The Encore's Forbidden Crown

1. Happy New Year

Happy New Year

Natalia

My martini arcs through the air in a perfect, glittering sheet, splashing across Ryder’s arrogant face. He blinks, sputters, tries to remain charming while a single olive bounces off his cheek. I smile, satisfied.

Then the room rushes back in, music, laughter, the clink of glasses and the drink is still in my hand. The fantasy is so vivid my fingers curl around the stem.

God, just shut up.

Ryder has the kind of mouth that’s only attractive when it’s closed.

Unfortunately, it never is. I’m pretending to listen as he leans in, his breath reeks of overpriced tequila and misplaced confidence.

I stare, considering the shape of his lips.

Pouty and visibly... wet. Nothing but pure smugness, a mouth built for social media, not kissing.

I toss my hair, adjust the tiny black dress that is single-handedly keeping this VIP section visually interesting, and try to hide the fact that Ryder is boring me into a coma. Then my phone vibrates.

bomos_tra liked your photo.

My heart does that humiliating thud it still hasn’t grown out of. A year, a whole year of silence except for this, likes. Breadcrumbs from a man who never gave himself permission to want me but couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop reminding me he still existed somewhere, my name on his mind.

We’ve never even met. Never had a real phone call. Just stupid little DM crumbs between us, pictures, voice messages, the kind of almost-too-far flirting that made my pulse trip but somehow we always reeled ourselves back in. It was nothing and everything at the same time.

Bomos, huh?

Just seeing it irritates me, the name he hides behind onstage.

They all have one, pulled from the same old ritual language that built the mythology of The Riven Altar.

Rafe is Obelus, the sacrifice, standing at the center with the microphone and offering up every lyric like something torn from him.

Rithy is Haima, the blood, his guitar running wild through the songs like something alive beneath the skin.

Ronan is Threnos, the lament, pounding grief and fury into the drums until the whole room feels it in their bones.

And then there’s Bomos.

The altar.

Of course the bassist would be the thing everything else is built on.

But I know him as the man underneath it.

Kiri.

You’d think someone who tours the world and stands in sold-out stadiums, under lights with thousands of fans, showing off tattoos that make him look like the bouncer you pray you don’t piss off, wouldn’t be the kind to fold the instant his “boss” opened his mouth.

But apparently, because Rafe’s dating my sister, suddenly I’m his responsibility.

Now I’m “too young,” and this will “end in heartbreak,” and at twenty-three I’m still an infant who can’t choose what or who I want.

So Kiri listened, because everyone listens to Rafe.

He’s the star, the front man, the leader without ever needing to say it.

After four months of messages, voice notes, and making plans for a future we apparently weren’t ever going to have, Kiri wrapped the whole thing up in one sad little goodbye message.

That cowardly, corporate-speak type of closure.

Then nothing. Thirty-six. International star.

His body built as wide as his ex Radhika Malhotra’s stunning smile on Instagram, but still too scared to speak to me unless someone else tells him he’s allowed.

Ugh. Tell me that’s not pathetic.

Ryder slides an arm around my waist, jerking me back to the present moment.

To this New Year’s Eve in a glossy club, with a man I don’t want.

Seattle’s resident rich fuckboy with more money than anything appealing about his personality.

He’s attractive in the same way that plastic knives are still knives.

The right shape, but not the real thing.

“You look insane tonight,” he purrs. “Like the whole room is just—” he gestures vaguely “—watching you. You know how to work a room, Natalia. That’s hot as fuck.”

I sigh. “Tell me something I don't know, Ry.”

He laughs because he thinks I’m flirting. My phone lights again.

bomos_tra liked your story.

My chest tightens as the lights dim. The countdown starts, the room swelling with bodies, bass and heat.

Ryder grabs my chin, tilting my face toward his. “Ready for midnight, babe?”

His mouth is coming toward mine, a mouth I feel absolutely nothing for, and right as the crowd screams:

THREE! TWO! ONE!

He kisses me, flashes erupt around us. My friends whistle then shout a new hybrid couple name for us, Rydalia and I shudder.

Ew, that’s horrific. Ryder deepens our kiss for the cameras he knows are watching and right as I’m letting him, barely, just for show…

my phone buzzes in my hand. I pull away and look down. Seriously?

Happy New Year, Nat.

Four words. A year of silence exploding in my chest like fireworks and glass shards.

I hate him.

I hate him so much I could scream. I hate him because my heart is still stupid enough to care. Ryder licks his lips like he thinks our kiss meant something.

“Damn, Nat,” he grins. “That was—”

But I’m not listening, I’m still staring at my phone. At a message from a man who never met me, never touched me, never gave me anything… but still has the power to destroy an entire year of distance with one notification.

Kiri

The club is a mess of color and sound, strobe lights cutting through the dark while bodies move in wild, shimmering waves, the perfect example of L.A.

’s glossy shine with none of the depth. Rithy’s perched beside me in VIP, legs spread, shirt half-unbuttoned, pounding back champagne like it’s electrolytes and he’s hydrating for sport.

A man full of the runway poise Rithy admires is draped over him, sculpted lines catching the club’s dim light.

A woman with the kind of beauty that lives on billboards settles against me, unbothered and sure.

A typical New Year’s for the Chhim brothers, with Rithy clearly in his element.

I’m in mine too. Mostly.

Delaina, at least I think her name's Delaina, has glued herself to my side for the better part of an hour, with glossy lips and perfume and the kind of confidence only people who’ve never heard “no” seem to have.

She nuzzles my jaw like we already belong to each other, waiting for me to kiss her again.

She makes a contented noise against the shell of my ear, a noise that implies we’ve already agreed on where the night is going, and I let her.

One hand rests loose on her thigh, my thumb making lazy sweeps over bare skin while she smiles against my neck.

This is the kind of New Year’s I understand, then my phone buzzes.

I glance down without thinking, more habit than urgency, and see Natalia Sawadzka’s name because someone has posted a story and tagged her in some glittering countdown mess full of champagne and screaming twenty-something-year-olds.

Rithy notices instantly. He leans sideways, peering directly at my screen.

“Who are you stalking?” he asks over the music.

“Because unless her name is Cher, you should absolutely not be ignoring this stunning woman currently trying to climb into your bloodstream.” He gives her a slight smile before returning his gaze to my phone.

I angle the screen away on instinct, even though it’s already too late and he breaks into a slow, wicked grin.

“No way,” he mutters, delight tangled with offense. “No fucking way.”

I glare at him. “Leave it alone.”

But he’s already starting. “Natalia Sawadzka?” he says, like the name itself comes with legal consequences. “On New Year’s Eve? Big brother, are you bored? Have you decided the next era of your life should involve Rafe putting you through drywall?”

I open my messages instead of answering. I give him a look.

“I’m smoothing it over.”

Rithy laughs into his champagne. “You? Smoothing things over? You’ve never smoothed anything over that didn’t involve a hotel key and someone’s underwear on a lampshade.”

Delaina shifts closer, bored with the interruption, her fingers sliding over my chest. “Kiri,” she murmurs, mouth brushing near my ear. “Are you working right now or just trying to make me jealous?”

“Neither,” I say, and give her thigh a light squeeze. She smiles, satisfied. Rithy doesn’t. I type before he can keep going.

Happy New Year, Nat.

My thumb hovers. It’s casual. Polite, even. A normal message from one adult to another. Two adults who will soon be forced into the same orbit. That’s all. I tap send.

Rithy watches the little whoosh animation with the expression of a man witnessing a preventable tragedy. “There it is. The first bad decision of the year already. Historic. Champagne?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying, the further you stay away from Natalia, the better for everyone with bones they’d like to keep unbroken.”

“Rafe doesn’t scare me.”

Rithy gives me a flat look. I lean back, sliding my arm along the back of the booth. Delaina takes it as an invitation and tucks herself closer, her mouth finding the underside of my jaw again.

Rithy points his glass at me. “Do you remember Seoul?”

“I remember Rafe being fucking dramatic.”

“You remember him stomping your phone into tiny pieces just for flirting with Natalia.” Rithy leans in, eyes bright with warning.

He tips his head toward Delaina, who's now drawing a slow line down my abdomen with one finger, her expression turning sulky from neglect. “Besides, you’re still having too much fun doing all this.”

“This?”

He flicks his gaze over the booth, the champagne, the bodies, Delaina’s mouth near my jaw.

“Pretty things. No strings unless they come attached to lingerie. I’m not judging, I’m participating.

Just don’t go dipping a toe into the Sawadzka universe when you know you're still…

let's go with, hm, neck deep for our company's sake, in whatever you're doing.”

Delaina’s eyebrows lift. “Whatever he's doing?”

Rithy turns to her with immediate charm. “Respectfully. You are obviously divine.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s amused. My phone buzzes again.

Not a reply, but a notification. I hate that I look down.

Natalia’s story opens under my thumb. There she is, blonde hair shining under confetti, mouth painted, eyes bright from champagne and defiance.

She’s laughing at something off-camera. Then the next tagged photo loads and some guy has his hand at her waist, kissing her at midnight as if he’s earned the right.

Her eyes are half-open, like she can't wait for it to be over.

I smirk. The thought that if it was me, she wouldn't look bored, that's for damn sure, flashes across my mind, unwelcome.

I stare for one second too long. It wouldn't mean anything to most, but it's enough for Rithy to notice.

He makes a sound. “Mmm.”

I lock the phone and put it in my pocket.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I didn't say a thing.”

“She can kiss whoever she wants.”

“Right,” Rithy says, too mildly. I look at him. He gives me one of his mischievous grins.

Delaina, impatient now, slides a hand to the side of my face and turns me toward her. “Are you done?”

I look at her, at her pouty lips, those confident eyes, that perfect body angled toward mine with zero complication in it. No little blonde force of nature with a smart mouth and a laugh that’s been stuck in my head longer than I expected.

This is simple. I understand simple. So I smile, slowly.

Delaina’s gaze drops to my mouth. Rithy watches me like he knows exactly what I’m doing and thinks I’m finally coming to my senses for doing it.

Maybe I am. The man beside him leans closer and murmurs something near his ear, fingertips grazing Rithy’s arm in a quiet bid for his attention. Rithy barely looks away from me.

I slide my hand around Delaina’s waist and pull her firmly onto my lap, close enough that I can feel her breath catch against my neck. Her surprise melts into satisfaction almost instantly.

“You’re back, finally. I almost gave up,” she purrs.

I kiss her like I’m reminding myself of every easy rule I know how to follow.

Like the night is loud enough to drown out anything inconvenient.

With my lips on Delaina, midnight is just midnight, and a kiss is just a kiss, and Natalia Sawadzka is just a pretty girl with someone else’s mouth on hers.

She melts into me, one hand sliding into my hair, the other curling around my shoulder as the club erupts around us.

Champagne spills. Fireworks bloom white and gold across the windows.

The crowd screams the countdown’s last broken echoes from the dance floor.

Rithy raises his glass beside us, unimpressed and entertained. “To terrible decisions,” he says, tapping his glass against mine, then Delaina’s, before turning to clink it with his guest’s too

I break the kiss just enough to smile against Delaina’s mouth.

“Happy fucking New Year,” I murmur, and pull her back in.