Chapter 1
Chapter One
David
The bass drops, and the crowd loses its damn mind.
Ten thousand bodies moving in unison.
Hands in the air.
Lights strobing white-hot against sweat-slick skin.
My name—Mars—flashing thirty feet high on LED screens like I’m some kind of god.
I lift my hand, and they follow.
I twist a knob and they scream.
I don’t even have to look at the board anymore.
My fingers know what to do before my brain catches up.
I built this set in a hotel room at three in the morning somewhere between Ibiza and L.A., and now it’s shaking the walls of a sold-out Vegas residency.
This is what I worked for.
This is what everyone wants.
My latest mix is sitting at number one.
Again.
A-list vocalists are calling my manager directly, asking for collabs.
I’ve got producers sliding into my DMs like I’m the golden ticket.
Fashion houses want me front row.
Brands want my face.
Streaming numbers? Stupid.
Mars is in demand.
The beat swells.
The drop hits.
The crowd erupts like I’ve just handed them oxygen.
And I feel—fuck.
I feel nothing.
Well, not nothing exactly.
More like I’m watching myself from above.
Detached.
Like I’m the soundtrack to my own life instead of the one actually living it.
I flash a grin because the cameras are on me.
I lean into the mic because they expect it.
“Vegas, make some noise!”
They do.
Always.
The lights flare white, and for a split second I see my reflection in the black glass of the DJ booth.
Tattoos crawling up my arms.
Jaw tight.
Eyes tired.
I look like a man who has everything.
I feel like a vampire’s midnight snack.
Fame doesn’t explode. It doesn’t crash down on you in one dramatic moment.
It feeds.
A little here.
A little there.
Your time.
Your privacy.
Your sleep.
Your relationships.
Your silence.
Your self.
By the time you notice the bite marks, you’re already drained.
The set ends in a blur of cheers and confetti cannons.
Security forms a wall before the VIP girls can climb onto the stage.
My manager, Trent, is already yelling over the ringing in my ears.
“Afterparty at The Palms. El Tigre’s producer is there. Don’t disappear on me.”
Disappear.
I almost laugh.
I’m never alone long enough to disappear.
Backstage smells like perfume and money.
Someone presses a drink into my hand.
Someone else snaps a photo.
A publicist reminds me about an interview I owe someone.
“Smile more,” she says softly. “You look intense.”
I don’t tell her that intense is better than empty.
Two weeks ago, I was standing in a different Vegas venue, drink in hand, when I saw something that won’t leave my head.
Nathan Thorn.
Yeah. That Nathan Thorn.
Rock god.
Wild child.
Infamous disaster of a decade.
Except he wasn’t any of those things that night.
He was standing at the edge of a dancefloor with his new bride tucked against his side like she belonged there.
Like she was the center of gravity and the rest of us were just orbiting.
He wasn’t scanning the room.
Wasn’t posturing.
Wasn’t hunting for the next high.
He simply was. He had this air of contentment I can’t even begin to imagine.
Calm.
Happy.
And it hit me harder than any bass drop ever has.
Nathan used to burn hotter than I did.
We ran in similar circuits.
It’s all the same chaos.
Same sleepless, champagne-soaked spiral.
But he left all that.
Walked away from the noise.
Moved to some small Jersey town—Hammonton.
I had to Google it.
Looks like every cliché small-town romance movie ever made.
Brick sidewalks. String lights. Local diners.
People who probably know your name.
I’ve been thinking about it ever since.
Maybe it’s the town.
Maybe it’s the quiet.
Maybe when you strip away the spotlight, you remember who the hell you are.
The afterparty blurs past me.
Models laugh too loud. Champagne spills. Someone’s perched on the back of a velvet couch like she’s auditioning for something.
Someone grabs my arm and pulls me into a selfie. I flash the practiced grin. Tilt my head just enough.
Give them the Mars smirk they came for.
My phone buzzes—three new offers before midnight.
A remix. A private set in Monaco. A collab with an artist who used to ignore my emails.
I should feel unstoppable.
Instead, I feel tired.
Fucking exhausted.
A blonde in a red dress slides up beside me, her hand resting confidently on my chest like she’s done this before.
“Hey,” she purrs, leaning close enough that I catch the scent of vanilla and ambition. “If you’re bored later, I could keep you company.”
It’s smooth. Polished. Rehearsed.
An easy yes. A guaranteed distraction. No strings, no complications.
Six months ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
I gently remove her hand from my shirt.
“Not tonight,” I say, and I mean it.
Her smile flickers—surprised, maybe even insulted—but she recovers fast.
They always do.
There’s another DJ.
Another producer.
Another spotlight somewhere in this room.
She drifts away.
I stand there for a second, realizing something uncomfortable.
It’s not that I can’t have whatever I want.
It’s that I don’t want any of it.
My phone buzzes again.
I step out onto the balcony for air.
Vegas glitters beneath me like a promise that never delivers.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Nathan’s number.
We’re not best friends, but we’ve known each other long enough. Shared enough green rooms and bad decisions.
I hesitate.
Then I text him.
You still in Hammonton?
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Yeah. I live here now. Why?
I watch the Strip pulse below me.
Because I’m thinking about coming to visit.
There’s a pause this time.
You sure you’re ready for small-town Jersey, Mars?
I stare at my reflection in the balcony glass.
Am I?
No idea. But I’m ready for something.
Another pause.
Then he replies.
Come on out. We’ll talk.
The decision settles into my bones before my brain can overthink it.
I don’t tell Trent.
I don’t announce it.
I just book the flight.
If fame is a vampire, maybe Hammonton’s holy water.
And if my old buddy found something there worth giving up the chaos for?
Maybe I need to see it for myself.