Eli smirks. “Let me guess—your beau was a bad boy and didn’t get on a plane home?”
“Maybe,” I say, but the smile gives me away.
“Of course he didn’t,” Drew says. “Come on, lover boy. Shower up. We’ve got a club to crash.”
By the time we pile into the limo the label sent, the Strip’s still blazing—every light, every billboard, every promise of forever burning gold. The adrenaline hasn’t faded; it’s mutated into something sharper, wilder.
Eli’s half hanging out the window shouting lyrics at strangers. Drew’s scrolling through videos fans already posted, laughing at the captions. Miles sits next to me, quiet but smiling that rare smile that means he’s actually happy.
“Feels real now, huh?” he says.
“Yeah,” I admit. “It does.”
“Tomorrow, you realize,” he adds, “everything is going to change.”
“I know.”
“You ready for that?”
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out, half expecting a reminder from the manager, but the name on the screen makes my pulse kick.
Ollie: I got waved in. Apparently yesterday’s win scored me some cred. SO much for not being recognised.
For a second, I just stare at the message, rereading it until it sinks in—while choosing to ignore the fact he’s been recognised so easily.
He’salready inside.
I can picture him—hood up, shoulders tucked, trying to blend into a room built for people who never have to try. That’s him all over. He’s magnetic without meaning to be. He doesn’t chase attention, doesn’t bask in it the way I do under the lights. Off the court, he’d rather disappear than stand out.
I text back before I can think better of it.
Me: Good. Almost there. I’ll find you.
I pocket my phone, trying to act casual while adrenaline starts thudding again, louder than the music still ringing in my ears.
Club Échelon sits in a nondescript building with smoked-glass windows and no sign—just a soft light spilling from the doorway and a line that snakes down the block. The bouncer clocks our passes and waves us past without a word.
Inside, the air hums with low synths and chatter. Velvet shadows. Amber light. It’s the kind of place that looks like money and privacy had a baby.
And somewhere in the middle of it—hidden in plain sight—is Ollie.
A chandelier glows above a bar lined with people who look too famous to be real—and yet no one’s holding a phone. There are no flashes, no cameras. Just the unspoken rule of the place: What happens here, stays untweeted.
“Jesus,” Eli breathes. “This is insane.”
“Behave,” Miles warns.
“I’malwaysbehaved,” Eli says, and immediately proves himself wrong by climbing onto a barstool and ordering shots for anyone within earshot.
Drew chuckles. “He’s gonna end up in someone’s memoir.”
“Probably mine,” I mutter.
We drift toward the back, still laughing, still high on everything—the show, the attention, the future suddenly cracking open in front of us. A couple of women wave from a corner booth; Eli’s already halfway there. Drew and Miles start talking to a guy from another band we met backstage. I take a second to breathe, leaning against the wall, drink in hand.
And then I see him.
Ollie.
