Chapter Three
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Aria
The crowd roar still echoed in her ears as Aria slipped backstage — the fans screaming her name in waves that crashed against the Marina Bay skyline, the bass still vibrating through her bones like a second pulse, the lights so bright they’d left persistent spots dancing behind her eyelids even in the dim corridor.
She’d killed it.
The sequined bodysuit — black, cut high on the hips, glittering like shattered glass under the stage floods — had moved with her like a second skin, every roll of her hips, every deliberate grind, every drop low and rise drawing fresh screams from the audience.
Thigh-high boots had clicked across the polished stage as she commanded the space, voice soaring clear and powerful over the humid night air, cutting through the distant hum of the city below.
The crowd had lost their minds — phones aloft, bodies swaying, that electric moment when the music took over completely and the heartbreak didn’t exist, even for a second.
But now the high was fading fast, the adrenaline draining away like water through fingers, leaving her hollowed out and raw.
She pushed into her private dressing room, the heavy door clicking shut behind her with a finality that muffled the distant cheers to a dull throb.
The sequins caught the soft vanity lights as she sank onto the padded stool, peeling off the boots one by one, toes flexing in relief against the cool floor.
Sweat clung to her skin — Singapore’s relentless humidity plus the furnace of stage lights had left her glistening, the bodysuit sticking uncomfortably in places.
She reached for her phone on the vanity, screen lighting up her face in the mirror.
No new messages.
She opened the thread with Min-Jae anyway, scrolling up through the last few weeks of sparse texts — good mornings that had grown shorter, good nights that had stopped coming at all.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Hey. Concert went well tonight. Crowd was insane. Wish you’d been here.
She stared at the words, chest tightening, then deleted them one by one.
Typed again.
Concert was good. Miss you.
She hit send before she could overthink it, heart thudding as the message whooshed away.
No dots. No reply. Just the gray “Delivered” that mocked her.
She stared at the screen until it blurred, tears pricking hot at the corners of her eyes.
They’d had a ritual. Every show, no matter where in the world — Tokyo, LA, Paris — he’d send a video before she went on.
Thirty seconds of him grinning into the camera, voice low and teasing, that familiar lilt in his accent: “Kill it tonight, baby. You’re gonna own that stage.
Love you.” She’d watch it in the wings, earbuds in, heart steadying as the nerves melted away, then step out and burn the place down.
Tonight, the silence had felt wrong. Like missing a heartbeat. Like the world had tilted just enough to throw her off balance.
A soft knock at the door. Before she could answer, her assistant, Lena, poked her head in, dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, sharp eyes scanning Aria’s face with the practiced concern of someone who’d seen her through too many late nights and emotional crashes.
Lena was Korean American through and through—born and raised in LA’s Koreatown, parents who’d immigrated in the '90s, fluent in both Korean and English with that effortless code-switching that came from growing up straddling two worlds. In so many ways, her life had mirrored Aria’s own upbringing: the quiet tension of family expectations that crossed oceans, the constant navigation between Korean values at home and American freedom outside, the unspoken pressure to honour both without ever fully belonging to either.
She understood the weight of it instinctively—no explanations needed.
She’d started as an intern fetching coffees and managing schedules during Aria’s early debut days, but she’d quickly become indispensable: the one who knew exactly when to push, when to pull back, and when to just sit quietly while Aria cried in a hotel bathroom.
Lena carried the dry wit of someone who’d watched K-pop trainee culture from the sidelines and the fierce loyalty of family.
She got it—the family expectations, the cultural pressure to keep face, the isolation of fame—all without needing explanations.
“Amazing show. You were electric out there — seriously, the energy was insane,” Lena said, stepping fully inside, already holding the emerald green dress on a padded hanger, the silk catching the light like deep water.
She was in her usual post-show uniform: black tailored pants, crisp white blouse, low heels that let her move fast through crowds.
“But you’ve got to change. Marina Bay Sands party — top floor.
Robert’s orders. International media’s there, lots of crossover potential with the F1 crowd.
You need to be seen, network a little. Robert was very clear — this is your chance to expand into new markets.
You’re hot right now. We don’t waste that. ”
Aria exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Can I skip? Just once?”
Lena gave her a sympathetic look, crouching slightly to meet Aria’s eyes. “Not tonight, unnie. I know you’re wrecked — you’ve been off all day, quieter than usual. Jet lag hitting harder than normal? Or is it the heat? You look like you’re carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”
Aria forced a small smile, not quite meeting Lena’s gaze. She hadn’t told her yet. The words were still lodged in her throat, too raw to say out loud, even to Lena. Min-Jae’s text felt like a fresh wound she wasn’t ready to show anyone. Not even the person who knew her better than almost anyone.
“Just tired,” she said quietly. “Long flight, long day. The usual.”
Lena studied her for a second longer, clearly not fully convinced, but she didn’t push. That was one of the things Aria loved about her—she knew when to wait.
“Okay. But if it’s more than that, you know I’m here, right? No pressure.”
Aria nodded, grateful for the out. “I know. Thanks.”
Lena squeezed her shoulder gently. “Shower’s hot. I’ll lay out the dress. You’ve got this. And after the party, we’ll raid the minibar, put on some trashy drama, and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a few hours. Maybe order ramyeon from room service if you want real comfort food.”
Aria managed a small, tired laugh—Lena always knew how to ground her. “You always know the right bribe.”
“Years of practice. And growing up with a mom who fixed everything with jjajangmyeon.” Lena hung the dress on the rack and stepped back. “Go shower. You’ve earned a minute to breathe.”
Aria pushed up from the stool and headed for the small, attached bathroom.
She showered quickly — scalding water washing away the sweat, the stickiness of Singapore, the lingering ache she couldn’t quite name out loud yet.
She lightly reapplied makeup — smoky eyes to hide the redness, nude lip for effortless glow — and stepped into the emerald dress.
It hugged her like a second skin, low-cut neckline dipping just enough to turn heads, silk clinging to her curves and pooling elegantly at her feet.
The colour brought out the warm brown of her eyes, made her skin glow against the soft lighting.
She looked in the full-length mirror.
She looked good. Polished. Untouchable.
She felt hollow.
Lena handed her a small clutch — phone, lip gloss, key card — and studied her for a beat. “You okay? Really?”
Aria met her eyes in the mirror. “Not really. But I’ll fake it till the elevator doors close.”
“That’s my girl.” Lena linked arms with her for a second, a quick, grounding squeeze. “Let’s get this over with.”
They stepped out together, Lena’s presence a steady anchor as they navigated the backstage corridors toward the waiting car.
◆◆◆
Jax
The Marina Bay Sands rooftop was glittering — glass railings framing the infinity pool that seemed to spill straight into the city lights, champagne flowing in endless flutes, music pulsing low under the hum of conversation and laughter.
The air was thick with expensive cologne, tropical humidity, and the faint buzz of post-race adrenaline.
Jax leaned against the bar, beer in hand, race suit long swapped for a black button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves and linen pants that felt worlds better than fireproof layers.
Eighth place tonight. Not bad — a handful of points, better than most of his season so far, a clean drive with no mistakes — but still not enough.
Not when Lucas had taken the win again, flawless as always, crossing the line like it was inevitable.
Lucas stood a few feet away, Mia tucked against his side in a silver halter-neck dress that clung to her curves, backless, long dark wavy hair spilling down her spine like liquid night.
Lucas looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing — eyes soft, hand resting protectively at her lower back.
He leaned down, kissed her temple — soft, private — and she smiled up at him, eyes bright with that quiet happiness they’d fought so hard for.
Jax watched them for a second, a quiet warmth settling in his chest despite the frustration gnawing at him.
He was happy for them. Really.
Lucas had fought like hell to get here — the title, the girl, the peace after years of chaos.
Mia had been part of it from the start — sharp, steady, the kind of person who made you better just by being around.
Jax had watched their story unfold: the initial tension, the heartbreak, the way they’d finally found each other again amid the wreckage.
They deserved this — the easy touches, the shared glances, the way the world seemed to quiet when they were together.
Mia caught his eye and grinned, breaking the moment. “Eighth, huh? Not bad, Callaghan. You stayed out of the walls — progress.”