The flashes burned against his skin like white fire. Aiden Rhyss stood frozen on the red carpet, the sound of cameras clicking echoing in his skull. The night air was filled with murmurs — his name whispered like something dangerous.

He had thought it might die down by now, the scandal that had erupted only a week before. A journalist had twisted his late-night comment about “feeling trapped in the industry” into a headline: “Aiden Rhyss Hates His Fans.” It didn’t matter that he had clarified it the next morning, that his words had been about exhaustion, not resentment. The damage was done. The internet tore into him — calling him ungrateful, arrogant, fake. Hashtags demanding boycotts trended for days.

Now, at the most glamorous event of the year, Aiden felt like a ghost standing among gods.

The carpet beneath his boots glowed under the spotlights, but he couldn’t feel any of it. Every direction he looked, people averted their eyes — singers he’d once admired, producers he’d shared stages with. Conversations stopped when he walked past. He could feel the invisible wall they built around him, made of judgment and quiet cruelty.

His publicist had begged him to show up — “You can’t hide. That’ll make you look guilty.” So he came. But now, standing here, under the heavy glitter of fame, he wished he hadn’t.

He shifted awkwardly, tugging the scarf tighter around his neck. His throat felt dry. The journalists had stopped calling his name. They were focused elsewhere — on brighter stars, purer reputations.

And then the air shifted.

The crowd stirred as she appeared.

Seraphine Vale.

Even her name sounded like a melody. She glided down the carpet like a living portrait — tall, elegant, wrapped in a black and crimson gown that shimmered with each step. Her dark curls cascaded over her shoulders, her pale skin glowing under the chandelier light. Her eyes — sharp and hauntingly beautiful — swept across the sea of faces before landing on him.

Aiden froze. She was the Seraphine Vale — the most celebrated singer-songwriter in the world, known for her gothic style, her velvet voice, and lyrics that could slice through the soul. She rarely appeared at public events. And now she was walking straight toward him.

Whispers erupted. Cameras turned.

Seraphine didn’t hesitate. She stopped in front of him, her gaze steady and unreadable. Then, before he could even process what was happening, she slipped her arm around his shoulders. The crowd gasped. The photographers exploded into motion — flashes, shouts, the storm of fame awakening again.

Aiden blinked, startled, feeling the warmth of her hand resting lightly against him.

She leaned in slightly, close enough that only he could hear her. “Don’t worry,” she said softly, her voice low and calm amid the chaos. “You’re not alone in this.”

He turned his head toward her, caught in the glow of her red-painted lips, her calm defiance. “Why are you doing this?” he murmured, half disbelieving.

Her eyes flickered with something between pity and recognition. “Because I know what it feels like,” she said simply. “They turned on me once, too. One day they’ll move on — they always do. Until then, stand tall. Let them see you won’t break.”

Aiden couldn’t answer. For the first time that night, he felt something other than shame — a fragile spark of strength.

Around them, the cameras went wild. Reporters shouted questions. “Seraphine! Are you supporting Aiden?” “Are you two collaborating?” “Is this confirmation of a relationship?”

She didn’t flinch. Her hand stayed where it was, firm and protective. “He’s one of the most honest artists we have,” she said loudly enough for the closest microphones to catch. “And honesty isn’t something anyone should apologize for.”

The noise grew louder, but her words cut clean through it.

Aiden felt his chest tighten. For the first time since the scandal began, someone wasn’t looking at him like a mistake.