Miami in February hits a man like a sucker punch of paradise after weeks of battling New York’s frozen hellscape. The air wraps around you—thick, damp, and sticky, while your nostrils fill with saltwater, coconut sunscreen, and the unmistakable musk of old-money portfolios mingling with new-money Lamborghinis. I’m surrounded by the kind of wealth that makes even millionaires feel insecure.
The private resort where we’re staying looks like something out of a Bond villain’s real estate portfolio. A sprawling Mediterranean-style compound perched on the edge of Biscayne Bay, all terracotta roofs and white stucco walls and infinity pools that seem to spill directly into the ocean. Palm trees line the crushed-shell driveway like soldiers on watch duty. Exotic plants explode in violent shades of pink and purple over every available surface. The main house has seven bedrooms, a home theater, a wine cellar, and a kitchen bigger than my entire Brooklyn apartment.
I’m staying in the guesthouse, which is its own kind of absurd. Two bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows overlookingthe bay, a bathroom with a rainfall shower and heated floors. Black Cat has claimed the entire king-sized bed as his personal territory and regards me with open contempt whenever I try to share it.
Three days into our Miami stay, and I’ve barely seen Charlie.
Not for lack of proximity—we’re literally on the same property. But she’s been swallowed whole by tour prep: rehearsals from dawn until dinner, vocal coaching, costume fittings, production meetings, the endless machinery of putting on a show for tens of thousands of people. My job, such as it is, has consisted primarily of escorting her from car to door and back again. Open the door. Walk beside her. Look intimidating. Repeat.
It’s not exactly challenging work.
Whatischallenging is watching Charlie in her element and feeling like I’m observing a creature from another planet. Even my family’s old money—the country club memberships, the summer homes in the Hamptons, the casual assumption that doors would always open for us—feels quaint compared to this. The Wilkes fortune, at its peak, might have bought us a nice vacation here. Charlie’s world operates on a scale I can’t quite comprehend. Private jets—plural. Compounds with names. Staff who exist solely to anticipate needs you didn’t know you had.
I keep catching myself doing the math. The art on the walls. The cars in the garage. The casual way Sage ordered a helicopter to avoid Miami traffic yesterday. Each calculation is a reminder: even my past life, the one that ended when my father’s empire crumbled, would never have been enough to impress a girl like Charlie Riley.
Not that I’m trying to impress her. I’m her employee. Her fake bodyguard. A prop in the elaborate theater production that is celebrity damage control.
But still. A man notices things. Especially when he’s not feeling man enough.
I’m stretched out on a lounger by the guesthouse pool, pretending to read a book with Black Cat curled at me feet, obviously tanning, when my mind drifts back to yesterday’s rehearsal. I’d been stationed in the back of the rented gym space, doing my best impression of a piece of furniture, when I overheard two of the backup dancers talking during a water break.
“Hopeless,” the guy with arms like tree trunks muttered. “Girl looked like a fish flopping on a dock.”
Another dancer with a ponytail sharp as a dagger snickered. “I know. Like, how do you sell out arenas when you move like that?”
“Because nobody’s paying attention to the dancing, babe. They’re paying attention to the face and the voice and the sob story.”
“Still. Embarrassing. I’d be mortified if that was me up there.”
They noticed me watching and immediately clammed up, suddenly fascinated by their water bottles. I said nothing. What would I say? They weren’t wrong about the dancing. Charlie’s movements were technically correct but stiff, mechanical, like she was solving a math problem instead of feeling the music.
But hearing them talk about her like she wasn’t a real person, like she was just a product to be critiqued…it made something hot and protective flare in my chest.
She’s trying so hard. Can’t they see that? Would they hold themselves to the standards they hold her to?
I toss the book aside. I haven’t absorbed a single word anyway. My gaze turns toward the main house; my body follows suit when I can no longer ignore the rumble in my stomach.
I see Charlie, in thick sweats, dancing in the kitchen, her back turned. She’s clueless that she has company. Her headphones are in, so she doesn’t hear me slip in through the glass sliding doors. I move quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever creative process might be happening. I hear the music through her headphones—some bouncy pop track with a driving beat. She turns around but her eyes are closed, like she’s trying to ignore the gift of sight to heighten her other senses. She’s mouthing the lyrics, her body attempting the choreography she’s been drilling all day.
She looksdetermined. Focused. Also, to be honest, a little bit like a baby giraffe learning to walk.
Her arms hit the marks a half beat late. Her hips don’t quite commit to the movements. There’s a shimmy that turns into more of a shudder. But God, she’s trying. Every ounce of her concentration is poured into making her body cooperate, into forcing grace where it doesn’t come naturally.
I lean against the doorframe and watch in silence. The song builds to a climax. Charlie attempts some kind of spin-to-freeze combination that ends with her stumbling slightly and catching herself on the island. The music fades. She stands there for a moment, breathing hard, staring at her own reflection in the window.
Then she slams her fist against the marble countertop.
“Fuck!”
She rips out her AirPods, spinning around, and freezes when she sees me.
I start clapping. Slowly. Deliberately. When she just stares at me, I add an earnest thumbs-up.
“Don’t even. It sucks,” she says flatly.
“It doesn’t?—”
“I suck. I’m a terrible dancer. Everyone knows it. The backup dancers hate me.”
