He was grumpy, wedged between Riff and Ghost for the forty-five-minute drive from Bodhi’s place in Los Feliz to West Hollywood. It should’ve taken half an hour, but we’d left late and hit traffic, which Thump had been complaining about since.
It’d been three months since I’d moved to LA permanently, and it still felt like a different universe compared to London. Not just because it was hotter, but because everything was so spread out. There was public transport, technically, but driving ruled the city. Not that I ever did. I was a passenger princess for life, especially after the whole bike debacle in Amsterdam last year.
After I left rehab, Bodhi stayed in London for another two months, long enough to make sure I was steady again. That I had routines and support. A life that didn’t revolve around him. While he was there, the band finally laid everything out for Clara about the label, their plans, their demands. Since she and Mick were together by then, she agreed to stay on as manager, and as a group they mapped out how to approach the label without burning bridges.
In the meantime, Bodhi and I lived on video calls, voice notes, and daily messages. He flew to London when he could, and I flew to LA when I felt strong enough to travel again. It wasn’t easy at first, but it worked. More importantly, it gave me space to learn how to stand on my own. To stay sober without leaning on Bodhi as a crutch.
It was during a spring visit that he finally asked if I’d consider moving to LA for good.
I hadn’t spoken to my family since before my first stint in rehab, and London didn’t hold much for me anymore beyond a roommate and memories I’d already outgrown. Plus, I was tired of counting down days between visits, of loving him in increments measured by departure boards.
But as much as part of me had wanted to dive into the move with both feet, I’d hesitated. I’d forced myself to slow down and be responsible. To really consider whether it was the right decision at this point in my life. I was only six months sober at the time, and I didn’t want the stress of uprooting everything to be the thing that sent me spiralling backwards.
Bodhi had been a godsend through it all. He never pushed, never made it feel like a test I could fail. Reassured me there was no expiry date on his offer. He just wanted me to know it existed.
It wasn’t until I flew back to London, knowing I wouldn’t see him for at least a month, that the answer finally settled in my chest. The quiet did it. The absence. And I realised I wasn’t scared of moving. I was scared of not choosing the life I actually wanted.
So I said yes.
Clara, organisational queen that she was, took charge immediately. A few months later, after a tearful goodbye with Gloria, I boarded a plane bound for LA. Noctis officially hired me as their long-term makeup artist, which helped secure my visa, and once I was settled, I started taking freelance jobs with Sasha again. It felt good to reconnect with her, to meet her new family, and to have someone in my life who wasn’t connected to the band. Or at least, not anymore.
As for the label, things hadn’t gone exactly how the boys had hoped.
Despite Noctis being their biggest earner, the label refused their demands. So the band walked. They didn’t renew thecontract, and honestly, it did them all a world of good. For the first time in years, they had space. Time to travel for pleasure instead of obligation. Time to fall back in love with music. Riff built a recording studio in one of the spare rooms of his Griffith Park apartment and songs started pouring out of them again. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
When the dust settled, offers came flooding in. Labels scrambling to snatch them up now that they were free agents. In the end, they chose a smaller, newer label. One focused on alternative sounds and creative freedom. One that would trust them. With the recognition Noctis already had, they were essentially handed the reins. Full creative control, self-production if they wanted it, tours planned from the ground up.
They finally got to be Noctis on their own terms.
And I’d never seen Bodhi so at ease talking about music.
Tonight was the launch of their new album. Ghostlight Records was hosting the release party, complete with a countdown to midnight. There were no singles or leaks. Everything was kept under lock and key. Even I hadn’t heard a single track, and the first song would be played live tonight.
The van pulled up outside Ghostlight’s building in West Hollywood. A red carpet stretched from the curb to the entrance, flanked by a wall of flashing cameras and screaming fans. Barriers strained under the pressure as security did their best to hold the crowd back. Even through the glass, the energy was electric.
“Everyone ready?” Clara called from the front.
A chorus of affirmations answered her.
The door slid open, and the noise hit us full force. Mick and Clara stepped out first, followed by Riff, Thump, and Ghost. Then Bodhi climbed out and turned back, offering me his hand. Itook it without hesitation, lacing my fingers through his, and let him lead me forward.
It had been strange at first, seeing photos of myself posted online. On social media and in magazines. But when your boyfriend was as famous as mine was, you got used to seeing yourself splashed across the internet pretty quickly.
My own following had exploded overnight, and I learned early on not to read the comments. The first time I saw a homophobic asshole spewing shit about Bodhi and me under one of my posts, I’d had a full-blown panic attack. I was convinced I was going to ruin his image, his career, and everything he’d worked for.
But because Bodhi was made entirely of green flags, he’d held me while I cried and told me he didn’t care. That other people’s opinions didn’t matter. That he loved me, and that was enough.
In the end, I let Clara take over my social media, just like she did for the rest of the band. One upside of such a massive following was how good it was for my work. My page became less about me and more about my art. There were far more photos of Bodhi and the boys done up for concerts, award shows, and press events than there were selfies of my own face.
Somehow, Iggy Preston had become a recognisable name in the makeup sphere.
Was it nepotism? Probably. But I never leaned into it. I was more than happy working with the boys and with Sasha, building something that still felt like mine.
“Here come the stars of the night!”
Jay, the owner of Ghostlight and genuinely one of the nicest men I’d ever met, approached us with open arms. He pulled each of the boys into a hug, clapping shoulders and slapping backs like a proud uncle. He was in his early sixties and hadstarted the label after his own band, a metal group that had dominated the eighties and nineties, officially retired.
It had taken Ghostlight a while to find its footing. LA was oversaturated with talent and ambition. But once Noctis joined their roster, other artists followed. Artists who wanted freedom. Control over their own sound instead of being boxed into something marketable.
