Hope’s here. Choosing me.
Maybe this is destiny.
Quiet, certain, and impossible to walk away from.
Epilogue - Two Years Later
Mynameispostedon the door.
HOPE KRISTIANSEN.
I run my fingers over the letters once, grounding myself before I go inside. The hallway buzzes with movement. Heels striking polished floors. Voices layered over each other. Someone calls out cues into a headset. Another person rushes past with a clipboard pressed to their hip.
Everything moves fast in Los Angeles.
The rotating dressing room is beautifully appointed and well organized. My wardrobe rack lines one wall, though my stage outfit already hangs front and center, untouched from when it was steamed earlier.
Makeup spreads across the counter in controlled chaos. A ring of lights frames the mirror, casting a surreal glow over everything.
I close the door behind me and take a breath.
Tonight isn’t a stepping stone. It’s the biggest night of my life.
Staring at my reflection, I realize the woman looking back at me carries pieces of every version I’ve been.
The girl who busked between flower vendors and fishmongers, hoping someone would stay long enough to hear a full song. A version of me who lay broken on cold pavement, bargaining against help because she couldn’t afford a doctor. The one who rebuilt herself in a stranger’s apartment, learning how to stand on her own without leaning too hard.
The woman I am now, deeply in love and about to have an experience I never dared dream about.
All of them are here.
Humble. Stronger.
Grateful.
My stylist helps me into the dress, which was custom made for me. Deep emerald, tucked in through the waist, falling clean along my legs with a slit revealing my thigh only when I move.
The fabric catches light without fighting for it. My shoulders are bare and my dark hair falls in loose waves over one side, pinned just enough to stay out of my face without looking structured. Makeup sits somewhere between polished and lived-in, smoky around the eyes, natural everywhere else.
I’m not trying to belong here.
My heart still pounds. Not from fear. From the ginormity of this moment.
This is the fucking Grammys and I’m taking the stage in moments. I’m up for Best New Artist, and everyone thinks I have a shot to win.
I close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out.
A sharp, controlled knock raps on the door.
“Come in,” I croak, coughing to clear my throat.
The door opens and an usher steps in, headset in place. “Ms. Kristiansen, we have someone—”
He steps aside and Alek walks in.
Everything inside me stills. I nearly burst into tears.
“What are you doing here? I thought you had to be in Amsterdam.” The words leave before I can shape them.
