Tristan was the only one with real connections here. If I could find him, maybe I could find her.
I found my way to his socials. Most of it was useless. Rehearsal clips, crew snapshots. But then I saw it. A group photo in front of the London Eye. My eyes snapped to her immediately.
Cora.
My jaw clenched.
I paused there longer than I should have, staring, trying to read something in her eyes, trying to decide if she looked happy or was back to pretending. Then I spotted it: a tiny white link in the corner.
That little fuck had tagged her.
One click, and I was in her curated world—the one she showed to hundreds of thousands of strangers. My eyes snagged on her story. Only one post. A re-share, probably from Daisy’s account judging by the blonde in the small profile picture. My fingers didn’t hesitate before pressing the screen.
And that’s when I saw her. In real time.
A flash of her face, caught mid-laugh. Lights strobing in the background and bouncing off her glowing skin.
I was out of my chair in a heartbeat. Out of the room and flying down the stairwell, phone still in my hand. My eyeslocked on the glowing sign behind her, just barely visible above the crowd, but it was enough. More than I’d had all day.
I’m pretty sure I broke every traffic violation in England. But that was the least of my worries. After finding out where she was, I’d found out it was a club in Soho. One you could only get into with a following and name like hers.
Clever, considering I was practically a ghost.
I parked around the corner of the club they were in, blending in as well as I could until I found a blur of people hovering outside behind a set of barriers. I scanned the crowd, her face in mind, panic rushing through me on the off chance that I’d already missed her.
I eyed the bouncers blocking the door and decided that they weren’t worth the hassle. Pleading to let me in was the only way I’d never get inside. But as I waited, scanning, hoping for a glimpse of her, one face in the crowd rang a bell.
Blonde hair. Green eyes. Annoying laugh.
Finn Rhodes.
When the guards weren’t looking, I hopped over the barriers, not making too much commotion before stalking through the crowd and finding Finn. I didn’t bother with introductions; I simply grabbed his shoulder, twisted him around, and stood over him.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
Finn’s eyes widened before that dopey smile took over his face. “Where is who?”
My grip on his shirt grew tighter. “You know God damn well who.”
He let a giggle slip, intoxication dripping from the noise. “I’ll be honest, I don’t even know my own name right now. All I do know is that I want to kiss whoever made the drinking age eighteen over here.”
Frustration bubbled in my mind, burning my fingertips, but as I tugged his shirt, a wall of black appeared in my peripheral.
“I’d get the fuck off him if I were you, mate.”
I turned my head to find Tristan, a cigarette in one hand, his other ripping mine away from Finn and standing in front of him like a guard. “Now, off you fuck.”
“Where is she?” I demanded through gritted teeth.
“Safe,” he nodded. “And that’s all you need to know, so, t’ra.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed both of them out of the way, making headway for the entrance back into the club.
“Wristband?” a pale-skinned bouncer asked as he blocked the way, his ginger hair in curly tendrils framing his face.
I looked him up and down before barging past, like his arm was a long blade of grass. “Doesn't go with my outfit.”
I easily slipped into the hustle of the club, which was packed. And loud.
