(FOUR MONTHS AGO)
The bass from the arena was still vibrating in Chris's chest, a dull, physical echo of Elara's sold-out crowd. It was the third night of her world tour, and she had absolutely killed it. The roar of thousands of people screaming her name was a sound that usually made Chris smile—not because he cared about her music, but because every scream represented another digit added to his bank account.
She had called him the second she stepped off stage, her voice breathless, frantic, and buzzing with pure adrenaline. Over the static of the line, she had begged him to come to the backstage lounge to help her handle the VIP afterparty.
He had promised he was on his way.
He had lied.
