35. Madness #2
I barely recognize myself, but I like her. I look strong.
Riley and I arrive at the after-party, already packed—the kind of scene where the room vibrates. Music thumping. Crystal glasses everywhere. Skin, sweat, and perfume tangled in the air.
I barely make it two steps inside before Ava yanks my hand and spins me.
“There she is!” she shouts over the bass. “The queen of the night!”
“You won Song of the Year!” I yell back, laughing.
“And you just charmed the whole world. Come on, there are people I want you to meet.”
Riley trails beside us, two drinks in hand.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says for what has to be the twentieth time tonight, pressing one into my palm. “I’m going to remind strangers you’re my best friend for at least the next decade.”
Ava pulls me through clusters of people—stylists, producers, someone’s agent, a couple of actors I vaguely recognize from television and movies. Big names in the music industry. Everyone’s talking at once, hugging, shouting over the music.
I keep hearing my name.
Or that’s her.
I’m not sure which is worse.
Or better.
“Oh my gosh, I love your accent,” one singer gushes.
“Your eyes are incredible,” a male model adds.
The adoration comes fast and loud enough to make my head spin. All I want is to crawl up in front of my piano and disappear into song—or into someone’s arms.
The box rattles.
Someone taps my shoulder. I turn, already half-smiling—
—and freeze.
Julian Vale.
The Julian Vale.
Oscar winner. GQ cover regular. Universally agreed-upon heartthrob Julian Vale. Rumored next James Bond, Julian Vale.
He’s taller than I expected. Tawny brown skin that glows under the party lights. A tux that’s sharp but worn like it’s an extension of him, collar casually undone. And his eyes—
Green. Not hazel. Not brown.
Green.
Good lord.
The box rattles louder.
He smiles—slow, easy—like he’s already read the script and knows exactly how it ends. He smells expensive. Spiced and clean. Exuding quiet confidence.
“Hi, I’m Julian,” he says, leaning in just enough to be heard over the music. As if I wouldn’t know who he is—everyone knows who he is.
“Your performance was…electric.” His smile could knock the knees out from under anyone with a pulse.
“Thanks,” I manage, my mouth dry.
“You’ve got real presence and I mean that in the most respectful way possible.”
Behind me, Riley makes a strangled noise into her drink—like she’s just had an orgasm by proximity.
And Ava stifles a giggle.
I smile, trying not to fumble over my words. “Same could be said for you. But you probably already know that.”
Be cool, Elena.
He laughs, low and warm. “You staying in town?”
“Um…yeah. I’m presenting at the Oscars, actually.”
“Good.” His grin sharpens. “I’ll be in touch—if you’d like.”
I’m too stunned to speak or answer before Mark appears, like he’s been summoned from the ceiling, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“Sorry, bud—gotta steal her. Business calls.”
Ava gives me a go get ‘em smirk as Mark leads me back through the crowd.
“Meet David and Dani,” he says. “They both worked on some killer albums last year. Pacific’s already talking about the next record, and they want to start early.”
“Already?” I ask, my heart still half-beating from the interaction with Julian.
“That’s how the game works.” Dani reassures me. “Strike while the iron’s hot.”
It feels good to think about work. To celebrate something concrete. To focus on anything other than the mess of my love life.
Hours pass in ten-second bursts.
At some point, Riley dances on a couch with Ava, both clutching mini champagne bottles, screaming the lyrics to “Crumble” at full volume. I lean against the wall, letting the cool seep into my back, finally catching my breath.
My phone buzzes inside my purse.
Alex.
Why would he be calling me now? A part of me wants to answer, but Philippa’s words echo in my head—I hit ignore.
I’m going to need more fucking boxes.
A week passes after the Grammys, and it’s official.
Broderick is done with me.
No calls. No messages. No congratulations. Not even a double-tap on the photo of me holding the Grammy.
I made my choice. I left him standing in the wake of his grand gesture, and now I have to live with it.
This is my fault—my stupid foolish heart.
I want to call. I want to fix it. But the unanswered voicemails tell me everything I need to know.
Space.
Rather than wallow in the hotel room, Riley and I fill the week with anything and everything that might distract us. Our first time in Tinseltown—we might as well make it count.
I try to keep my mind off Broderick. It doesn’t work. If I’m not sobbing quietly in bed, I’m doing it in the shower.
We spend our days hiking Runyon and our nights partying with Ava—either at her place or at the Chateau Marmont. I’m constantly stunned by the celebrities we brush shoulders with.
A few recognize me for my music.
And then there are the annoying ones who refer to me as Alex’s ex.
When we’re not sightseeing or losing ourselves in the party scene, I’m working—panels, radio and television interviews, endless outfits and glam, photo shoots and smiles that don’t quite reach my eyes.
People love my music. I won a fucking Grammy. That was the dream.
So why do I still feel empty?
Days pass in a blur. Until, it’s the night of the Oscars.
Riley bows out, claiming a “full-body betrayal by tacos,” sprawled horizontally with a ginger ale and determined to watch the ceremony from the safety of our hotel suite.
So, it’s just me. Her bout of vomiting kills my appetite, leaving me surviving on pretzels and a few sneaky shots from the minibar to calm my nerves.
Mark and Kylie hover nearby, the suite quiet but buzzing with nervous energy. Inga circles me with a can of hairspray like she’s trying to trap a ghost.
Rio pivots hard for the Oscars, going for something elegant and ethereal. The gown is dove-gray—soft tulle layered and ruffled like storm clouds. Strapless, cinched tight at the waist, the skirt cascades around me in waves. It isn’t sexy. It’s haunting and regal.
My hair is twisted into a sleek updo, every pin locked into place like it’s trying to tame more than just my hair—like it’s holding my thoughts together, too.
I rarely wear it up like this. It feels different.
Mark checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
I nod and stare at my reflection.
I don’t look like someone who was crying in the shower an hour ago. I look like I’ve been carved from glass—smooth, shining, impossible to break. At least from the outside.
We do a quick toast with champagne. It swirls around my empty stomach, but the buzz steels my nerves.
“Okay, let’s go.”
The limos all line up waiting their turn to unload us. I take a moment trying to steady my breathing before stepping out of the car and into a wall of flashes.
Gray tulle swirls around my legs like smoke. I adjust my posture without thinking—head high, arm tucked just right, expression neutral with a hint of mystery. Exactly as instructed.
Rio would be proud.
Mark stays behind ensuring the paparazzi are able to get their shot. Kylie follows, headset on, offering the occasional nod to other publicists.
I move like a ghost through the crowd, all ruffles and restraint. The dress might be soft, but it feels like armor—thick enough that no one can get too close, or see the hurt beneath.
Strangely, it grounds me. I wish Riley were here.
The Oscars’ red carpet buzzes with a different kind of energy—quiet, poised, almost reverent. A calm so sharp it raises every hair on your skin, the kind of calm that settles just before a storm breaks.
Everyone moves like they’ve been choreographed—shoulders squared, smiles preloaded, eyes sharp behind designer facades. Part of me is starstruck, the other part feels like I’m walking on a tightrope.
“Stunning, Elena!” someone calls. “Can we get a twirl?”
I give them half of one which instantly makes me feel unsteady the booze from earlier might have been a bad idea, but I manage.
The first interviewer is polite, clean-cut, smiling a little too much.
“Elena, congratulations on your recent Grammy nomination and win—you look incredible. Who are you wearing tonight?”
“Aww, thank you. You’re very kind. Oscar de la Renta for the Oscars, of course.”
I deliver the line Rio fed me earlier, with the right amount of warmth and polish.
“Gorgeous. We’re so excited to see you presenting tonight. Have you bumped into Alexander Westerberg yet? You’re presenting in his category, right?”
There it is.
I force a smile, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to scowl. “No, not yet. I’m sure it’ll be a great moment for whoever wins. I’ve heard it’s a tough category.”
I brace myself. I’m bound to run into Alex tonight. It feels like the universe is playing a cruel joke—placing us in each other’s paths on purpose.
Kismet.
His voice echoes in my mind.
Kylie spent an hour drilling it into me: the cameras will be on. My face has to stay neutral.
Any reaction would be blood in the water.
Now she watches from the sidelines, her expression soft as she mouths, Face.
“And is it awkward at all,” the interviewer presses, “given your—uh—history?”
I tilt my head.
Dickhead.
“I think I’ll let the internet speculate,” I say lightly. “I’m just here to celebrate the wonderful movies…and drink the free champagne.”
He laughs like I’ve said something clever.
But inside, the ground buckles.
Because if I’m not obsessing over Broderick—wondering if I ruined my chance at something real—I’m thinking about Alex.
The phone call I ignored a week ago. The thrill of seeing him again.
The way he always knew how to command a room.
The way everything between us felt like fire—right before it burned down.
“Thank you so much, Elena,” the interviewer says. “You’re a vision tonight.”
I smile again. Nod. Move on.
The box rattles. Then another, right behind it.
“One more interview,” Kylie adds, walking a little too close.
“No.”
I’m done.