But Christopher's hand shot out, gripping my shoulder.
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know. Anywhere. I can't just sit here and—"
"Yes, you can." His hand tightened. "For Rose, you can."
So I sat back down, my leg bouncing with pent-up energy, my phone now permanently in my hand. The blue dot inched forward. Three miles away. Two and a half. Two.
Team Seven took the stage.
"Ten minutes," the production assistant announced.
The preparation room door opened, and my stomach dropped. Rachel walked in, followed by her entire team. She'd changed into a different outfit than what she'd worn for her own performance—something soft and approachable, probably calculated to make her look like a concerned friend rather than a competitor.
"I heard about Rose," Rachel said, her voice pitched perfectly to carry to the camera crew filming in the hallway. Her eyes looked suspiciously red, as if she'd been crying. "I'm so sorry this is happening to you all."
Ava's expression hardened. "We're fine."
"No, you're not." Rachel moved closer, genuine-seeming tears gathering in her eyes. "This isn't fair. You worked so hard, and now..." She trailed off, pressing a hand to her chest. "You're my sister's team. I can't just stand by and watch you get eliminated."
"What are you doing here, Rachel?" Ava asked flatly.
Rachel took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for something difficult. "Let me take Rose's place. I can learn your choreography quickly—I've been watching from backstage. You don't have to be disqualified because of my sister's irresponsibility."
The chat exploded again.
RACHEL IS AN ANGEL!
This is what true sportsmanship looks like!
Rose should be ASHAMED
Queen Rachel saving the day!
I shot to my feet. "That calculating little—"
"Alexander!" Christopher's voice cracked like a whip. "Sit. Down."
But I couldn't. I paced in front of the screen, my hands curling into fists, watching Rachel's performance with a mixture of disgust and unwilling admiration. She was good. Damn good. Every gesture, every expression perfectly calibrated to make her look selfless and generous while subtly highlighting Rose's supposed failure.
Grandfather made a small, choked sound. I glanced at him and was startled to see tears tracking down his weathered cheeks.
On screen, Ava stood slowly. She was several inches shorter than Rachel, but somehow in that moment, she seemed to tower over her.
"Thank you for your offer, Rachel." Ava's voice was steady now, all traces of uncertainty burned away by something that looked like fury. "But no."
Rachel's mask slipped for just a fraction of a second—a flicker of surprise, maybe annoyance—before snapping back into place. "But... you'll be eliminated. Your team will be sent home."
"Maybe." Ava stepped closer. "But Rose believed in us when no one else did. She stayed up until three AM teaching us harmonies. She redesigned our entire performance when we had no budget. She never gave up on us."
The other six girls stood as one, forming a wall behind Ava. Several had tears streaming down their faces, but their expressions were resolute, almost fierce.
Rachel's smile looked frozen, painful. "I... I respect your decision." But I saw the flash of pure rage in her eyes before she turned away, her team trailing behind her like lost ducklings.
The moment the door closed, Ava collapsed into a chair, her face crumpling. The other girls surrounded her, all of them breaking down together in a tangle of fear and desperate hope.
Grandfather was openly weeping now, not bothering to hide it. "Good girls," he whispered. "Loyal girls. Rose chose well."
I checked my phone. Rose's dot was less than a mile away now, but Team Seven was wrapping up their performance. Any minute now, Team Three would be called to the stage.
The blue dot stopped moving.
My heart stopped with it.
"What's wrong?" Christopher was at my side instantly, looking over my shoulder at my phone. "Why did she stop?"
"Traffic," I said, but my voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Or... maybe she's parking?"
But the dot didn't move. Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes.
Team Seven finished their performance to enthusiastic applause. Dylan thanked them, then turned to face the camera with his trademark smile.
"And now, for our final performance of the day, please welcome Team Three!"
The preparation room erupted in controlled chaos. Girls scrambled to check their makeup one last time, straightening costumes, grabbing water bottles. Ava's hands shook so badly she could barely hold her phone.
"She's coming," Ava whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "She promised. Rose promised."
But the stage crew was already guiding them toward the performance area. One by one, the girls filed out, leaving their preparation room empty except for a single chair where Rose should have been sitting.
The countdown appeared on the screen: 5:00
Five minutes until they had to take the stage.
I couldn't breathe. My chest felt tight, compressed, like something heavy was sitting on my ribs. I looked down at my phone. The blue dot still hadn't moved.
"Come on," I muttered. "Come on, come on, come on."
3:00
Team Three stood in the wings, visible through the backstage camera. They'd formed a tight circle, holding hands, several of them praying. Ava kept her phone gripped in one hand, staring at the screen with desperate intensity.
2:00
Christopher pulled out his own phone, his fingers flying across the screen. "I'm calling Sullivan Entertainment. We can stall, buy more time—"
"No." Grandfather's voice was hoarse but firm. "Rose asked us not to interfere. We trust her."
1:30
The stage manager approached Team Three, clipboard in hand. I could see his mouth moving, clearly giving them instructions for their entrance. Ava shook her head frantically, pointing to her phone, explaining something. The stage manager's expression turned sympathetic but firm. He pointed to his watch.
1:00
The girls moved toward the stage entrance, their formation incomplete, the gap where Rose should have stood painfully obvious. Ava's face was streaked with tears, but she kept walking, kept moving forward with her team.
"She's not going to make it," Christopher said, and he sounded destroyed. "She's not—"
The preparation room door slammed open.
Rose burst through, breathing hard, her hair coming loose from its bun, her MIT t-shirt wrinkled and stained with what looked like coffee. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder and her face was flushed from running, but her eyes—her eyes were bright and fierce and utterly determined.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, her voice steady despite her obvious exhaustion. "What did I miss?"