Chapter 2 — Melodies in the Dark

Tristan

The dim light of Tristan Calloway’s hidden studio cast long shadows across the walls, the warm amber glow pooling on scattered sheets of handwritten lyrics. The faint, rhythmic strum of an acoustic guitar cut through the stillness, each note a quiet rebellion in a world defined by order and expectation. Tristan’s fingers moved deftly over the strings, the melody raw and unfinished, but achingly real.

He paused, letting the final chord hang in the air before it dissolved into the silence. The room smelled faintly of cedar and leather, the remnants of an earlier coffee lingering in the air. For a moment, he closed his eyes, losing himself in the refuge of this space. Here, he wasn’t the dutiful son of Senator Calloway. He wasn’t the polished, smiling heir to a political legacy. Here, he was just Tristan—a boy with a guitar, a head full of dreams too fragile to share with the world outside these soundproofed walls, and a heart that ached for something freer.

He glanced around the room. Every detail of the studio bore traces of his defiance—its carefully soundproofed walls, the double locks on the door, the equipment he’d bought piece by piece using saved allowances and odd jobs he’d done behind his father’s back. It was a secret he guarded fiercely. If his father ever found out about this sanctuary, it would be stripped away in an instant.

The delicate peace didn’t last. The shrill buzz of his phone on the desk jolted him back to reality, its vibration rattling against the wood like an unwelcome intruder. Tristan set the guitar down carefully, his expression tightening as he reached for the device.

The screen lit up with a familiar name. _Dad._

He stared at it for a moment, an ache blooming in his chest that he hadn’t asked for and didn’t want. A part of him wanted to ignore it, to let the call go unanswered and pretend, just for tonight, that this wasn’t his life. But that was a fantasy he couldn’t afford. The world didn’t work that way—not for him, at least.

His finger hovered over the screen. He closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself, before swiping to answer. “Hello,” he said, his voice even and measured, the tone he’d perfected over years of public appearances and carefully rehearsed interviews.

“Tristan. Did you forget about the gala tomorrow night?” His father’s voice carried the weight of practiced authority, sharp and unyielding, every word polished to precision.

Tristan sighed, leaning back in his chair and letting his head rest against the wall. “No, I didn’t forget.”

“Good. Senator Morgan and his daughter will be there. It’s important, Tristan—very important—that you make a good impression.”

Of course, it was important. Everything was always important. Every handshake, every smile, every carefully curated word—it was all part of the endless chess game his father played. And Tristan? He was one of the pieces.

“I’ll be there,” Tristan said tightly.

“Not just ‘there,’ Tristan. Present. Engaged. This is an opportunity to show the press that our family stands united in its dedication to the American people. A chance to reinforce our values.”

_Our values._ Tristan almost laughed. His father’s values were nothing more than a brand, a polished veneer concealing the cracks beneath. Tristan knew the truth. He’d seen it in the cold dismissals, the backroom deals that prioritized ambition over morality. But he knew better than to say that out loud.

“I understand,” he said instead, keeping his tone neutral.

His father paused, a beat of silence that felt heavier than it should have. “You’ve been... distant lately.”

_Distant?_ That word didn’t even scratch the surface. Distant was the only way Tristan could survive in his father’s world—a wall he’d built to keep himself intact.

“I’ve been busy,” he said carefully. “College applications, networking—you know, the usual.”

“Good. Keep it that way. And, Tristan... I trust you’ve outgrown that indulgence with music by now.”

The casual dismissal sent a spike of anger through Tristan’s chest, hot and immediate. His free hand clenched into a fist beneath the desk, his nails biting into his palm. But he forced himself to stay calm, his voice betraying nothing. “Of course,” he lied smoothly.

“See that you don’t stray. I need you to focus. We’re building something here—something that will last. Don’t let distractions get in the way of that.”

The line went dead before Tristan could respond. He stared at the phone for a long moment, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white.

He hated that his father could still get under his skin like this. Hated that, even in the sanctuary of his studio, he couldn’t fully escape the weight of his expectations.

With a frustrated exhale, Tristan set the phone down and pushed his chair back, standing and running a hand through his messy brown hair. The quiet hum of the city filtered in through the cracks in his carefully soundproofed world, a reminder of the life waiting for him just outside these walls. A life where his name wasn’t his own, where every move he made was dictated by others.

He moved to the shelf where his vinyl collection sat, neat rows of records that had been his escape for as long as he could remember. His fingers hovered over the spines before settling on an old favorite—Fleetwood Mac’s _Rumours_. He placed it on the turntable and set the needle with practiced care.

The warm crackle of static filled the room, followed by the opening notes of “The Chain.” The song’s haunting refrain hit him with a force that was almost physical, the lyrics resonating in a way that felt too close to home. _If you don’t love me now, you will never love me again._

As the music swelled, Tristan grabbed his guitar again, letting the familiar melody guide his fingers. This, at least, was something he could control. Something that was his, and his alone.

But even as the music filled the studio, the weight of the gala hung over him like a storm cloud. He could already picture it: the glittering chandeliers, the hollow smiles, the endless parade of handshakes and small talk. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Governor Morgan’s daughter—the girl his father had mentioned with such pointed emphasis.

He didn’t know much about her, other than the carefully curated image that the media had painted. Pretty, polished, perfect—just like the rest of them. Just like him.

But there was something about the way his father had spoken about her, the careful edge to his tone, that made Tristan uneasy. His father rarely spoke without an agenda, and Tristan couldn’t shake the feeling that tomorrow was about more than just public appearances.

Tristan played until his fingers ached, the music a balm for the frustration simmering in his chest. By the time he finally set the guitar down, the record had looped back to the beginning, filling the room with the haunting refrain of “The Chain” once again.

He turned off the turntable and sat back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as the silence settled over him once more.

Tomorrow, he would put on the suit, the smile, the mask. He would play the part his father had written for him, just as he always did. But tonight, in this quiet, hidden room, he could pretend—just for a little while—that he was something more.