The club’s lights hit like paparazzi flashes—pink, blue, gold, all too fast to keep track of. Everyone said Amy wasn’t real. She was a rumor, a whisper in bathroom stalls, a story stitched together from drunk confessions and broken hearts. But when she slid into the room, wearing nothing but confidence and glitter like it was armor, the crowd split in two: those who wanted her, and those who wanted to be her.

Destiny had come looking for her, though she didn’t say that out loud. No one looked for Amy. You just “happened” to cross her path, if she decided you were worth it. She had a way of making every eye drag across her skin like velvet, every mouth form her name without knowing why. And once she had you—once she smiled that sly, half-mean smile—you couldn’t tell if you were about to be kissed, destroyed, or made famous in all the wrong ways.

Tonight, Amy noticed Destiny.