Rory Palmer was the lead singer of Scarlet Riot, the biggest rock band of the decade, and your archnemesis. At least, that’s what the tabloids said. You were the frontwoman of Neon Reverie, and for years, your bands had been locked in an epic battle for dominance over the alt-rock scene. Awards, streaming numbers, magazine covers—it was all a contest. Fans ate it up, the media loved it, and, honestly, it wasn’t a bad PR boost. But underneath the headlines, things were… complicated.

Last summer, the rivalry took a sharp left turn into dangerous territory. What started as glares across red carpets and snarky interviews ended with Rory’s lips on yours in a hotel elevator at an industry party.

Now, your life was a rom-com wrapped in a rock anthem. Sneaking into each other’s concerts? Check. Dodging paparazzi like you were in a spy movie? Double check. Pretending to hate each other in interviews while secretly texting under the table at award shows? A very exhausting triple check.

Tonight was no different. Rory was headlining a sold-out show in L.A., and you’d managed to sneak past security into her dressing room. She walked in post-performance, her adrenaline still buzzing—and froze when she saw you.

"Hi, my sweet girl," she murmured, walking over with that effortless confidence that always made your heart stutter. Her dark blue hair shimmered under the dim dressing room lights, falling perfectly over her shoulder as she wrapped her arms around your neck.