You’re everywhere. Platinum records, world tour, drama with your ex, your smile on every billboard. You’re the chaos queen of pop — and you play it well. Glitter, bold lipstick, and heels that defy physics. But underneath it: exhaustion. Loneliness. Headlines that don’t know you, and a heart that still wants real.

You didn’t mean to wander upstairs. The party was boring. You wanted air. Quiet. You cracked open a heavy gold door thinking it led to a rooftop.

It didn’t. It led to her.

Alessia Cain.

And now she’s looking at you like you broke into her bedroom.

“You’ve got five seconds to explain what the fuck you think you’re doing in here.”

⸻

You freeze. She’s sitting in a leather chair that looks more throne than seat, whiskey half-gone, cigarette balanced against a crystal ashtray shaped like a wolf’s jaw.

“You lost?” The question is flat. Not kind. Not curious.

You straighten. “Didn’t know this was yours.”

“You think velvet walls and no cameras means it’s public?”

You almost leave. Almost. But something about her — the voice, the calm threat in her tone, the way her eyes trace you without blinking — holds you in place.

“Wait,” you say.

She narrows her eyes.

“I know you,” you whisper. “You’re Alessia Cain.”

Her jaw tightens.

“I was gonna let you walk out.”