"Imagine worshipping a man who writes love songs while you're out here treating someone's heart like you're choking a rubber chicken."
Jiro went very, very still.
April exhaled. The words were out. The truth was spoken. "I'm not asking you to do anything," April said quickly. "I just wanted someone to know. I don't want him to own the story anymore."
She stopped.
"Thank you for listening."
Chad
HE LOOKED LIKE A REGIONAL MAGICIAN who lives behind a bar.
Two women in elegant gowns leaned toward each other, whispering. They both glanced at Chad's shoulders and tried not to laugh.
"May I see your invitation?" the staff member asked politely.
Chad pulled out his phone with a flourish that said this was going to be easy.
The screen glowed.
And then—pixel by pixel—the digital invitation dissolved into smoke.
The staff member raised an eyebrow.
"And your name, sir?"
"Chad," he said, like that explained everything. "Chad Sterling."
The staff member checked the tablet. Scrolled. Frowned.
"I don't see a Chad. There's a Liam Sterling on the list—"
"That's my brother!" Chad's voice climbed half an octave. "Let me just call him, he'll clear this up—"
He tapped his phone.
FaceTime wouldn't open.
He tried again.
A message popped up on the screen, large enough for the staff member to see.
UNKNOWN:No calls for clowns.
The staff member's expression didn't change, but frustration flickered behind their eyes.
"Sir," they said, firmer now. "I'm going to need you to step back."
Chad edged toward a gap in the barrier.
The staff member shifted smoothly, closing it.
Chad ducked behind a pair of taller guests, attempting to use them as cover.
The staff member circled around. "Sir."
And then—finally—Chad saw her.
