35. Madness
Madness
The hotel suite pulses with noise—curling irons hissing, cameras flashing, someone shouting, “Where’s the damn lash glue?
” from the bathroom. Every surface is cluttered: dresses, makeup trays, bottles of champagne, garment bags ripped open like crime scenes.
I sit on a stool near the window while Inga pins the last of my hair into place, her hands moving fast and efficient, like a surgeon.
“Don’t move,” Inga mutters around a bobby pin clenched between her teeth. “I want your hair to hold through an earthquake.”
Kylie perches on the edge of the couch with a laptop balanced on her knees, tapping with one hand and swirling a green juice with the other.
“Odds are still in your favor,” she says, without looking up.
“Best New Artist is leaning sixty-forty. Song of the Year’s tighter—might be a toss-up.
But your stream numbers for “Sparks” just overtook Ava Edwards’s single this morning. Big swing.”
Mark gives her a look. “She doesn’t need Vegas stats right now.”
“I like stats,” I say, though I’m not sure it’s true. I like being distracted. My phone buzzes again in my lap. Still nothing from Broderick.
His silence twists like a knife in my side.
Rio twirls from the mirror, still fussing with the hem of my gown like it might shift dimensions if he lets go. “I’m gonna cry. You look like a fucking constellation.”
I smile like I’m supposed to.
Riley pops a chocolate-covered almond into her mouth, eyebrows raised knowingly at me in the mirror. “Babe.”
“I know,” I say, too fast.
She saunters over, barefoot, robe swishing. “This is your night. Your moment. If you’re about to spiral over—”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“Sure. That’s why you’ve checked your phone every thirty seconds like he’s gonna beam himself here through Wi-Fi.”
I look away. Inga grunts and yanks my head back into position. “Stop moving.”
“Put him in a box,” Riley says, crouching in front of me, her tone quieter now.
“You can open it tomorrow. Hell, I’ll help you unpack it with tequila and post-award pancakes.
But tonight? You’re the show. The main character.
You’ve got a performance, two nominations, and eyeliner sharp enough to start a revolution.
So whatever Broderick’s doing or not doing—let it go. ”
I nod.
“You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”
Mark clears his throat. “Five minutes until car call.”
Inga spins me toward the mirror. My breath catches.
The girl staring back doesn’t look like someone waiting.
Rio’s poured me into a black gown with capped sleeves and a corset tight enough to launch my chest like artillery. Crystals scatter across the bodice like the night sky on me. My hair falls in soft glossy Hollywood curls. The borrowed diamonds on my ears catch the light every time I breathe.
And for the first time—I see her.
The person I want to be.
The woman I’m trying to become.
Riley’s right. This is my night. I clawed my way back to this moment.
Tonight, I reclaim it.
I slide my phone into my purse.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I say, more determined than ever.
The limo door opens, and the flashes hit like static. Each step sinks into the carpet, velvet ropes pressing the crowd in close, like I’m walking through a furnace of light and noise.
“Straight ahead, Elena! Gorgeous—right here!”
“Turn to your left!”
“Who are you wearing tonight?”
Rio hisses from behind me as he adjusts the train. “Shoulders back. Chin down. Don’t lock your knees. You pass out on me, and I’m dying with you.”
Riley stands a few feet off to the side, tucked just behind Mark, Kylie, and the rest of the team, phone in hand, already filming. She gives me a thumbs-up, mouthing, Bitch, you’re killing it.
I turn slightly, let the cameras eat it up. My dress shimmers like a thousand jewels under the strobes. Heat climbs up my neck, but it isn’t nerves—it’s adrenaline. All of it. The noise. The chaos. The ache in my ribs.
A carpet handler guides me toward a small platform where a reporter waits, mic poised. I paste the smile back on.
“Elena Montgomery! Congratulations on the nominations tonight—and the performance. How are you feeling?”
“Like I might float away,” I say lightly. “But in a good way. It’s wild. I still can’t believe I’m here.”
She laughs, nodding. “Well, you look incredible. The internet’s already obsessed. And the fans want to know—there’s been a lot of speculation about your love life lately. Can you confirm if there’s someone special cheering you on tonight?”
The box rattles, knocking around like something trapped.
I clear my throat and tilt my head. “Aww, you know I don’t kiss and tell,” I say playfully. “But tonight’s about the music.”
The reporter grins, letting me off the hook. “So—what’s next for you?”
“We’re shooting the music video for “Touch” in a couple of weeks,” I say, angling slightly toward the camera beside her. “It’s a fan-favorite, so this one’s for them. Thank you for sticking with me.”
She nods. “We can’t wait to see it. Best of luck tonight—you’re a star.”
I thank her and step down from the platform just as Kylie catches my arm and guides me toward the next camera line.
They sweep me off the carpet before I can even blink. One minute I’m waving at fans; the next I’m in a freight elevator, Rio unzipping my gown like he’s defusing a bomb.
“Don’t smudge the makeup,” Inga warns, already blotting my forehead, lipstick brush in hand.
“Okay, breathe,” Rio mutters. “This next one’s going to make people feel things. I need your hips loose and your eyes intense. Think fire. Think siren. Think—”
“Lava,” I say.
Because that’s exactly what the dress looks like.
Red at the top, bleeding into orange and then gold at the hem. Beads and sequins stitched in motion. Like someone dipped me in liquid flame and told me to ‘dance, monkey’. My hair is pulled into a slick ponytail, lips blood-red, skin glassy under the lights.
Mark stands near the monitors, arms crossed, nodding. “You’ve got four minutes. Then you’re up.”
I roll my shoulders back. Mic pack clipped. Earpiece checked.
Then the lights dim.
And I step out.
I don’t remember singing the first half of “Sparks”.
The lights blind everything. I move on instinct—every beat etched into my bones, every lyric a piece of my soul. My voice hits the last note, and I hold it just long enough to hear the crowd cheer before it breaks and falls into applause, thunder cracking open the roof.
Then I’m whisked off backstage again—breathless and sweating, the dress clinging to me.
“Get her water,” Kylie snaps. “Not champagne. Water.”
There’s no time to sit, or chat or do much else before I’m ripped out of my performance number and shoved into another dress—pink, with geometric cutouts cascading down my body.
I sink back into my seat with Riley beside me as the next few categories pass in a blur. I hear Ava’s name before I register that mine hasn’t been called.
Song of the Year: Ava Edwards, “Crumble.”
I shoot to my feet, already clapping. Ava looks stunned, mascara running as she hugs her producer and stumbles toward the stage. She waves at me as she passes, and I blow her a kiss.
She deserves it. That song gutted me the first time I heard it. I couldn’t be happier for her.
Then—
Best New Artist.
The presenters start going through the list of nominees, each name stretching out like a heartbeat. My name lands heavier than the rest. The camera cuts to me, my face blown up on the jumbotron, and in that moment, all I can think about is how much I wish my mom were here. How, win or lose—
“And the Grammy goes to…”
I don’t hear the name. Only Riley’s scream beside me.
“Elena. Elena—that’s you!”
Time stills.
Riley grabs my shoulders, shaking me, but it feels distant, like I’m watching it happen to someone else.
I stand. Slowly. My legs barely cooperate and I’m floating instead of walking. Cheers crash around me—my team, Ava, strangers on their feet—but it all feels far away.
I climb the steps. The lights are blinding.
Then the award is in my hands, and I’m at the podium, though I don’t remember getting there.
The Grammy sits heavy in my palm. Yanking me back to reality.
I won.
A fucking Grammy. A dream come true.
My voice cracks the second I start to speak.
“Um—” I giggle, shaky. “Okay. Wow.”
The crowd laughs with me.
“That was…unexpected. Really. If this is a dream, please don’t pinch me.”
A collective aww ripples through the room.
“Okay,” I say, laughing. “I should probably thank people before they boot me off this stage.”
More laughter.
I catch sight of Riley—her face blurred with tears.
“My team and producers—you know who you are. Thank you for taking a chance on a girl from Jervis Bay who didn’t think anyone would listen. Thank you for fighting for me, even when I wasn’t sure what I was fighting for.”
I pause, swallowing the lump forming in my throat.
“I want to thank my family and my best friend…they’re the people who helped me believe in myself again. Especially when I was lost and unsure.”
My throat burns.
“Thank you to the Recording Academy and to the fans—I love you guys. The dreamers and screamers—tonight, we rise together.”
I lift the Grammy, smiling now, arms trembling.
“This one is for my mom in heaven. Mom—I did it!”
The standing ovation echoes through my ears as I walk off stage, still shaking, still glowing.
The moment I’m backstage, a flurry of hands grabs me, ushering me into a changing room and out of my gown and into yet another dress for the after-party—shorter, slinkier, less look at me and more try me.
Red satin, cut on the bias, dipping low at the back and even lower at the front. It clings in all the right places, like it was poured over my body and told not to wrinkle. Thin straps. Open sides. No bra.
I’ve never worn anything so revealing.
Rio gives me a slow once-over and actually gasps. “You’re going to break some hearts tonight.”
Too late, Rio. Too late.
My hair stays slicked back. Diamond cuff earrings. Heels sharp enough to double as weapons.