I nearly choke on my own breath.
And Max, that arrogant, beautiful bastard,sees it. He smirks at the sign mid-song, then rakes a hand through his hair andwinksin that direction. The crowd goes ballistic.
I roll my eyes. Hard. But my stomach still flips.
Because I get it.
I really do.
He’s magnetic. Commanding. A walking, singing, sweating fantasy.
And for a second—a small, sharp second—I feel that stab of doubt.
That whisper of insecurity.
All these fans want a piece of him. All these people screaming his name, dying for his attention. And me? I’m just the bookish girl in the wings. The nerd who ended up backstage because she tripped into the right man at the wrong masquerade.
But then, mid-verse, Max looks over his shoulder.
Not at the crowd. Not at the sign-wavers.
Atme.
His eyes find mine like a magnet. His mouth curves—not the stage smile, not the cocky smirk. Somethingreal. Soft. Just for me.
And suddenly, it doesn’t matter how many people are out there screaming for him.
Because he’s singing for me.
My heart trips. My knees nearly go out.
It’s like watching someone burn down a city and knowing the fire lovesyoubest.
The set roars on. People scream lyrics I only just memorized. They cry, they throw things onstage, they chanthis nameover and over like it’s a spell.
And through it all—I watch him.
My Max. Their Max.
Somehow both.
When it’s over, when the lights finally dim and the crowd is still screaming and the band is dripping in sweat and adrenaline, I wait near the back hallway for him. My pulse is still racing. My hands won’t stop shaking.
And when he finally appears, wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt, his eyes find me in an instant.
“Hey,” he says, pulling me into his arms.
I bury my face in his neck and nod. “You were incredible.”
His arms tighten. “I kept looking for you.”
Now backstage is a blur of noise and neon—crew shouting, cables getting reeled in, instruments disappearing into cases. The band’s still high on adrenaline, sweaty and smiling, throwing water bottles and inside jokes. Max disappears for a minute to talk to someone from the label, and I hover near the edge of the green room, trying to stay out of the way.
That’s when I see them.
Three women—model-perfect, glitter-smudged, wearing barely enough to qualify for backstage access—slip past the barricade likethey’ve done this before. One of them walks straight up to Max, places a hand on his chest like it’shers, and leans in close.
I don’t hear what she says. I don’tneedto.
