Done Hiding as Your Backup Plaything I'm Shining Golden as a Queen - Chapter 128: Chapter 128

I spent a day in the hospital, but checked myself out early to prep for the freshman welcome show.
When I got back to the dorm, my roommates were ice cold—still convinced I'd faked the whole allergic reaction just to mess with Camila.
I slammed my discharge papers right on Madison's desk.
Their eyes went wide when they saw "SEVERE ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK" printed in bold letters across the top. Suddenly they couldn't find words.
I didn't bother engaging.
The advisor had already told me I'd be switching dorms after the welcome show anyway—moving across campus to the business school housing.
Word was that the Dean of Business would be attending the performance. If I could make a good impression, there was a chance I'd get selected for the honors program. This was my shot at a fresh start.
So I threw myself into preparation like a woman possessed—military-style orientation during the day, piano practice in the music building every night until my fingers cramped.
Travis kept spam-texting me with increasingly pathetic attempts at reconciliation. I blocked his number without reading a single message.
The day before the show, I went to pick up a package at the campus mail center and ran straight into him.
He was holding my delivery.
I held out my hand. "Give it."
He held the package just out of reach, that shit-eating grin playing at his lips that used to be charming but now made my skin crawl. "Someone's still mad. You want this? Unblock me first."
The package contained the performance dress my mom had spent weeks hand-sewing—midnight blue silk with delicate beadwork, made specifically for tonight.
I stared at Travis's cocky expression, realizing he had absolutely no clue I'd nearly died three days ago.
I pulled out my phone to call his father directly.
He snatched it away before I could dial, holding it up high while scrolling through my contacts.
"Jesus, Gabby, don't be so dramatic. Look, my advisor wants me to start lab work over fall break—I'm talking eighteen-hour days for the next three weeks."
His voice took on that wheedling tone he used when he wanted something. "Three weeks without talking to you? Come on, babe. You know I can't handle that. Neither can you."
The casual arrogance made my blood pressure spike. "Handle what? There's nothing to handle because we're DONE!"
Travis had the audacity to chuckle and pull me against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head.
"My stubborn little drama queen. How many different ways do I have to say I'm completely obsessed with you before it sinks in?"
His words felt like poison in my ears. The sheer fucking audacity of this man—standing there sweet-talking me while probably texting Camila with his free hand.
I shoved him so hard he stumbled backward and ran off, forgetting about the dress completely.
I swallowed my pride and texted him:
That package has my performance dress for tomorrow. I need it delivered NOW.
He didn't respond for hours. Finally:
Can't tonight, got study group. I'll drop it off tomorrow before your show. Sweet dreams, gorgeous ❤️
I was annoyed but figured I'd have to wait until tomorrow.
The next day when I asked again, he said: "Super busy today, but don't worry—I'll bring it right before you go on. Break a leg!"
I tried to stay calm. "Travis, this performance is really important to me! You need to get me that dress early!"
Twenty minutes before I was supposed to go on, I was frantically calling him from backstage in my backup black dress that looked like funeral attire.
Straight to voicemail every time.
Then the announcement came over the speakers: "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome freshman Camila Jones and senior Travis Russell performing 'Sparkle' as a four-handed piano duet!"
My phone slipped from my numb fingers.
I pushed through the backstage curtain and saw Camila wearing my mother's midnight blue silk dress, sitting beside Travis under the spotlights as they played together.
They looked like they'd stepped out of a fucking fairy tale.
People around me were whispering: "Oh my God, her dress is absolutely stunning! They look perfect together!"
"Did you see how he looked at her during that crescendo? So romantic!"
"I heard Travis volunteered to perform with her as a favor, but damn if they don't have chemistry!"
My nails dug so deep into my palms I could feel warm blood, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony tearing through my chest.
"Sparkle" was our song. Travis had taught me that piece when we were fifteen—a beautiful four-hand arrangement that we'd learned together.
"This is our song, Gabby," he'd whispered in my ear that first time we'd performed it flawlessly. "You're my one and only heroine in my life. I'll never lose you."
But his heroine didn't want him anymore.