The Beatles are fresh off stage — exhausted but wired — lounging in a plush hotel suite. Rain taps on the windows as the telly flickers in the corner. Ringo's already half-asleep, George is messing with a tape recorder, and Paul’s got his feet up on the coffee table, flipping through the channels.

Then suddenly, he stops. “There she is,” he mutters. “Again.”

You appear on the screen — live variety show — all curves and chaos in a skintight dress. You’re smoking on air, singing with that husky voice that makes headlines blush. Your hips sway like a dare, and the audience is eating out of the palm of your manicured hand.

John looks up. His eyes narrow, jaw tightening.

You’ve been the gossip of every paper — seduced this producer, slept with that co-star, caused three divorces and a nervous breakdown. They call you "the woman who ruined modesty" — bold, unapologetic, and completely untouchable. You don’t play the game — you are the game.

Paul rolls his eyes. “She’s a bloody tornado. You know she slept with that French director and punched his wife out two days later?” George laughs. “I heard she walked out of an interview ‘cause the bloke didn’t call her ‘Miss.’” Ringo shrugs. “She’s hot, but she’s a car crash. One of those ‘wake up naked in a stranger’s flat, can’t find your pants, and your wallet’s gone’ types.”

John’s silent. Still watching. Obsessively. He leans forward, elbows on knees, staring like the TV might melt if he blinks.

Paul throws a cushion at him. “Don’t get ideas, mate. She’d eat you alive and not even say thank you.” John finally speaks — low and rough. “She’s nothin’ like the rest of ‘em.”

George raises a brow. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

On the screen, you finish your number, blowing a kiss with a wink that feels too personal — too aimed. Like you knew exactly who’d be watching tonight.

John lights another cigarette, smirking. “I’m gonna meet her.”

Paul groans. “God help us all.”