Chapter Five

Maggie

I walk into the rehearsal studio with my head held high, a fresh surge of determination coursing through me. After talking to Rosie and Phoebe last night, I feel like I’ve got my spark back. They reminded me of who I am and what I’m capable of. Sure, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone, but that’s where the magic happens, right?

Today’s group number is the one I’ve been struggling with. The dance's intricate footwork and fast tempo had been tripping me up. But not anymore. I stayed up late, drilling the routine until my legs felt like jelly. Now, I’m ready to own it.

The rehearsal room is buzzing when I arrive. Dancers stretch in front of the mirrors, their movements impossibly fluid, while the vocal coach warms up one of the leads. The energy is infectious, and for once, I don’t feel intimidated. I find my spot, drop my bag, and start stretching.

Jonah’s not here yet.

I glance at the door out of the corner of my eye, trying not to seem obvious. It’s not like I’m waiting for him, not really. After yesterday’s chemistry during our duet, I thought maybe things would be different today. We shared something electric.

And okay, maybe my sisters were right. Maybe there’s more to my feelings for Jonah than I’ve admitted to myself. The way he looks at me, and the way his voice wraps around me during our songs is hard to ignore.

The door swings open and my heart skips a beat.

Jonah strides in, his presence as commanding as ever. He’s wearing that black hoodie he seems to live in, the hood down today, his dark hair slightly messy. His sharp eyes scan the room, and for the briefest moment, they land on me.

But then he looks away.

No nod, no smile, not even a flicker of recognition. Just... nothing.

My stomach twists. What the hell?

I try not to let it bother me, but it’s like the air in the room shifts. The easy connection we had yesterday feels like a distant memory.

The choreographer claps her hands, calling us to attention, and I force myself to focus. This is my moment to shine, and I’m not about to let Jonah —or my own nerves— throw me off.

The music starts and I dive into the routine. Every move I practiced last night comes rushing back, my body syncing with the rhythm in a way that feels effortless. The steps, the spins, the quick changes in direction —I nail them all.

When the number ends, I’m breathless but triumphant. The choreographer gives me a small nod of approval, and for the first time, I feel like I belong here.

But Jonah doesn’t notice.

He’s quiet throughout rehearsal, keeping to himself and barely speaking unless he has to. Even when we’re paired for a scene, he’s distant, his responses clipped, his attention elsewhere.

Still, the sparks between us are undeniable.

During our duet, our hands brush, and it’s like a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. My breath hitches, and for a split second, I lose my place in the song. I recover quickly, but I know he felt it too. His hand lingers on mine a second too long, his grip firm and grounding, and I swear I catch him glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

So why is he acting like I don’t exist?

The rehearsal grinds on, and I try not to let his indifference get under my skin. But it’s hard. Yesterday, he was this mix of brooding and playful, teasing me, helping me, and making me feel like I wasn’t alone in all of this. And now? He’s practically a ghost.

By the time rehearsal ends, I’m emotionally drained, my earlier optimism unraveling with every passing minute. Jonah slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door without a word, his expression unreadable.

I stand there, frozen, watching him go.

What changed? Did I do something wrong? Did I misread everything that happened between us yesterday?

My chest tightens with frustration, a knot of confusion tangling itself in my thoughts. The way he touched me today—the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention—none of it matches how cold he’s acting.

Something’s going on. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from being in the spotlight all these years, it’s that sometimes you have to fight for the answers you want.

I grab my bag and head out, determined to figure out what’s going on with Jonah Saxon.

***

Jonah

I was an ass today.

The thought’s been gnawing at me since rehearsal ended, replaying in my head alongside all the other crap I can’t seem to shake. The tension with my bandmates, my agent breathing down my neck, this stupid idea that maybe I don’t even want to do this rock star thing anymore, it’s all swirling together, and Maggie ended up in the crossfire.

I acted like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t deserve that. Not after how sweet she was yesterday or how hard she was working today. I saw the way she nailed that choreography and the way her face lit up when the choreographer gave her a nod of approval. She’s so determined, so full of life.

And I just ignored her like a goddamn coward.

I pace my apartment, the weight of my bad mood pressing down on me. I can’t let this sit. I need to fix it. I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find her number. My thumb hovers over the call button for a second before I press it.

The phone rings and I half expect her not to answer. But then, her voice comes through, soft and a little wary.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Maggie. It’s Jonah.”

There’s a pause, and I can practically feel her deciding whether to hang up or hear me out. “Hi. What’s up?”

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Look, I wanted to apologize for rehearsal today. I was... off. I wasn’t trying to be a jerk, but I know I came across that way.”

“You think?” she says, her voice sharp but not unkind. “What was that all about?”

I run a hand through my hair, pacing again. “It’s... complicated. Can I make it up to you? Dinner. My treat.”

“Dinner?” She sounds surprised, and I can picture her tilting her head, those green eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Yeah, dinner. You know, food? Conversation? I explain why I was standoffish, and you don’t hate me forever.”

“You think I hate you?”

“I’d deserve it if you did,” I admit the honesty surprising even me. “But I’m hoping you don’t.”

She hesitates, and I hear her take a breath. “Why can’t you just explain now?”

“Because...” I pause, searching for the right words. “Because this isn’t a phone conversation. And I think I owe you more than a half-assed explanation.”

“That sounds like blackmail,” she says and there’s a teasing edge to her voice now.

“Call it whatever you want,” I say, relief washing over me. “I’ll do whatever works to get you to agree.”

She laughs softly and it’s like a knot in my chest loosens. “Fine. But if the food sucks, I’m holding it against you.”

“Fair enough,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. “Seven o’clock. There’s a diner near your apartment. I’ll text you the address.”

“Okay, seven,” she says, her tone light but still carrying a hint of curiosity. “Don’t be late, Saxon.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and when the call ends, I feel something I haven’t felt all day —hope.

Now all I have to do is explain myself without making a bigger mess of things. Should be simple, right?