The air in the suite was a lie. Robin had sprayed something citrus and chemical into the space where Kristen’s perfume and his own sweat had hung, a frantic cloud that now smelled like a cheap bathroom. He zipped his pants just as the doorbell chimed, the sound slicing through the false calm. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.

He opened the door. April stood there, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, her face lit with a triumphant, sleepy smile. “Surprise,” she said, her voice soft with travel.

He kissed her. It wasn’t a choice; it was a cover story. His mouth found hers, swallowing her little gasp of pleasure, and he pulled her inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. His eyes scanned the room over her shoulder. The bed was a wreck, the sheets tangled. He saw the edge of a black lace bra peeking from under the rumpled comforter.

He walked her backward, his lips never leaving hers, his hands framing her face to keep her gaze locked on his. As they moved past the foot of the king bed, he glanced down. In the shadowed gap between the floor and the bedskirt, a sliver of pale skin, an eye, wide and unblinking. Kristen.

With his body blocking April’s view, he made a sharp, frantic gesture with his free hand—*go, get out*—his fingers stabbing toward the suite’s main door. He felt a shift in the darkness under the bed, a silent inhalation.

He deepened the kiss then, pouring all his guilty energy into it, his tongue sweeping into April’s mouth, a performance of desperate welcome. She melted against him, her bag dropping to the floor with a thud, her hands coming up to clutch at his bare shoulders.

A faint rustle, the softest click of a door latch. He didn’t look. He kept his mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, until he heard the main suite door sigh shut. Only then did he let the kiss soften, break, resting his forehead against hers, his breath coming in ragged pulls.

“I missed you,” April breathed, her eyes still closed, lashes fluttering. She nuzzled his cheek. “Do you like your surprise?”

He nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah.” The word was sandpaper. He cleared it. “Yeah, baby. Love it.”

She smiled, her hands sliding down his chest, over the waistband of his pants. Her fingers traced the outline of his belt buckle, then dipped lower, palming him through the fabric. He was soft. Lifeless. A dead thing in his own trousers.

Her touch stilled. She looked up at him, the smile fading into curiosity. “Long night?”

“The show… it takes it out of me,” he mumbled, catching her wrist gently, lifting her hand away. He brought it to his lips, kissed her knuckles. “I’m wiped. Let’s just… sleep. We have all day tomorrow.”

April’s brow furrowed. She searched his face. He saw the confusion bloom in her big, expressive eyes, then the first flicker of something else—doubt. Robin never said no. Robin was the one who woke her up with his mouth between her legs, who pulled her into the shower stalls, whose hands were always finding her skin. Energetic wasn’t the word. He was insatiable.

“Oh,” she said, the single syllable heavy. She withdrew her hand fully, wrapping her arms around herself. “Okay. Sure.”

She turned and walked toward the bed, her steps slowing as she took in the disarray. She stopped, staring at the twisted sheets, the pillows on the floor. Her gaze landed on the black lace bra. She didn’t touch it. She just looked at it, her back to him, her posture perfectly still.

Robin’s stomach plummeted. He moved quickly, crossing the room. “Here, let me,” he said, his voice too bright. He snatched the bra up, a wisp of satin and memory, and balled it in his fist. “Housekeeping is getting sloppy.” He tossed it toward a chair. It missed, falling to the carpet in a small, accusing heap.

April didn’t comment. She silently pulled the comforter back, slid into the side of the bed that seemed least disturbed. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Robin stood there for a moment, the liar in the middle of the room, before turning off the lights and climbing in beside her. The space between their bodies felt vast, cold. He listened to her breathe, waiting for the question that didn’t come.

The morning light was a liar, too bright and cheerful for the tension that had solidified in the suite overnight. They ate breakfast on the terrace in near silence, the clink of cutlery against porcelain the only conversation. April picked at her fruit salad, her eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. Robin drank his coffee black, the bitter taste a fitting punishment. He tried to fill the quiet with talk about the concert that night, about the setlist, his voice sounding hollow even to himself.

They roamed the art deco streets of South Beach, but the distance between them was a physical thing. April walked a half-step ahead, her posture rigid. When he tried to take her hand, her fingers were limp in his, then slipped away to adjust the strap of her bag. The vibrant colors of the buildings, the thumping bass from open club doors, the smell of salt and coconut oil—it all felt like a movie playing for someone else.

Back in the hotel room, the silence became a wall. April stood by the window, looking down at the pool. Robin watched the line of her back, the set of her shoulders. He knew what he had to do. An offering. A correction. He crossed the room and turned her to face him. Her expression was unreadable.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said, the words inadequate. “I was just… tired.”

She didn’t answer. She just looked at him.

He kissed her then, not with the frantic cover of the night before, but with a determined focus. A reclamation. He poured every ounce of his performer’s will into it, his hands cupping her face, his body pressing hers back against the cool glass. For a long moment, she was stiff, unyielding. Then, with a small, shuddering sigh, her mouth opened under his. Her hands came up, not to clutch, but to rest on his chest.

It was a transaction. He understood that. He undressed her with a efficiency that felt clinical, his fingers working the button of her shorts, pushing them down her thighs. She stepped out of them, her eyes never leaving his face. He led her to the bed, the same bed, and laid her down on sheets the staff had changed while they were out. The crisp, anonymous cotton smelled of bleach.

He entered her quickly, before the doubt could resurface in her eyes or the failure in his body. There was no preamble, no worship. He was hard, a mechanical response to willpower and fear. She was wet, but it was a shallow, reluctant slickness. He moved in her with a steady, driving rhythm, his eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the physical sensation—the heat, the tight clasp—to block out everything else.

Her breaths were short, sharp gasps near his ear. Her nails dug into his shoulders, not in passion, but in anger. He could feel her watching him, studying the strain in his neck, the tight line of his jaw. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Her gaze was clear, sober, waiting.

He came with a choked-off groan, his hips stuttering, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. It was a release of pressure, not pleasure. A duty performed. He stayed inside her for a few pounding heartbeats, feeling his own pulse throb where they were joined. Then he rolled off, onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet except for their ragged breathing.

“See?” he said, his voice rough. “Not too tired.”

April didn’t reply. She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist, and reached for her clothes. She dressed with her back to him, each movement precise. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

The concert that night was a roar of light and sound. Robin poured himself into the performance, the persona of Robin Thicke—the smirking, sweating, hip-swaying star—fitting over him like a second skin. He danced at the edge of the stage, he teased the crowd, he lost himself in the safe, screaming anonymity of it. From the wings, he could see April standing with Lyle, her face illuminated in flashes by the stage lights. She was watching him, her arms crossed.

During the final song, a slow, pulsing beat, he made his decision. He walked to the edge of the stage, sweat dripping from his chin, and pointed into the wings. The spotlight swung, hunting, and found her. April’s eyes went wide with surprise, then alarm.

“Everybody,” Robin panted into the microphone, his voice amplified to a godlike boom across the arena. “I want you to meet someone very special. My girl. April.”

The crowd erupted in a wave of cheers and whistles. He gestured for her to come out. For a terrifying second, he thought she would refuse, would turn and walk away. But then, slowly, she stepped into the light. She looked breathtaking and terribly young, blinking in the glare of sixty thousand people.

He reached for her, pulling her to him at the center of the stage. The music swelled. He dipped her, a dramatic, practiced move, and brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss was for the cameras, for the screaming fans, for the narrative he was desperately trying to rewrite. It was long and deep, and the arena noise faded to a distant buzz. When he broke it, her lips were parted, her eyes dazed. The crowd’s approval was a physical wave hitting them. He held her hand aloft, a victor with his prize, and her fingers were cold in his.

Backstage after the encore, the energy was a chaotic crush of crew, band members, and hangers-on. Robin was buzzing with a brittle, post-show adrenaline. He had done it. He had claimed her publicly, sealed the story. He found April by the catering table, holding a bottle of water she wasn’t drinking. “I have to run down to reception,” he shouted over the noise, kissing her temple. “Sort the bill for the after-party. I’ll be two minutes.”

She nodded, her eyes scanning the crowded green room. “Okay.”

He slipped out, the relative quiet of the hotel corridor a relief. The elevator ride down was silent. He pushed through the polished brass doors into the lobby, the marble floor cool under his boots. He approached the reception desk, pulling his wallet from his back pocket, already rehearsing the room number in his head.

“Robin. Fancy meeting you here.”

The voice was a familiar, smoky purr from his right. He turned, and the blood drained from his face.

Kristen leaned against a pillar, one ankle crossed over the other, looking utterly at ease. She wore a simple black dress now, her hair down. She smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. “Great show tonight. Your girlfriend is very pretty.” Her eyes, sharp and amused, held his. “She looks sweet. Is she?”