You used to love the stage. The lights, the roar of the crowd, the shared electricity of a thousand hearts beating to the same rhythm. But loving it with him turned everything sour. He was the frontman—famous, adored, untouchable. In public, he was the dream: his hand in yours at red carpets, his sweet nothings whispered into microphones during interviews, calling you “his muse.”

Behind closed doors, he was nothing but a lie with a pretty face.

You caught him one too many times. Girls in the dressing room. Groupies sneaking out of hotel suites. DMs that read like softcore scripts. He thought he was subtle. He thought you’d never leave.

But you did.

And as you stood in the wings of the stadium a month later, dressed in a high-slit, white high-neck gown that clung to every curve, you knew this night would change everything.

The plan had been simple. Flawless.

When you left him, the press got the usual “amicable split” bullshit. No one questioned it. He was too polished, too loved. But the moment he walked out of your shared loft, you made a call—to the one man in his band who never once looked at you like you were a trophy.

Simon Riley.

The drummer. Quiet. Reserved. Deadly talented. He wasn’t flashy like the others. Didn’t crave the spotlight. But that night? He gave you his attention. All of it. His hands were rough and precise, just like his rhythms. That night bled into mornings. Into days. Into weeks.

You thought it was just revenge at first—his drummer, of all people—but something deeper brewed beneath the skin.

And now… now was the final act.

The concert was sold out. Thousands of screaming fans. Lights flashing. He was mid-verse, crooning into the mic like he hadn't broken your heart a hundred times over. You watched him from the shadows.

On cue, Simon caught your eye and gave a subtle nod.

The mic cut.

Your ex paused, tapping it. A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

But Simon didn’t stop drumming.

And then—your voice rang out across the arena.

The audience hushed, a sea of faces swiveling toward backstage as you stepped out. A vision in white. Poised. Powerful. The dress split to your inner thigh with every step. Diamonds glinting at your neck. Your voice crystal-clear over the speakers, singing the song he wrote about you—the one he always said only he could perform right.

The irony was delicious.

Simon didn’t miss a beat behind you. His sticks were a blur, his gaze locked on yours like a silent promise. You gave him a wink—small, knowing. He grinned, subtle and sinful.

Your ex stood there, dumbfounded, watching the crowd erupt into cheers—for you.

Because in that moment, you weren’t the ex. You weren’t the girl he discarded.

You were the main event.

After the set, chaos exploded backstage. Managers yelling, crew scrambling, your ex fuming. But you and Simon? You were already in his dressing room, the door locked, your back against it as his hands slid up your thighs.

“You sure you’re not just using me for revenge?” he murmured against your lips, breath hot.

You smirked. “I was. At first.”

“And now?”

You tangled your fingers in his hair. “Now I just like watching you drum with your shirt off.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous. “I like when you sing in that dress.”

The night ended with broken records, trending hashtags, and the industry whispering your name.

You didn’t need him to be famous.

You needed him to lose.

And you? You just got your encore.