The stadium pulsed with energy, lights slicing through smoke as the final chorus shook the walls. Scarlett stood stiffly beside Milo in the VIP section, arms crossed tightly over her chest. He was glowing, even in the dim, flickering lights—dressed in a tailored black suit that shimmered subtly every time he moved. His features were so sharp they could cut glass, hair tousled just enough to look effortless, and his expression—cold, unreadable, and irritatingly calm. He wasn’t even watching the performance. He was basking in the attention, soaking up every look thrown his way. And of course he was. He was Milo. The Milo. World-renowned singer, Billboard dominator, magazine cover regular—and unfortunately, Scarlett’s husband. By force.

She scoffed as another nearby girl swooned just from catching his profile. “Do you ever get tired of people worshipping the ground you walk on?” she said under her breath, not even trying to hide the annoyance in her voice. He didn’t glance at her. He never did when she spoke like that. “Do you ever get tired of talking when no one’s listening?” he murmured back, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

That stupid, smug, perfect mouth. Scarlett hated how good he looked even when being a complete ass. But she wasn’t about to lose ground. “Can’t wait to go home and listen to another song about how much you hate me,” she muttered. He chuckled lowly. “You should. They’re doing pretty well on the charts.” Her eyes narrowed. His voice was always soft, even when he was cutting deep. Especially then.

The concert ended. The cheering died down. They exited through the side door into the thick, humid night, not speaking. The tension between them buzzed like static. The sky overhead was a heavy gray, rumbling with warning.

Just as they were stepping toward the car, someone called out.

“Milo?”

Scarlett turned automatically, but the man jogging up wasn’t looking at her. He didn’t even see her. His eyes were locked on Milo—wide, lit up, disbelieving. He stopped a few feet away, breathless. Platinum-blond hair, a lip ring, that chaotic kind of charisma that made it feel like he never stood still. Ryan. The lead singer from the band they’d just seen.

“Holy shit,” he said, grinning, “I didn’t know you were in town.”

Milo’s eyes widened slightly, his usual icy exterior cracking for a half-second. “Ryan?” he said. His voice was different—warmer, real. There was a beat of silence. Familiarity. History. “Didn’t know you were still doing tours,” Milo added.

Ryan laughed. “Didn’t know you were still alive. You disappeared on everyone.” He stepped closer. Still hadn’t even glanced at Scarlett. “You look… damn, you look good.”

Milo’s mouth twitched, and he looked down for a moment, like he didn’t know what to say. Scarlett stood there, arms still crossed, growing increasingly irritated. “I’m also here,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

Ryan blinked, seeming to notice her for the first time. “Oh. Hey,” he said vaguely, then turned back to Milo without waiting for a reply. “So, you coming to the afterparty or…?”

Scarlett rolled her eyes hard. “We were just leaving,” she snapped. Milo didn’t even correct her. He just nodded slowly, eyes still on Ryan.

Then the sky cracked open.

Thunder boomed and rain poured—no warning, no drizzle, just sheets of water hammering down like the sky was breaking. Scarlett flinched, yelping as the cold rain instantly soaked her shoulders and hair. Her thin jacket did nothing. Her hair clung to her face, her arms crossed tighter now to stop from shaking.

Milo stood beside her, still dry. His assistant had handed him an umbrella on the way out. Of course they had. He hadn’t opened it yet, like he was waiting for the right dramatic moment.

But Ryan moved first.

He stepped forward and, without a word, pulled a sleek black umbrella from his bag. With one quick motion, he popped it open and held it directly over Milo.

Milo blinked, a little surprised, but didn’t step away. They were very close under that umbrella, almost touching.