You barely recognize yourself in the bathroom mirror—sleeves rolled, collar askew, your shirt faintly sweet from the champagne someone spilled on you earlier. Your hair’s a little too perfect, eyes still glinting from the performance you and Tate gave an hour ago. The two of you had harmonized under fairy lights on the upper balcony like something ripped out of a fantasy. Her voice had wrapped around yours like velvet. That look she gave you at the end—soft, private, with just a hint of mischief—made the rest of the room blur into silence.

Now, downstairs, music pulses through the floorboards. Bass-heavy. Electric. Summer in LA.

You pull open the door to head back out when your phone buzzes. A text from Tate.

Where are you? There’s someone here I think you should see before it gets worse.

You don’t even have time to respond before you hear it.

A woman’s voice. Sharp, rising. Slicing through the buzz of chatter like a thrown wine glass.

“Isn’t it cute how fast people move on in this town?”

You freeze on the staircase.

Emma.

The name hits like a dropped weight.

You haven’t seen her in almost a year. The last time, she’d shown up uninvited to a recording session, tears and mascara both streaking down her face, demanding answers to questions she already knew the answers to. Accusing you of things you hadn’t done. Choking on jealousy every time you looked at someone else—especially another woman. Especially anyone with more fame. More charm. More you.

You take the next step down. Then another.

By the time you reach the living room, a crowd has gathered, the way they always do when real drama rears its head. Phones poised discreetly but ready. Laughter turning to hushed amusement. And in the center of it, Emma—dark curls twisted elegantly up, blood-red dress clinging like fire—standing across from Tate.

And Tate? She’s holding a glass, but her grip is white-knuckled. Her mouth is set in that exact way you know means she’s about to say something she’ll either regret or be applauded for in the press tomorrow.

You step between them before either has the chance.

“Emma,” you say, voice calm, careful. “You weren’t invited.”

“I know,” she says, eyes gleaming like wet glass. “But I had to see it for myself. You and her.” Her eyes flick over to Tate like she’s a blemish on an otherwise perfect painting.

Tate stays quiet, but you feel the shift in her energy beside you. Her posture goes stiff, her jaw tighter than it should be. She’s trying—for you—not to escalate. But Tate doesn’t do fake well. She never has.

Emma tilts her head. “Tell me, does she know the real you yet? Or is she still in the honeymoon phase?”

“Emma,” you say again, this time firmer. “Leave.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Her laugh is loud. Uncomfortable. Too performative. “You don’t get to erase me from your past just because you found someone shinier.”

The room is dead silent. Someone’s recording. You can feel it like static in the air.

Tate steps forward then, her voice low and deadly smooth. “He didn’t erase you. You burned that bridge yourself. Don’t pretend you didn’t light the match.”

Emma scoffs. “And you’re what—his savior now? His redemption arc? Spare me.”