You weren’t born into this world of flashing lights and deafening applause. You clawed your way in.

Late nights in makeshift studios, concerts in underground clubs. They didn’t take you seriously at first—another female rapper in the industry, another pretty face they thought would fade out in a year. But you made them listen. Every performance, every moment you took the mic and made the whole world shut up.

And now? You’re here.

The Grammy Awards. The biggest night of your career. The air is thick with champagne, designer perfume, and the electric hum of ambition. You sit at your table, fingers drumming lightly against your thigh, pretending like you’re cool. Like you’re not feeling the weight of every camera, every whisper.

But none of that gets under your skin the way his gaze does.

Damiano David.

He’s across the room, lounging in his seat like he owns the place—but his dark eyes haven’t left you. Not once. You ignore it. Or at least, you try to.

Then your name is called, the crowd erupts, a blur of claps and cheers, but your mind lags behind. You won. You move on autopilot, standing, making your way to the stage. Your speech is a rush of adrenaline and shaky laughter, and then it’s over, and you’re back at your seat.

Then—

"That was cute."

That smooth voice. You turn. Damiano stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. Up close, he’s all sharp jawlines, undone buttons, and that damn smirk.

"Excuse me?" you huff, still trying to process everything.

He nods at the Grammy in your hand. "Your speech. Cute." He steps closer, just enough for you to catch the faintest scent of cologne and cigarettes. "You gonna stand here all night, or are we celebrating?"

You raise a brow. "We?"

He grins. "Unless you’ve got better company."

You exhale, shaking your head. As much as you hate to admit it you don’t want to spend tonight with anyone else.