Epilogue
This Christmas Eve is different. Not only because I’m spending this morning at a dress rehearsal in LA instead of prepping food and gifts in Paradise, but also because I’ll be spending the night celebrating with Rhys and my other celebrity clients after Winter Lights Live.
Technically, this Christmas Eve is about work, even though I’ll be with the man I love and his parents.
I’m not sad about it, even though I really miss my family. I wanted this career—this life—and I love it. But I also love Christmas in Paradise.
Rhys catches my eye from center stage as he straps on his guitar to practice “Fa-La La-La Land”—his version.
His smile chases away a bit of the homesickness loitering at the edge of my heart.
There’s no way to banish the feeling for good.
I wouldn’t want to if there were. The only way not to be homesick is to love Paradise and the people there less. That’s not possible.
One thing tugs especially hard at my heart: What I’m going to miss the most tonight is not getting a letter from Dad this year.
I don’t regret asking Santa for what I did instead of a letter, but change is hard.
I know Dad didn’t write all those letters, yet they’ve made me feel like I know him and that he knows and loves me.
It’s weird to be sad about what I’m letting go at the same time I’m happy that I got what I wanted, which is the same thing Rhys wanted: to find songs that make him and his fans happy.
And obviously, I didn’t literally have to trade letters from Dad for the outcome that we got.
The symbolism is what counts. In a sense, I’ve had to leave behind the safety and comfort of Paradise to be who I’m meant to be and do what I’m meant to do.
Rhys starts in on the first notes of “Fa-La” with an easiness in his body that was missing the first time I met him. People love his new songs, but after the post about him rescuing people in Paradise, people love him, too.
His contract with VibeHouse still has a couple more years on it, but the success of “December Dreams” and Rhys’s version of “Fa-La La-La Land” has opened Danny’s eyes to two things:
One: Rhys doesn’t need him—or VibeHouse—to release music and have it find success.
Two: Rhys is not anyone’s puppet. If Danny wants to keep Rhys as a client, he has to treat him as a partner. Not someone to order around.
These are good things. And as I watch from backstage while Rhys rehearses the songs one more time before Winter Lights Live, I’m so happy for him. For us.
And yet, there’s a part of me that will always be the girl from Paradise. I never want to forget that.
I stand just within Rhys’s line of sight. He sees me during the first few notes of “December Dreams” and smiles, reminding me that the song is still mine, even if I’m sharing it with millions now.
The peace he feels while performing is clear in the way the notes and words come out of him with none of the tension that used to be there.
I didn’t notice the dissonance the first time he played it for me.
But when I go back and listen to the version he recorded in his home studio, I can hear the tug of more going on.
Of wanting this to be the music he’s known for while fearing the rejection from people he thought once loved him.
The clashing notes in that version. The trembling in his voice.
It was subtle. Just enough tension for listeners to hear what bittersweet means—the choice between two good things.
The ache to let go of the old love in order to embrace the new.
The kind that helps you grow. The kind that dares you to embrace change, no matter how much it scares you.
When Rhys finishes the song, he comes offstage quickly so the crew can turn over the set for the next performer. Rhys is a mid-liner—one of VibeHouse’s top ten stars. Danny wishes now he had pushed for Rhys to headline. But Rhys is grateful not to have that kind of pressure.
“Ready for tonight, La-La?” he asks when he folds me in his arms.
He’s hot and sticky from being under the lights, but he still smells good. Not a wood-fired mountain man—which is my favorite—but strong and confident, like the ocean at high tide.
“Honestly? I’m nervous.” I wrap my arm around his waist as we walk through the venue’s halls to his dressing room.
“You? Nervous? Didn’t think that was possible.” He flexes his arm draped around my neck to let me know he’s teasing. “It’s just networking and schmoozing now. You don’t have to win anyone over. They’ve already seen what you’ve done for my career. They know you’ll do the same for theirs.”
VibeHouse has given me a roster of five celebrities to manage. With Rhys and Georgia already on my client list, plus working with Piper to launch her line and consulting with Archie about marketing for Bombora, I’ve already had to hire other strategists to work at Stella Sparks Social Strategy.
If my financial analyst is right, I’ll make a million dollars in the next year. But I don’t have any plans to lose it. My fourteen-year-old self was okay with that idea. Twenty-four-year-old me is not.
Rhys’s dressing room is stocked with food, a comfy couch, and a giant TV, so we have nothing to do except eat and relax for the next few hours before the show starts. At least Rhys doesn’t. I have half a dozen posts to put up on his socials—and some for my other clients too.
This fantasy I worked for? It’s real now.
When it’s finally time for Rhys to perform, he walks onstage with no vest, no flashy outfit, just jeans and a simple button-down shirt. The lights flash as the crowd goes wild, but there’s no over-the-top persona. Just Rhys. Just his music. And that’s exactly what people want.
He starts with “December Dreams,” like he planned. It’s the perfect opener—emotional and stripped down, both literally and musically. The kind of song that doesn’t need any introduction. It speaks for itself.
The new “Fa-La La-La Land” follows. The crowd goes wild and sings along at the chorus. Not like they would with the more familiar version, but this one is on its way to becoming just as big of a hit.
But then, to my surprise, instead of exiting the stage, Rhys steps up to the mic again.
“I’m chuffed you like that new version,” he says. “A bit proud of it myself, but I reckoned you might like to hear the original. I thought I didn’t want to sing it again, but there’s a girl by the name of Stella who’s made me think differently about it.”
A spotlight finds me near the edge of the stage, and I realize he’s planned this all along.
“She’s the one who helped me find my way back to music,” Rhys says. “And she once told me she dreamed of crowd surfing. So let’s make that happen.”
I laugh in disbelief, but the crowd catches on quickly. Arms lift. Voices cheer. People chant, “Stella! Stella!”
I walk on stage in front of tens of thousands of people, which in itself is terrifying, but when I look down to the front row and the people waiting to catch me, I’m petrified.
Crowd-surfing looks way scarier in real life than it ever did in my daydreams. But it’s on my list, and Rhys is determined I’m going to cross everything off it, so I do what I did when he taught me to swim.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and let them lift me up.
They carry me across the top of the crowd—gently, carefully—then pass me back again until I reach the front, where Rhys grabs my hands and helps me the rest of the way onto the stage.
He kisses me in front of the entire audience. We gave up trying to keep our relationship a secret weeks ago. It was too much work trying to hide how we felt in public.
“Stella Sparks Social Strategy,” he says into the mic. “Changing lives. One rock star at a time.”
The crowd cheers.
Rhys turns, waves at the crowd, and guides me off stage. The lights go down, and the crew works quickly to un-mic Rhys, then he grabs my hand. “We’ve gotta go,” he says.
He takes off at a quick jog, pulling me with him.
“Wait, what? Where are we going?”
“You’re not missing Christmas in Paradise. And you’re definitely not missing your letter.”
“But we’ve got the party tonight, and anyway, I’m not getting a letter this year,.”
Rhys comes to a sudden stop and faces me. “What do you mean, you’re not getting a letter? ‘Course you are.”
Slowly, I shake my head, a thousand conflicting emotions at war in my chest. “Not this year. That’s not what I asked Santa for…and I already got what I did ask for.”
The surprise that fills Rhys’s face quickly morphs to suspicion, and he steps closer. “And what was that?”
I offer him a smile and a shrug. “For you to be as happy with your music as your fans are.”
His whole body softens, like he’s finally shedding the years of pretending. “You gave up your letter for me?”
I nod. “That’s what love is, right? Being willing to sacrifice?” I step into his arms and lift my eyes to his. “There will be other Christmases in Paradise. Tonight we celebrate your performance.”
His hands tighten around my waist as I rise on my toes to kiss him, but instead of the long, passionate thank you kiss I’m expecting, he pulls away only seconds after our lips touch.
“Yeah, nah. There will always be a party to go to, but Christmas only comes once a year.” He grabs my hand and takes off at a quick jog again.
Despite my arguments, the tug of home quickens my pace, and we break into run.
Derek is waiting for us outside in Rhys’s SUV. We stop briefly at home for Rhys to shower, change, and grab a bag, and I do the same. When he ushers me back into the car, Jack and Millie are waiting for us.
“You’re coming too?” I ask, thrilled to see them.
“Your mum invited us. Hope that’s okay,” Millie says, grinning wide, and I’m so stunned I can’t even speak.
Then we’re off.