Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

NYC, November 2022 - Martina's POV

It must have been Mercury.

It was in retrograde, apparently—at least, that's what she'd heard. 

Not that she had the faintest idea what it actually meant.

Stars and planetary placements might have ruled the lives of others—those who had the luxury of merrily going with the flow and embracing their ever-changing whims day after day.

She used to be one of those people. Back when she was just Martina Moreschino, the person. 

Now she was Martina Moreschino, the larger-than-life singer and mega-star—a powerhouse brand and money-making empire.

Over the last 10 years, the lines between the two had done nothing but fade into each other, to the point where her life no longer felt truly her own.

Every move she made was meticulously strategized, carefully curated, and sometimes even spectacularly choreographed. 

More than eighty people—between her management team, her record label, PR department, tour managers, marketing, and promotions—dictated every aspect of her life.

Nothing was casual. 

Her music, her schedule, her reputation, her public relationships, her looks, even her weight—she needed to be in control of every detail, and deliver exactly what was expected of her.

How could Mercury—or any other cosmic force, for that matter—possibly cause disruption in a life like hers?

That was what she thought—until a few weeks ago, before asking Trevor if he wanted to walk the red carpet together at the AMAs.

Walking red carpets alone was nothing new to her, but this time it was different. 

She was set to receive the prestigious 'Artist of the Decade' award, which, according to the formal winner's letter, would honor her 'extraordinary influence and lasting impact on the music landscape and popular culture over the past decade, creating a legacy that would endure for generations.'

It was an absolute monster of an award—bigger than anything she'd ever received and, frankly, bigger than what she felt she deserved.

Just the thought of stepping on stage to deliver an acceptance speech that was worthy of it sent her imposter syndrome into overdrive and made her want to shit her pants.

That's why she thought having Trevor by her side would make it a little easier.

"I can't make it, babe—we're playing the Nets at the Garden that weekend, you know that." He had brushed it off without a second thought.

Of course she knew. How could she not?

Trevor always shared the Celtics' game schedule with her at the start of every season since joining the NBA a few years back.

She was familiar with it—familiar enough to point out that the game was on Friday, which meant he'd still have plenty of time to be in LA the next day to support her.

He had mumbled some half-baked excuse about a game review the next day that he needed to attend. 

Then, he had tilted his head in an unreadable way, adding something about not wanting to rush things anyway.

"We've been dating for four years, Trevor. What exactly do you think I'm rushing?" She had yelled all her frustration right in his face.

But he hadn't even looked up from the massive 8K screen, too caught up in his Call of Duty game to care.

She had tried not to let the sheer indifference he so often showed her sink her heart—again—because she had a flight to LA to catch, a rehearsal to plan, and an acceptance speech to write.

It was just a simple miscommunication. A momentary disconnect.

There was no time or space to let it become anything more than that, if she wanted to keep it together.

So, when she thought about it, it must have been Mercury's fault that, right in the middle of her acceptance speech, TMZ had started dropping photos of Trevor—not at his game review, but partying on a yacht in the Hamptons, both hands all over some other girl's ass and his tongue halfway down her throat.

And of course, it had to be Mercury's fault that, after the show, she had walked to the press line so blissfully unaware of it all that when an interviewer had blindsided her by showing her the pictures, her dumbfounded reaction had been caught in real time, ready for the whole world to feast on.

Miscommunications, fights, cheating, public humiliation—classic signs of Mercury retrograde, right?

She'd always been much more of an astronomy girl than an astrology one. But all of this needed to be blamed on a planet's fucked up orbit.

It hurt less than admitting she had wasted four years of her life on a lukewarm man who had been lying and cheating on her for god knows how long, all while managing to embarrass her on a global scale.

It hurt less than watching how, even now, two weeks later, every major media outlet continued to completely ignore her achievement to plaster her photoshopped shocked face next to shots of Trevor having the time of his life on that damn yacht.

She stared blankly out the car window as silent tears slid down her cheek, full of frustration, exhaustion, spite, disappointment, and a pain she had been too angry to let herself feel.

"Are you okay, Miss Marti?" Nick, her driver, asked, his worried eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

Nick had been on her team since day one. She had met him ten years ago, when she was on XFactor Italy.

He was the production driver, shuttling her and other competitors to rehearsals or the studios.

From the very beginning, he had shown a soft spot for her, breaking his impartiality to openly root for her.

She had felt an instant connection too—he reminded her so much of her grandfather, with his warm, kind eyes and his calm, seraphic demeanor, always ready to encourage her or offer advice.

So, after winning the show and scoring a multimillion-dollar record deal to kick off her music career in the U.S., she had moved to NYC and brought him along as her full-time driver.

He had to be in his sixties now. And not in a Keanu Reeves or Bradley Cooper hot kind of way.

Everything about him—from his slicked-back gray hair to his old-school style of dress and unsteady steps—made him look even older than he was.

She sniffed loudly and wiped the tears from her face, "I'm..." she stopped halfway through fabricating a useless lie, "I don't think that I am."

Her voice choked, and another stream of tears fell down her eyes. "I am very, very sorry," Nick said from the front seat. "Miss Marti doesn't deserve any of this."

Even after all this time, he still insisted on calling her "Miss Marti". Despite both being native Italian speakers, he insisted on speaking only English, even when it was just the two of them.

This often made her smile, as his English was full of little grammatical missteps and quirky phrases that came out in a funny and unique cadence everyone loved.

She gave him a grateful but somber smile in the mirror and widened her eyes when she realized he was driving out of the Financial District, where her office was, heading straight to the tunnel.

He flashed her his usual kind-eyed smile and said, "What you say we make a little detour to Cocoa Haven, yes? Get some hot chocolate to lift our spirits up, hmm?"

Classic Nick, she thought, grinning at him. 

Thirty minutes later, they were seated in comfortable silence on a bench in Owl's Head Park, nestled on a gentle hill overlooking the Upper New York Bay, each holding a hot cup in their hands.

He watched her slurp her chocolate and smiled softly. "Feeling better now?"

She had been struggling to keep anything down these past few days, eating merely for survival purposes without truly tasting her food. She took a sip, savoring the sweet and earthy flavor, and nodded. "A little."

"I know you are hurting right now, Miss Marti," he said, his eyes fatherly and caring. "But you deserve much, much more than what he was giving you, ok? You deserve more than someone who takes out his phone during dinner all the time and does not even look you in the eyes. It is not right, no."

She took another sip of her chocolate, swallowing not just the hot liquid but also the bitter realization of what had apparently been under everyone's nose but her own.

"I know," she said, gazing at the tranquil bay view before her. "I'll be fine. I just wish I could grieve in peace without feeling like the whole world is watching or laughing at me."

He shook his head, as if refusing to believe she could ever be the butt of anyone's joke. "Nobody's laughing. Everybody loves Miss Marti, and they can't wait for you to be back."

"But that's also part of the problem. I'm already back, Nick. It's only been two weeks; I should be rotting in my bed all day and not talking to anyone. Yet here I am, thrown right back into it all—interviews, auditions, events, photoshoots."

She took a deep breath and looked up at the trees, almost bare now, with little sparrows hopping on the branches, ready to spread their wings to somewhere warmer. "I wish I could fly away with them, you know? Where do you think they are going?"

"I don't know," he made a guessing face, "Probably Florida?"

"Probably Florida," she agreed. "I wish I could disappear there too, or anywhere, really. Instead," she stood up from the bench and glanced at her watch "I am late to meet my new publicist, who'll have the pleasure of managing this goddamn circus that is my public life. And Sara's going to yell at us both for it."

"Miss Sara is a very demanding manager," he agreed, chuckling softly, his old eyes crinkling with amusement as he slowly rose from the bench, steadying himself before beginning his usual cautious walk, "but she's also a good, understanding sister. She will forgive us, just this time, I am sure."

"I've always admired your undying optimism, Nick," she smiled as they resumed their walk toward the car, "and your kind heart. But you know she's a bloodthirsty beast when it comes to punctuality. She'll eat us alive." She joked.

"Ehh," he shrugged, "we will find something to blame it on. Maybe we say it was the traffic?"

"I got something even better," a wry smile played across her lips as she casually shot both her and Nick's cups into the trash bin. "Haven't you heard, Nick? Mercury is all over the place these days."

————————————————————

Bonus content: Perez Hilton's home page at the time of the scandal.

Chapter Text

LA. July - Martina's POV

"Someone broke in," Sara clipped, ending the call with a sharp flick of anxiety.

Martina's hands instinctively came together in a nervous clap. "Jesus Christ, are you fucking kidding me?" she shouted in bitter disbelief. "You know what? That's just great! Exactly what we needed after a 14-hour flight."

They had just returned from a vacation in their hometown in Italy, ready to start fresh in LA, where Marti had impulsively decided to move right before the summer.

Her stomach wouldn't stop twisting in knots the entire ride from the airport to her recently purchased—and newly violated—home.

By the time they neared the gate, she could feel her heart pounding in her throat as a row of police cars with flashing blue lights came into view, lined along the street.

The deputy leading the squad emerged first from the cluster of officers gathered by the cars, with Thomas, the head of Martina's security team, close behind.

"Miss Moreschino," the deputy started, "this morning we received an alarm signal from your house. Our team arrived within ten minutes, but unfortunately, the intruder had already left the scene."

"Did they manage to get in? Did they take anything?" she asked, a creeping sense of uneasiness slithering through her.

"There's no sign of a robbery," the deputy explained. "Nothing seems to be broken or out of place. But there's something else."

Her heart sank, anticipating the worst. Her eyes moved to Thomas, and her words came out in a whisper, "Please, don't tell me it's him." 

"It appears your stalker has left New York and is now in California," Thomas confirmed, with a serious tone.

"This is unbelievable!" she exclaimed with a heavy sigh, her voice thick with frustrated anger.

"So, I take it you didn't catch him?" Sara interjected, reading their expressions.

They both shook their heads in response.

"Is that even possible? He's been stalking me for years, and now this fucker follows me all the way from New York just to keep terrorizing me across the country?"

Many reasons were behind her choice to move to LA, largely getting away from the house she had shared with Trevor for the past four years—and getting away from him in general. Especially since she had the brilliant idea of getting back together with him after their first break up, only to split up a few months ago—and for good this time.

LA was also full of exciting opportunities for her to dive into the acting career she had just begun exploring. And it was definitely a refreshing change of scenery.

But at the same time, she had also hoped to finally get rid of the unknown stalker, who had been sending her anonymous letters filled with delirious poems of undying love, eerie gifts, flowers, and unsettling messages. 

"Why is it so damn hard to catch him?" she pressed.

"Well, we got close tonight," Thomas replied. "Come inside—there's something you need to see."

They all stepped into the living room, where several officers were gathered, intently watching the footage recorded by the security cameras.

"You got his license plate?" Sara asked, pointing to a computer screen showing a short clip of a car speeding away from the gate.

"Yeah, but the car was reported stolen, so we couldn't trace his identity," Thomas clarified.

"But we did manage to track his movements," the deputy spoke up again, "Traffic cameras picked him up leaving the highway and heading deep into the desert. We lost him out there, but I sent a unit that knows the area. They searched it thoroughly and found the car about an hour ago, parked near an old, abandoned barn."

Marti reached for her sister's hand, and they exchanged worried glances.

"Nobody was there when we arrived," Thomas continued, "but it looks like he may have been staying there for the past few months."

"So, ever since I decided to move here and bought the house," Martina said, as she pieced it together.

Thomas nodded and continued, "There were lots of computers. Place was filled with pictures of you," he added, flipping a computer screen toward her.

She felt her pulse race as Thomas scrolled through the photos they had taken at her stalker's barn. The walls were plastered with pictures of her, from her most recent appearances to her first VMAs performance over seven years ago.

On what looked like a strange, creepy shrine, there were a few of her stage dresses and shoes that she had auctioned for charity.

"It seemed like he left in a rush, leaving behind items he either didn't have time to gather or couldn't carry. He likely knew he had triggered the alarm and expected us to trace him back there," Thomas explained.

"Jesus Christ, it's like Pretty Little Liars meets Misery," Martina said in a thin voice, feeling like she was on the verge of throwing up.

"We learned two things tonight," Thomas pointed out. "First, he's undeniably tech-savvy—not just as a hobby, more like hacker-level. Likely he does this for a living, which is a step forward in profiling him. That's how he located your new house here in LA, and how he knew you wouldn't be at home until tonight, anticipating minimal security.

"He still made the alarm go off. Doesn't scream tech genius to me," Sara pointed out. 

"Based on what we've found in his hideout, there's no way he couldn't have deactivated it if he wanted to," Thomas said. "If he let it go off, it was deliberate—a message, letting you know he's here and onto you. Let's not forget, profiles like his feed on the chase. It's what gives them the thrill. We're still doubling down on both digital and physical protection."

"Great. Can you increase the guards outside my home too?" Marti asked, anxiously.

"Already handled," he confirmed. "We're also restructuring the core security team and increasing the numbers. Philip will be your primary, with Michael, Lex, and Paul managing close protection. Steven, Spencer, and Polly are covering the perimeter, and we're bringing in new people for logistics and the advance team."

She nodded, absorbing the new information, feeling both reassured and overwhelmed at the same time.

"What's the other thing we learned?" Sara asked, recalling his earlier point.

"He has considerable financial resources. This tech infrastructure requires significant means. Not to mention your dresses—one of them sold for half a million dollars. And that's just part of it, considering he managed to take some things with him before he arrives."

"Of course. It couldn't be some jobless kid in his mom's basement," she sighed, "No, it had to be freaking Anonymous with a trust fund."

***

It was late at night when the police left, leaving Marti alone with Sara and the enhanced security team guarding the house.

"I'll stay here with you for a few days, okay? Or as long as you need me to," Sara told her sister as they walked upstairs to Marti's bedroom.

Sara had bought the house right next to hers—so close that from her bedroom window, Marti could see her sister brushing her teeth with her usual obsessively symmetrical routine.

"Don't worry about me," Marti reassured Sara. "Thomas put a bodyguard at every corner. I'm not even sure I'm alone when I'm peeing. I'm safe. I'm okay. I think."

The added security brought her a bit of comfort, but she couldn't shake the growing restlessness gnawing at her. She offered Sara a half-hearted smile, her eyes a mix of frustration and resignation.

They had always been pretty close as sisters, and their bond had only grown stronger since Sara had become her manager. She couldn't hide anything from her. Sara had mastered deciphering all of Martina's looks, micro-expressions, and unspoken feelings down to an art.

"Is that look what I think it is? Is that your 'I-so-want-to-quit' look?" Sara crossed her arms, frowning at her sister. "Don't even think about it, Marti. It's 2 A.M., it's been a long, awful day, and we're way too tired to talk about you quitting now.

"Oh, come on. I never said anything about actually quitting," Marti protested, stepping into her bedroom.

"Oh no? Then I must have hallucinated badly when, no later than a few weeks ago, you shouted it from our parents' patio."

Marti began laughing and shaking her head, knowing right where Sara was going with this.

"You were three sheets to the wind, holding onto dad and a glass of wine for dear life," Sara continued, with her recollection of the night. "I vividly remember you slurring out a spectacularly inebriated speech that ended with something like, 'I want to obliterate my visa, toss it into the flames, buy a villa in the Tuscan hills, and run naked through my vineyard.'"

"That's definitely not what I said," Marti snorted out a laugh, opening one of her still-packed suitcases on the floor and beginning to organize her clothes. "When I picture myself in my Tuscan villa, I'm usually on my porch, making ceramic pots, gazing into the horizon, and basking in the glorious embrace of nature as my only occupation. Don't screw up my cottagecore fantasy—have a little respect!"

"Oh, I do have respect for it," Sara said as she helped her sister unpack, "But you're a global superstar, Marti. You sell out arenas around the world, you've won five Grammys and you've just launched your acting career. I mean, you just landed a role alongside Ewan McGregor, for god's sake! You're a multi-talented artist at the top of your game. I don't know how seriously to take you when you talk about pottery on a porch as your full time job."

"I know, I know," Marti sighed as she moved to the window. "It's just... sometimes it feels like too much. And I get that fame has its price, but come on," she said, glancing down at the two guards patrolling her yard, "who would willingly sign up for a ten-person bodyguard team?"

"But this is only temporary. They said they're making progress in profiling him, and they came close to catching him tonight," Sara said with a hopeful tone. "It won't be like this forever." 

"It's not just the stalker. It's this whole celebrity circus...I'm not sure I'm enjoying it like I used to," Marti trailed off as she noticed Sara tensing up.

The last thing she wanted was to send Sara's protective instincts into overdrive, making her worry too much or start believing her unhappiness ran deeper than she had let on.

Besides, she was well aware that any decision involving her own career would impact Sara's life as much as her own, so she needed to weigh her words carefully.

Sara was right—they were too exhausted to be having this conversation, but it was too late now to stop it, with Sara's eyes scanning her face, trying to read into the depths of her soul.

"What's wrong, Marti?" her sister asked with a soft voice.

"I don't know..." She paused mid-fold, then sank into her untouched bed. "Sometimes it feels like I'm not even living my own life—like I'm just riding this wave that never stops. Everything's moving so fast I don't have time to ask myself if this is really what I want, or how much longer I can keep going."

"I get it, Marti," Sara said, finishing the folding Marti had abandoned before sitting beside her on the bed. "As your sister, I love you and I'll support whatever you decide. I'll even buy the villa next to yours, and we can sip hand-harvested Chianti together at sunset."

Martina giggled, imagining the scene in her head.

"As your manager, though, you really need to think this through," Sara's tone grew more serious. "Moving back to Italy could mean the end of your career as you know it. Your work, your best opportunities, and your connections—they're all here. This is where you need to be."

"I could still move back to Italy and come here only when I have new music to release, right?" Marti asked, taking out her escapist fantasies for one final walk.

"It doesn't work like that, Marti," Sara said, shaking her head slowly. "You can't just disappear for months at a time. The industry wants you constantly available, as a guarantee that their investment in you is solid. And the fans—well, you can't ask for their devotion if you're not giving them full access. They need to feel like you're always there, available for their enjoyment and entertainment."

Didn't she know that—Martina sighed, taking in her sister's words. She felt incredibly lucky to have Sara by her side, both as a sister and a manager. She was nailing both roles—10/10, highly recommended, Martina thought with a smile, pushing any serious thoughts about moving to the back of her mind for now.

"Well, talk about surreal timing for this conversation" Marti said with a sarcastic clap of her hands. "We just moved to LA, bought two houses here..."

"Tell me about it," Sara laughed, her voice rising in pitch. "Keeping up with you is going to give me premature gray hairs!"

They both laughed before Sara continued, "But seriously, this is a big decision, and it's going to take more than one troubled night to make. Let's see how the next few months evolve. One step at a time, okay?" 

"Thank you, Sara," Marti said, hugging her sister. "I love you."

"I love you too, Marti. Good night," Sara said heading out the room, then added with a teasing smirk. "Try not to snore too much. I could hear you through the walls back at home." 

Martina theatrically rolled her eyes in her sister's face, and balanced out the sappy moment they just shared by flipping her the middle finger.

Chapter Text

LA. October 18th - Martina's POV

Marti yanked off her wig, fake blood dripping onto her torn-up costume, and peeled away the prosthetic gash from her arm. Just another Tuesday on the set of Blackwood Manor.

She still couldn't believe it. Somehow, against all odds, she had landed the female lead in a horror miniseries—with Ewan fucking McGregor.

She had done some smaller roles before, and got positive reviews, but nothing ever this big. 

Stepping into a world of seasoned actors with cinematic legacies was intimidating, to say the least, and with her popstar background, she had anticipated some people wouldn't take her seriously.

That hadn't been the case with Ewan, though. From day one, he'd been nothing but supportive—always encouraging her to ask for advice and offering invaluable insights in return.

They naturally started hanging out during countless breaks on set, talking about movies, music, their lives, and everything in between. 

Then one day, he grabbed a guitar and casually started playing Country Roads. Before they knew it, they were singing together, forging their friendship over a shared love of country-folk anthems and spontaneous jam sessions.

Since then, they had made it a habit to grab drinks after long days of shooting. He had often invited Martina and her sister over for dinner and karaoke nights.

She had even met his kids, who not-so-subtly claimed VIP access to her next tour, and his wife Mary, with whom she hit it off immediately.

"Ugh, I swear to God, I've got this whole week's shoot stuck in every bone of my body," Martina groaned, letting out a tired sigh, on their way to the on-set makeup trailer.

"Oh, I can tell," Ewan teased, raising an eyebrow at her. "Kids these days. Look at me! I'm ten years older than you and fresh as a bloody daisy."

"Excuse you? Ten!?" She gave him a light punch on the shoulder. "More like 20!"

"Details, details," he brushed off her correction.

Martina rolled her eyes. "How on earth does Mary tolerate you?"

"That is a mystery I try to solve every day," he said with a full smile.

"Speaking of... any chance you two are up for drinks later tonight?" Marti suggested.

"Ah, not tonight. I'm catching up with an old friend," he replied, as they stepped into the trailer.

"Old friend, huh?" Martina asked. "As in 'we-go-way-back' old, or 'Nixon-was-still-president-when-he-was-born' old?"

He shook his head laughing, ignoring her age-related remark, and sitting in his chair. "Actually, you should come along! I think you'd get on brilliantly. You two have a lot in common, you know? Plus, you're both... conveniently single at the moment."

"I'm conveniently single but also very happy to stay that way," she said, returning her blood soaked wig to the prop assistant.

"See? Another similarity! He's been saying that for years now," he said with a cheeky smile at her through the mirror.

"Well that should be a good hint, then!" Martina smirked, sitting in the chair next to him. "But I do admit it's really kind of you to play matchmaker for your old friends. I can only imagine the thrilling conversations I'd be having with him. What keeps 50 year olds entertained these days? Fishing? Retirement plans? Market research on the best nursing homes? The unstoppable loss of values in today's society? Recession?"

She couldn't see his face in the mirror because the makeup artist cleaning off the fake blood from his face was blocking the view, but she heard him cracking up before he shot back, "I'm taking all this unnecessary ageist bashing to HR first thing tomorrow and getting your arse fired—possibly canceled. And by the way, have you seen me? Who do you think I hang out with?"

"You're right," Martina conceded. "You're a pretty cool 50-year-old. But, I'm afraid you're more the exception than the rule."

"Thank you, darling!" he said, appreciating the compliment. "I should say the same about you. When I heard superstar Martina Moreschino was cast as the female lead, I expected the stereotypical diva. You know, completely out of touch with reality, maybe a little tone-deaf, like an entitled little... "

"Ok I get it! Jeez, Ewan!" Martina interrupted him.

"Let me finish!" He continued. "I'll admit, I let my prejudices win at first. But it was clear after just a week of working with you, that you're the opposite of that. I've been in this industry for a long time, and it's rare to find someone as insanely talented and successful as you, who's also so humble, down-to-earth, hardworking, and easy to be around. And that doesn't even begin to cover how special you are. I hope you know that."

She was so floored that tears started welling up in her eyes right in the makeup artist's face. "I'm... I don't even know what to say," she said softly, trying to keep her composure through the unexpected wave of emotion exploding from her chest. "Thank you so much for saying that."

"See, that's what I mean," he said, rising from his chair as the guy cleaning him signaled he was done. "I can't even remember the last time I saw someone from this industry get genuinely emotional over a random compliment when there weren't cameras around. This life we lead...it's abrasive, like sandpaper. It rubs and scratches you until you think you're smooth, but really all you are is just desensitized, and cynical. You have an exceptional emotional depth and the incredible courage to wear your heart on your sleeve every day. Hold on to that."

A happy tear slipped down her cheek as she noticed the makeup artist's growing frustration trying to dissolve the latex open wound with prosthetic remover—and now, her tears.

"Oh, I'll hold on to that real good," she sniffed, smiling, "It's how I win Grammys." 

"I bet that's how!" he said, heading toward the trailer door. "Speaking of awards... I heard you're going to be at the Emmys next week!"

"Yes, Mika and I got nominated for a song we wrote together, so yes, we'll be there," she said. "How many nominations did you guys get for Obi-Wan?"

"We've got a whopping five!" he grinned from ear to ear.

"So well-deserved," she replied sincerely. "See you there then! Oh, and say hi to your old friend for me!"

***

LA. October 18th - Hayden's POV

"Well, hello there," Hayden heard Ewan's familiar voice ring out through the pub before he even saw him.

"General Kenobi!" He replied, smiling. Then he stood up to greet his old friend with a warm hug. "You just can't resist, can you?"

"Never!" Ewan laughed, giving him a few energetic pats on the back.

As they settled into the private section of the pub they'd reserved, they ordered two cold beers and started catching up. 

Ewan was one of the few people Hayden was always wholeheartedly happy to see whenever he was back in LA. But with both of their hectic schedules—and, admittedly, Hayden's habit of flying straight back to Canada the moment his work commitments wrapped up, God forbid staying in the city a moment longer than he had to—it was tough to keep their reunions as frequent as they would've liked.

"How've you been, mate?" Ewan asked cheerfully. "Feels like it's been ages since we last hung out!"

"Yeah, it does," Hayden replied. "I spent the whole summer in Ontario with my little girl. We had an amazing time."

"That's lovely! How long are you planning to stay now?"

"I'm thinking a few months," Hayden said as the waiter arrived with their beers and a few snacks. "Got some things lined up and co-parenting duties to handle, so it looks like I'm stuck here for a while—much to my immense joy," he added with a smirk.

Ewan waited for the waiter to leave, then leaned in with a curious, almost suspicious look. "And what is it that you have lined up, Hayden? Anything I should be clued in on?" 

Hayden had just made a big comeback to acting, returning to the Star Wars franchise in Ewan's Obi-Wan Kenobi. As usual with these things, he was sworn to secrecy when he agreed to reprise the role and had to keep quiet until a week before shooting—with even Ewan left in the dark. So, of course, now he was trying to dig up as much info as he could.

Hayden locked eyes with him, offering a sly, crooked smile as he took a swig of his beer. "NDAs, man," he chuckled. "Always standing between me and the truth."

"No kidding!" Ewan laughed, shaking his head.

Changing the topic, Hayden inquired, "What about you? You're still filming that haunted house thing?"

"Yeah, Blackwood Manor, and I'm loving every minute of it," Ewan said. "Great director, amazing cast... Oh, and the female lead is Martina Moreschino, and I have to say I was really blown away by—"

"Martina Moreschino?" Hayden interrupted, raising an underwhelmed eyebrow, "The popstar?"

"You know another?" Ewan asked ironically.

"Honestly, I'm not even sure I'd recognize her, but I do know every song on her last album," Hayden said with a resigned smile. "Lena's obsessed. It's all we listened to this summer."

"Welcome to the listening club, mate," Ewan laughed, raising his beer glass in solidarity. "She's actually been over a few times, met the kids and Mary, and—"

"She hangs out at your house?" Hayden interrupted again. He was...confused. Ewan was as social as they come, but still—even when they first met, it took a while before they reached the 'come over whenever' stage.

"What can I say? We hit it off pretty quick. She's great fun to be around, and you know me...I've got a soft spot for genuine souls," Ewan shrugged. "You'd get on with her, I reckon. I could, uh, introduce you next time..."

"Yeah, yeah... I'm sure she's a delight," Hayden said, narrowing his eyes at Ewan's barely disguised nonchalance. "Don't think I don't see where this is going. You always start off vague, then somehow it turns into, 'You really should put yourself out there more.'"

"But you should!" Ewan insisted. "We've known each other forever, and I know you. I've gotten to know her a bit too, and I think you two would get on. I just want good things for you, mate, can't help it."

"Thanks, Ewan. But I'm good. Same as last time, I'm not really looking for anything right now. You know my priorities—being there for my kid, the few projects I take on... I'm really aiming for a peaceful life here."

"Stubborn folks, all of you. Do what you want. I don't care," Ewan huffed, his accent thickening with his rising frustration.

"Think I will," Hayden said with a satisfied grin, tossing a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

"What are you doing Friday night?" Ewan asked, though it sounded more like he was requesting Hayden's company than just checking his schedule.

Ewan explained that Mary was supposed to be his date for the Emmys, but she couldn't make it in the end.

"She stood you up?" Hayden teased him. "Found better things to do on a Friday night?" 

"You remember we're both UNICEF ambassadors, right? We've got a big charity auction coming up next month, and she's knee-deep in organizing it. By the way, you're invited to that too. Maybe find something to donate for the fundraising?"

"Of course! I know just the thing...You know this summer Lena and I started making handmade soap with goat milk. The goats are super friendly, so I could offer an interactive class on farm animal care—how to take care of the goats, milk them, and turn the milk into soap."

"Yeah... right. That's... lovely," Ewan replied, giving him a puzzled look. "Or...maybe find one of those old lightsabers we stole from the prequels set? That's more, the vibe, you know?"

"Alright, I'll see what I can find," Hayden said with a smile, already used to the lukewarm reactions he got whenever he talked about farm life.

"Great! So, back to the Emmys—there's one spot left at our table. You in?" Ewan asked.

"Aww, are you asking me to be your date?" Hayden teased.

"Kind of, yeah," Ewan laughed.

He hated those kinds of events. The spotlight and the blinding camera flashes were exhausting. The whole vanity fair—full of fake niceties and shallow small talk—left him feeling so disconnected from reality and it drained the ever loving life out of him.

"You know, that's really not my thing. I'd much rather watch from home. I'd just feel out of place the whole time," he said simply.

"Come on, out of place, what are you talking about? Our table's just folks from the Kenobi show, so you know everyone there. It's not like you're some outsider with the show or the franchise—you are the goddamn franchise!" he banged his fist on the table. "Just get over yourself and drag your bloody arse out for once!"

"Alright, man, fine! I'll come. But you owe me. Big time," Hayden said, emptying his beer glass.

"Don't worry, I'll make it up to you. I'll buy all that goat milk soap you've been raving on about. All of it," Ewan promised.

Chapter Text

LA. October 24th - Martina's POV

It took Martina a full hour to walk the red carpet, pose for pictures, hit the press corner, and greet friends and acquaintances. When she finally got inside the theater, she scanned the room for her table and settled into her seat next to Mika.

A familiar flutter tugged at her stomach as she took in the stunning event hall and the crowd, all dressed to the nines. She always felt honored to be at these events, surrounded by so much talent—when she wasn't about to faint from nerves in her dressing room with Sara holding her feet in the air, that is.

Flashback to her full-blown panic attack at last year's VMAs. She had managed to pull herself together, hit the stage, perform, and even win Best Pop Video that night. But, still.

Nobody could tell from the outside how draining and challenging this sometimes was for her mental health, which, somehow made it even harder.

Thankfully, she was pretty calm that night. With no performance to worry about, a lot of the pressure was off. Plus, having Mika by her side made all the difference.

They had met when she returned to XFactor Italy a few years after winning, this time as a judge, and he had been a judge too. They had hit it off, started collaborating on music, and soon became friends.

Recently they had worked on a few songs together, including Stardust, which was nominated in the "Outstanding Original Music and Lyrics" Emmy category that night. 

They were both stoked for the nomination but Stardust was a breezy, cheesy love song, and a bilingual duet, so if they were being realists, they knew their chances of winning were pretty slim. 

They were mostly there to have fun and enjoy the night, and that's what they did during the first part of the show, shooting the shit and sharing a few laughs.

Martina suddenly realized she hadn't seen Ewan yet, so she glanced around, scanning the venue from her seat. Her eyes darted across the nearby tables until, after a bit of searching, she finally spotted Ewan's unmistakable full-face grin.

He was a few tables over, right under the stage, chatting with a man Martina didn't recognize. The man was seated facing the stage, so she could only see his back from where she stood. Whoever he was, he must be standing in for Mary, she thought.

For a moment, Ewan and Martina made eye contact. He gave her an enthusiastic wave and mouthed a friendly "Good luck," which Martina returned in kind.

The lights dimmed, signaling the start of the second segment of the show. After a few awards were handed out, the "Outstanding Limited or Anthology Series" category was announced, and Ewan's table tensed with anticipation.

"And the Emmy goes to... Obi-Wan Kenobi!" the host shouted excitedly.

The crowd cheered loudly, louder than they had for any other award. Everyone at Ewan's table erupted in applause and, rising from their seats, they made their way to the stage. 

Martina observed the group, recognizing Deborah Chow, Kathleen Kennedy, and...What the actual fuck? Was that Hayden Christensen? She nearly spat out her drink when she realized he must have been the guy Ewan had been chatting with earlier.

She also realized why the crowd had been cheering so loudly. Hayden rarely showed up at these events, and as far as she knew, he had sort of retired from the whole acting scene altogether. 

So whenever he made appearances now, whether on or off screen, it was a rarity and people went wild. Which honestly, good for him. 

She remembered the less-than-warm reception he had received from Star Wars fans for his prequels performance, a criticism that she'd always found harsh, unfair and completely uncalled for.

She observed Hayden on stage, as Ewan delivered his acceptance speech, and she couldn't help but reminisce about a much simpler time in her life when she was just 15 and The Revenge of The Sith had just come out. 

She laughed to herself and cringed, recalling the posters of him on her teenage bedroom walls, right next to those of Johnny Depp and Leonardo DiCaprio.

Hayden was the ultimate heartthrob of the 2000s, but he always had that smug, slightly conceited look—like a teenager who was just a bit too full of himself, to be honest.

The difference between then and now was night and day. The guy on stage came across as genuinely humble, chill, and kind of shy too. He definitely still got it, though.

Mika suddenly broke Martina's reverie, leaning in to whisper, "Is it just me, or do men from the Star Wars franchise age like fine wine?"

"Can't argue with that," Martina said, hiding a mischievous grin as she took a generous sip of her wine.

The night rolled on with one award after another. During the last intermission before their category, Martina admitted to Mika that she hadn't even thought about what to say in the unlikely event they won.

"Me neither! Oh gosh, we're awful, totally unprepared!" Mika laughed.

"Want to brainstorm something real quick?" Martina asked.

"Alright, how about this? I'll start with a cheeky joke, and then you can handle the real acceptance speech—thanking everyone who worked on the song, our fans, families, our therapists, the gods, and the whole nine yards," he suggested.

"Perfect. Couldn't love it more!" she agreed.

Martina felt a rush of adrenaline as the lights dimmed once more and the nominees were announced. She squeezed Mika's Hand tightly and then they heard, "And the Emmy goes to...STARDUST, Martina Moreschino and Mikaaaa!"

They shot wide-eyed glances at each other, as she silently mouthed "SHIT," hoping the cameras didn't catch it. 

The lights came back up as they stood to head to the stage, their winning song playing loudly over the roar of the cheering audience.

As they made their way through the applauding tables, they passed Ewan's, where he had reached out his hand to Martina for a quick congratulatory squeeze.

She realized the brief stop had left her trailing behind, with Mika now a few steps ahead. She tried to catch up, but in her rush, her feet got tangled in her dress. She lost her balance and started to spin, on the brink of toppling over backward.

She closed her eyes, bracing for the impact of a fall that she was sure would make a great meme, only to realize it never came.

Two strong arms caught her just before she hit the ground, saving her from the fall she'd been bracing for. Time seemed to slow down for a moment as she floated in a dance-like pose, just inches above the floor.

As she re-opened her eyes, they met a pair of striking, piercing blue ones. She was awestruck, unable to look away or say a word, her words stuck in her throat as she got lost in the intensity of his stare.

"Got you," Hayden said, his face way too close to hers for her heart to stop hammering right into her chest.

She managed to stammer out a simple "Thank you," still catching her breath.

"Anytime," he said, his deep voice and warm smile making her cheeks flush crimson red.

"Alright, I'll get you up and make you spin, ok? It won't look as awkward this way," he said, snapping her out of her stupor, "On the count of three. Ready?"

She nodded, and with a fluid motion, he effortlessly lifted her from the floor, guiding her into a graceful spin that ended in an elegant twirl.

On the landing his gaze stayed locked on her. He took her hand and slowly raised it to his lips for a gentle kiss. 

It was undeniably a chivalrous gesture, but for a split second there, she thought she glimpsed something else in his eyes—a darker glint, sparkling for a moment too long, just enough to tempt her to follow wherever it might lead.

Time seemed to snap back to its usual rhythm as the crowd erupted in cheers. She knew this was one of those juicy moments the cameras would eat up and the public couldn't get enough of, and they'd be raving about it for days.

She lowered her gaze to hide her permanent blush and turned toward Mika to continue their walk to the stage.

As they finally received the Emmy, she stepped back to let Mika start his speech, as they had planned. Meanwhile, she was still floating, her mind replaying what just happened.

Suddenly, Mika nudged her arm, and it hit her that she must have missed her cue to finish the speech. She quickly leaned into the microphone, thanking everyone who contributed to the song, but she stumbled over her words a few times.

Mika, with his usual humor, leaned into the mic and teased, "Marti, did you hit your head on the way down? Need a minute to get your bearings, sweetheart?"

"I'm sorry, everyone," she laughed in the mic, "But being saved by the most charming Jedi in the whole galaxy doesn't leave you unfazed, okay? It does things to you!"

Mika's eyes widened in mock shock at her comment, while laughter rippled through the crowd.

Ewan playfully got up from his seat and yelled, "Hey! What about me?"

She laughed and replied into the mic, "It's not my fault—it's the Midichlorians, man!" 

Sneaking a glance at Hayden, she saw him hiding a subtle grin behind a sip of his wine. 

She lowered her eyes over the microphone and repeated with a chuckle, "Freaking Midichlorians."

Chapter Text

LA. The next day - Martina's POV

As she was about to head out the door, two impatient car honks disrupted the usual calm. She furrowed her brows on the way down the gate. It couldn't be his driver, Nick. No, Nick would never. 

The loud honks could only mean one thing, she thought, imagining Sara climbing over the backseat to slam herself and all her frustration onto the steering wheel. She rolled her eyes, anticipating Sara's mood.

She entered the car, and there was her sister— computer on her lap, and phone glued to her ear. 

Marti could always tell just how bad her sister's mood was by the intensity and obstinacy of her hairstyle. 

Normally, she wore her signature ponytail, held high with at least ten hairpins and multiple elastics, which perfectly showcased just how laid back her general disposition really was.

Today though, she wore a polished bun so tight it looked like it was giving her a face lift. Flyaways didn't stand a chance, but she still had smothered any potential for rebellion with a thick layer of gel to rule them all. 

The look had serious Disney villain vibes—enough to scare small children. Hell, definitely enough to scare her. 

Sara turned her head slowly, and if it weren't for the oversized black glasses hiding her eyes, Martina was sure they would have burned right through her.

She hissed through her teeth while still on the phone, "You're late. We're going to miss our flight!"

"We fly private, Sara. We can't miss our flight," Marti sighed.

Sara hung up the phone and, skipping all pleasantries, and dove right in, "So, we got 'Freaking Midichlorians' trending at number one on X. TikTok is flooded with remixed video edits of the unforgettable moment. Even the official Disney Instagram account reposted it, and Mark Hamill commented 'May the flirt be with you.'" She said with a dry and brusque tone of voice. "I hope you're happy with yourself."

Martina couldn't help but snort with laughter, not so much at what had happened—even though Mark's comment was definitely funny—but at how wildly disproportionate Sara's reaction was.

The muffled sound caught Sara's attention. She glared at Marti, slowly removing her glasses, to reveal a furious expression.

"You think this is funny?" Sara asked, her tone utterly unamused. "The whole point of our PR strategy—and why we brought Jessie on as your publicist—was to keep the media from focusing on your personal life, especially after the breakup and the Hamptons incident. We wanted them to focus on your career and protect your privacy, not draw attention to your love life. Wasn't that what we agreed on?"

"It was, but..." Marti said, but Sara wasn't done.

"And how the hell do you think we're going to make this work if you're out there publicly flirting with Hayden Christensen in front of millions of people?" Sara yelled, her voice rising to an alarmingly high pitch.

"Oh, Sara, come on...give me a break! I wasn't flirting! It was just a lighthearted joke, a spontaneous fun little moment, that's all." She tried to brush off both the incident and Sara's irritation.

"A spontaneous little moment that's going to wipe out all our progress and drive Jessie and the PR team mad with all the clickbait and media hype," Sara said, oozing exasperation. 

"It's not like I planned it! I was..." Martina fumbled for the right words to explain or apologize but found none.

Her mind raced as she replayed the scene: Hayden catching her, the glint in his eyes, her silly joke, and his half-hidden smile.

Yeah, no apologies found. She would definitely do it all over again, she thought, biting her lip to suppress the smile that was forming.

She glanced out the window and saw they had arrived at the private terminal where the jet was waiting.

"It was funny, though—you have to admit," Martina remarked.

Sara scoffed and rolled her eyes as she quickly gathered her things, ready to exit the car.

"Well, thankfully, you have tonight to make up for it," she said, referring to Martina's appearance on Jimmy Fallon. "We can go over the questions and your answers in detail on the plane."

"Ok. Relax, I won't mess up." Martina reassured her.

"It's not just about me relaxing. It's about having a solid and consistent PR strategy. It takes work—efforts you might not even realize. But in order to be solid, everyone needs to do their part. And maybe not act like a child." Sara barked back as they walked to the jet. 

If someone ever put Sara on trial for killing joy, she'd rack up so many counts of murder that she'd need a whole new life to serve her sentence. 

Sara continued, "Back to Jimmy. We agreed on a few questions about Blackwood Manor, an anecdote about working with Ewan, and the Emmy you won last night for Stardust."

"That seems manageable," Marti commented. 

"Idiot-proof," Sara hissed, then went on to explain, "At the end, there will be a quiz segment as part of a skit. Jimmy's going to bring up that you're recently single and he'll fire a bunch of questions to figure out your likes and dislikes, so potential dates will know if they're your type."

"Doesn't this take us in the opposite direction we want to go?" Martina asked, puzzled.

"No, because you're going to play along, but then you'll have the opportunity to set the record straight. You'll say you're happily single and very much focused on your career and your privacy right now. That way, all the buzz about those damn 'Midichlorians' can finally die down," she explained as she settled into her seat and fastened her seatbelt.

"Alright. Do you think he's going to bring it up?" Marti asked.

"Jimmy is... well, Jimmy," Sara sighed, shrugging. "We've got a list of approved questions he'll stick to, and we've had a solid relationship with him over the years. That being said, he's a man of entertainment, and 'Freaking Midichlorians' is all over the internet. I can't say for sure he won't drop a hint, but he's not going to throw you under the bus or grill you on live TV, that's for sure."

***

"Alright, everyone, she's an icon, she's a legend, and she is the moment... let's hear it for the fabulous Martina Moreschino!" Jimmy's voice echoed.

Martina parted the curtains and stepped onto the set, waving to the cheering audience as she walked over to Jimmy, who was waiting with open arms to hug her.

"Heyyy! Hi, Jimmy, thank you so much for having me, it's so nice to be back!"

As she took her seat next to Jimmy, they jumped into some light banter about her latest projects and the vetted questions she had rehearsed with Sara.

When he steered the conversation toward her Emmy win, she felt her nerves spike, half-expecting him to put her on the spot. She tried to fake confidence, expressing her gratitude and surprise for the award, and wrapped up with, "All in all, it was a really good night."

"So I've heard!" He flashed a knowing grin at her, and she could tell he was dying to go off-script and make a sassy remark. She gave him her best oblique smile, her crossed leg nervously swaying as they shared a silent, amused exchange, both stifling laughter.

When the tension peaked, he finally said, "Alright, Marti, moving on!" She let out a sigh of relief and began to relax, thinking the worst of the interview was behind her.

"So... I've heard you're newly single, and I was wondering... do I stand a chance? Are we compatible? How about we play a little game of speed dating to find out," he asked with enthusiasm. "It's really simple. You'll see two images on the screen behind me—just tell me which one you like best. Are you ready?"

"Oh gosh, ok. Let's do this!" She could do this. They had gone over this with Sara. 

"First one: night in or night out?" He fired.

"NIGHT IN, all the way! Let's make Nap Dates a thing. Invite me over, and I'll show up in my plaid onesie and my favorite knee-high slippers. Kill you with sexiness!"

He laughed and proceeded, "In a man, do you prefer blue, green, or brown eyes?"

She didn't recall this question from Sara's script. Maybe she'd forgotten to show it to her, thinking she would be able to handle it on her own.

A flash of Hayden's piercing blue eyes from the night before coiled around her mind like a strangling vine, tightening until her clarity began to falter. She shook herself out of it.

"Dark eyes," she declared. "I've always had a thing for dark eyes. All my exes had dark eyes." She repeated it, hoping that saying it three times would be enough to banish those haunting shards of blue glass from her mind.

"Wooh, that means I have a chance, then!" He joked, winking at the camera. "Sweet or savory?"

"Savory! Always! I love salty foods."

"Pepperoni or pineapple on pizza?" Jimmy asked.

"I'm Italian, Jimmy. I don't think you quite understand the audacity and outrage behind that question. No pineapple for me," she shook her head, "In fact, I'm pretty sure they'd shred my citizenship in my face if I said otherwise."

"Millennium Falcon or Death Star?" He asked, completely out of the blue.

This definitely wasn't on Sara's list. Where was this going, she wondered, feeling a hint of cold sweat break out on her skin.

She played it cool, and tried to swerve. "Uhm, Millennium Falcon. Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs, baby, let's go!"

"NY or LA?" He continued with his rapid-fire.

"Well, I just moved to LA, but I lived here for the past few years, and I loved every second of it." Minus the stalkers and exes living there, she added to herself.

"Light side or Dark side?" He asked with a teasing smirk.

She glanced up at the screen behind him, where an image of Yoda was juxtaposed with a masked Darth Vader. 

Jesus, she knew exactly where this was going now—towards Sara's impending mental breakdown and Jessie racking up some serious overtime. 

But as for her, there wasn't much she could do now except having fun with it—which she had been doing from the very beginning anyway.

"Light side," she said, turning to Jimmy and letting out an unfiltered chuckle. "Am I sensing a vibe here, Jimmy?" She narrowed her eyes at him, openly playing along.

"Oh, so you'd say last night made you...sensitive...maybe force-sensitive all of a sudden?" he grinned, sticking his tongue out mischievously.

She shook her head laughing and lowered her eyes to hide a hint of shyness on her face.

"Italian men or American men?" Jimmy continued.

There it was, her cue. This was the moment to get out of this awkwardness and set the record straight. Sara had made her practice it twice, hiding the script to ensure she knew it by heart.

"Neither," she replied. "All jokes aside, Jimmy, you know...I'm genuinely happy right now. It's a new phase in my life that I want to enjoy privately. I'm really focused on my music and acting, and I'm looking forward to getting to know myself better—so no men for me, regardless of their nationality!" She finished her practiced little speech.

"That's some unfortunate news for me then. I suppose we can wrap this up with one last question," he joked. "Lightsaber or Force-choking?"

A picture of Ewan as Obi-Wan Kenobi wielding a lightsaber appeared on the screen, alongside one of Hayden as Anakin an intense force-choking pose.

She nodded, biting back a laugh as she squinted and pinched the bridge of her nose. Glancing at him, all smug and satisfied with his show, she playfully punched his arm. "Lightsaber, you son of a—"

"Martina Moreschino, everyone!" he laughed, cutting off her curse and cueing the audience for the final applause.

***

NYC. A week later - Hayden's POV

"Yeah, I can't say that I've missed this," he told his manager, sitting in a taxi moving at zero mph in the gridlock of New York City's busy streets.

The dazzling city lights, the deafening traffic noise, and the frenetic pace of life all around always sent him into sensory overload, something he hadn't experienced in years.

"I get it, sometimes it's too much for me too, man," Randy said, before asking, "You feeling alright about the show tonight?"

He nodded, doing his best to keep it together. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just been a while since I've done one of these. I'm really counting on muscle memory here."

"You'll do great, don't stress too much about it." Randy reassured him. "Easy crowd, easy host. Piece of cake." 

Hayden still wiped his sweaty palms over his jeans. 

Randy must have picked up the movement, because he tried to distract him right after, pulling out his phone and typing into the YouTube search bar. "You know who was on the show a couple of nights ago?" 

"No, who?" he asked, having spent the past few days either working or with his daughter and completely disconnected from the internet.

"Martina Moreschino." Randy handed him the phone playing an extract of her interview.

Hayden watched her on the screen, and before he knew it, he'd gone from merely watching to truly contemplating her.

There was something strikingly captivating about her that made it hard for him to look away, despite how much he wanted to. 

She looked like a classical painting, like each brushstroke defining her features had been softly and delicately laid onto the canvas to create something so crushingly and violently beautiful.

Her pale, moony skin beautifully contrasted with her black curls, gleefully bouncing up and down as she answered Jimmy's questions.

The camera lingered on her red velvet lips for a moment, right before she threw her head back in laughter, and he felt it again—the same damn stomach drop he'd felt the other night at that stupid event he wasn't even supposed to be at.

He found himself nervously gulping again for no reason, an impulse that had sprung to life without his knowledge or consent.

"So... I've heard you're newly single, and I was wondering..." the interview went on.

Newly single? Oh yeah, he recalled Ewan's clumsy attempt at matchmaking, from which he had conveniently left out the 'newly' part. 

The camera zoomed in on her, and Hayden's mind drifted back to a few nights ago when they got lost in each other's eyes for a brief moment that had somehow stretched into goddamn eternity .

Long enough for him to catch the hint of copper in her maple brown eyes, and long enough to make it really hard for him to stop thinking about them.

"...pretty sure they'd shred my citizenship in my face if I said otherwise."

Great. She was also funny.

Funny—what was he thinking? This definitely wasn't her. It had to be something scripted for her to read.

If there was one thing he had learned from all his years in the spotlight, it was that for celebrities at her level of fame, public image was no joke. It was all part of a carefully crafted strategy, even in the smallest details. 

Moments like the one they shared at the Emmys were either deliberately staged publicity stunts or totally random occurrences that could shift focus away from the PR team's narrative.

And from the way she tackled each question, stubbornly trying to steer the conversation away from him, he figured it fell into the latter category for her.

He imagined a skilled publicist on her team, performing mental gymnastics to craft a script that would redirect attention away from their moment to exactly where they wanted it. And this interview must have been the outcome.

Even though, judging from the crescendo of Star Wars-themed questions, there had to be a certain level of improvisation there.

He felt a twinge of secondhand embarrassment for her as she dodged every question, trying her best to deflect. But he would be lying if he said her nervous giggle and slightly flushed cheeks didn't both amuse and please him at the same time.

God. She was a fucking masterpiece, he thought, as an unbidden, sick desire to carve himself on her living canvas sparked from the darkest depths of his mind. 

"...so no men for me, regardless of their nationality!"

Interesting. Good thing he was Canadian. Not that it mattered anyway because it looked like they were on the same page on this.

"...Light saber or force-choking?"

Before he could even control it, he found himself wondering what she'd look like with his hand wrapped around her throat and what sweet sounds she'd make in his ears.

Fuck. No. This wasn't happening. How did he even get there? He didn't even know the woman. He needed to calm the fuck down.

He collected himself and repeated in his head what he knew with certainty. She was not looking for a man. He was not looking for a woman. And that was it. 

He switched off the phone and handed it back to Randy. 

He needed to focus now.

Chapter Text

LA. November 5th - Martina's POV

Martina had officially lost her sister in this multimillion-dollar mansion. She didn't even know whose house this was or what party they were at, exactly.

She vaguely remembered Sara mentioning it was a welcome party for a new singer who had just signed with the label. The last time she saw her, Sara had been knee-deep in conversation with the CEO, so it checked out.

These types of parties were usually all about networking with the right people to boost your career or just plain showing off with everybody else in attendance.

The conversation had a way of shifting from smooth, and transactional to sloppy and vulgar pretty quickly, as people tended to get messed up within the hour, anyway.

Martina looked around and spotted a few familiar faces, but no one she'd call a friend. It wasn't that she felt above anyone or assumed they were all awful. She just found these events exhausting.

Every now and then, she'd click with someone, and those nights could actually turn out fun. But it was rare, and it required a number of interactions she just wasn't in the mood for tonight.

So, she did what she always did in these situations: performed her favorite magic trick and disappeared. Usually into a guest bathroom, if she could find one.

She'd lock the door and either doom-scrolled on TikTok waiting for an acceptable hour to leave, call her parents, or dive deep into whatever hyperfixation had her hooked at the moment.

One night, she vanished from Drake's Grammy after-party for a solid two hours and managed to watch the entire season finale of Game of Thrones in the comfort of an insanely decadent bathroom, nearly as big as her childhood home.

That night, she wanted to sneak out not only because the party vibes just weren't hitting, but also because she had something more interesting to do. Well, to watch, to be exact.

Earlier that day, a video had popped up on her Instagram feed—Hayden Christensen was going to be on Jimmy Fallon that night. Just a few days after her, what were the chances.

Had she barely thought about him before the Emmys? Correct. Had he crossed her mind more times than she cared to admit in the past few days? Also true.

Taking out her phone, she shot Sara a message, "Text me when you're ready to leave."

Was she sane? Up for debate. Was the level of obsession she'd developed for a man she'd only met once even remotely normal? Not by a long shot.

She shrugged it off and, and like any sane person would, decided she was about to obsess some more, patiently waiting for the livestream to load.

It felt like sneaking candy as a kid to enjoy it in a secret hideout. Nobody knew, and nobody could judge her. Pure bliss.

His elegant silhouette appeared on the small screen, walking into the studio and waving at the crowd. Jesus, he had no business being that handsome.

Would Jimmy go off-script with him too, she wondered? For Sara's and Jessie's sake, it'd be better if he didn't, so this whole thing could finally blow over. But part of her was dying to see how he'd react.

She listened as he talked about how he landed his role in Star Wars and how much he enjoyed his quiet, retreated life on his Canadian farm.

Apparently, they shared the same escapist cottagecore fantasy—only he had turned it into a reality. Maybe he hadn't had a stubborn sister trying to talk him out of it.

He definitely wouldn't laugh at her fantasy of making pottery on the porch of her imaginary Tuscan Villa. Her mind involuntarily pictured him on her make-believe porch. Crafting clay. Shirtless. And what a nice fucking sight.

He went on to share his excitement about returning to the Star Wars universe with his role in Obi-Wan Kenobi, then mentioned his daughter and their lightsaber training.

Oh right. He had a daughter. And that was...cute? She guessed.

Jesus—she thought—maybe she should just stop thirsting over this guy, instead. The man was probably 10 years older than her and she seemed to recall—separated? Divorced? And he had a daughter. Was she even allowed?

Jimmy moved forward, "You totally embody every woman's dream, you know? A dedicated father, successful on-screen and hardworking off-screen. Growing his own corn and chopping his own wood up in the Canadian forest..."

Hayden laughed it off and said, "You think? Well, I'm not so sure about that. I'm in a phase where I'm pretty content with how things are. My focus is all on being a good dad and, yeah, taking care of the farm when I'm not working. So... no women for me!"

She instinctively tilted her head at his words, as he looked at the camera with a self-satisfied grin. Was she delusional or he had just stolen her answer? He said exactly the same thing she had a few days ago, sitting on that same damn chair. What the fuck? Did Jessie write a script for him as well?

As a few ads played and as she waited for the final segment to start, a text from Sara popped up: "I'm in the car. Get down here."

She stepped out of the bathroom, waved a few people goodbye as she made her way through the mansion, and finally slid into the car.

"Where have you been? I've—" Sara began, but Martina quickly shushed her, pointing at her phone where the last part of the interview was still playing. Jimmy was now showing clips of fans from around the world asking Hayden quick questions.

Sara glanced at her phone and recognized Hayden's face. She turned to Martina, exclaiming, "Oh my god, him again? Are you serious? He's the reason I've been working overtime all weekend. I'd rather not—"

"Shhhh," Martina shushed her again.

Sara started the car while Martina continued watching him answer fan questions on her screen. He really did seem like a nice, down-to-earth, humble guy. Too bad she had decided to stop obsessing over him. Hadn't she.

A British girl asked, "What's your darkest side?" He smirked at the camera and replied with a simple, "Uh, that's for me to know," followed by a low, deep laugh. And there it was again, that fucking flicker of...something. She didn't know what it was, or where it led, but god, did she want to find out.

Her mind started to spin, wondering just how dark the darkest side of him was. A few vivid, graphic flashed through her thoughts and hit her brain like a shot of straight whisky.

Oh god. She needed to touch grass and calm the fuck down.

The interview was over and she was about to shut her phone off when she heard Jimmy say, "Hayden, thank you for being here! It's been an absolute pleasure to have you back. You're still the same after all these years, and I hear your Midichlorians are still thriving as well!"

A gentle smile graced his lips and then again, a fleeting shadow darkened his eyes, vanishing just as quickly as it appeared. He looked straight into the camera, "Oh yeah. They're never been better."

Her stomach twisted.

Chapter Text

LA. Unicef Charity Auction. November 15th - Martina's POV

Mika and Martina walked into the elegant UNICEF Charity Auction room.

Long, flowing white curtains cascaded from the walls, and crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, all bathed in a soft purple glow.

Right in the middle of it all was Mary, Ewan's wife, running the show—greeting guests, showing people around, and making sure everything was on point.

Mary spotted them right away, quickly wrapping up the conversation she was caught up into, before making her way over. "Oh my god, you guys! I'm so happy you made it!" she cheered.

She glanced at Mika's violet sequined tux and exclaimed, "Look at him, serving looks, I see!" She complimented him, and his unique, eclectic style.

Then she turned to Martina, taking in her long silver dress that trailed dramatically to the floor, "Marti, you're absolutely stunning! Are you trying to knock someone dead with that dress?"

Mika chimed in, "Right? Lady's got curves!"

"I'm mostly just trying not to trip and knock myself dead with this thing. Wouldn't want to make it a habit now," Martina quipped.

"I can't thank you both enough for coming and saving the night. When John Legend had to drop out last minute, we didn't know what to do," Mary beamed at them.

"Oh, don't even mention it. We're so excited to perform!" Marti replied with a smile.

"Absolutely! I've been itching to take that song for a spin ever since it won the Emmy!" Mika agreed.

"Amazing! Well dinner's about to start, but before that, be sure to sign your cards over there," Mary pointed at a table in a corner of the hall. "We'll be featuring all the collected autographs in our upcoming Christmas Lottery"

"Go ahead love," Mika told Marti, "I'll join you in a bit."

She reached the autographs table and began signing a few cards. Just as she finished and set down her pen came a deep, calm voice behind her, "It's nice to see you again."

Her eyes lit up in surprise, and a wave of unexpected happiness took over her as she realized who it belonged to.

What was he doing here? she wondered, quickly connecting the dots—Ewan must have roped him in, just like Mary had done with her.

She slowly turned, and there he was, just two feet away. With broad shoulders, a perfectly tailored suit and tie and deadly eyes.

A storm of emotions raced up to her throat, nearly choking her. He was so magnetic she had to actively remind herself to do something other than just stare at him.

"Hi...yourself," she replied, feigning a coolness she absolutely did not have.

What the fuck was wrong with her? 'Hi yourself?' Did people even say that? After ten years of living in the US, her grasp of English still slipped away whenever she was tired or, apparently, when her nerves got the better of her.

He stepped up to the table and began signing a few cards as well. "So, what are you putting up for auction tonight?" he asked casually.

"A date," she responded. "A charity date, I mean."

He raised an eyebrow and said, "I thought I heard you weren't looking to date right now?"

She hid the oblique smile on her lips—looks like she wasn't the only one keeping up with the other's TV spots after all.

But honestly, she was glad he'd kicked off this little banter. That, she could very much handle. Him gazing into her soul and speaking to every part of her body, on the other hand, was much more difficult.

"And I thought you said you liked the peaceful life that only the countryside can offer. Yet in the span of two weeks, I've seen you attending the Emmys, Jimmy Fallon, and this charity event with half of Hollywood's elite, so... we're both liars, I guess," she remarked, spying on his reaction.

He gave a low chuckle, "Touché."

"What are you offering for the auction?" she asked him.

"I thought about offering a class on animal care at my farm," he said, finishing up his autographs and turning to her. "Kind of a meet-and-greet with the animals—where people can hang out with our friendly goats, the not-so-friendly alpacas, some little pigs, and a few ducklings."

She was preparing for a witty comeback, but as he spoke, she realized he was serious, and her play-it-cool banter mode flew right out the window.

She didn't even know what she liked more - the fact that he regularly hung out with little pigs and ducks, or that he thought it was a good idea to auction off an animal meet-and-greet in a room where people were dropping thousands on Scarlett Johansson's used tissue or a lock of Justin Bieber's hair. This man couldn't be real.

She whisper-shrieked, "Little pigs? Shut up!!!"

"I know, I know," he said, waving off his own idea. "They already told me it doesn't exactly fit the vibe of this event."

"No, no! That's not what I meant!" she laughed. "Honestly, I think that should be everyone's vibe, always. I'll talk to my team about it—if my next meet-and-greets don't involve alpacas or little pigs, I don't want 'em," she joked.

"Yeah? Then I can hook you up with my farm and we can talk business," he said with a grin, leaning casually against the table.

"Oh, no. My sister would have another panic attack," she laughed. "She's also my manager, by the way, and she's been super touchy about the whole rural life idea ever since I mentioned ditching everything to move to the Italian countryside. You know, just me, the trees, wind in my hair, sipping Chianti at 5 PM on a random Thursday. What a life."

He burst into laughter, and she felt a bit relieved—she was oversharing like a maniac, apparently, but at least she was also entertaining him.

"I thought you were busy topping charts, winning Emmys and Grammys left and right. How can you fit rural life into all of that?" he asked, genuinely curious.

She lowered her eyes with a bittersweet smile, "I can't. Hence my manager's aforementioned panic attack."

"You miss home?" He asked.

"Uhm... it's a bit more complicated than that. I miss the slower pace. Life was calmer there, more authentic. My whole family's still back home, and I hardly ever see them," she smiled shyly, too far down this intimate rabbit hole to know how to stop. "I mean, I'm incredibly grateful to be doing what I love. It's always been my dream, but sometimes... well, it takes up all the space, all the time, all the peace."

Great. Now she had just TMIed herself into a major buzzkill. She could feel his eyes on her, studying her, as if trying to unravel her thoughts. Or maybe just trying to figure out if this was her usual way of breaking the ice.

"I am really sorry, I'm spilling my guts to you like you asked for it. Pretty sure cool people normally stick to small talk," she tugged her hair behind her ear.

"Cool people do," he shrugged. "I don't mind, though. Guess we are not cool."

"Well, look at us! Liars and uncool...scum of the earth!" she joked.

"Are you performing tonight?" He asked.

"Yes, Stardust—the song we won the Emmy for. You know, the one that was playing when I fell, and you..." She trailed off, his piercing blue eyes cutting into her soul like blue shards, sending a flutter through her stomach.

"Oh, I wasn't listening," he said with a smirk. "I was too busy saving you."

"Fair enough," she said. "I wouldn't have expected you to be familiar with any of my music, anyway. You're not exactly what my team would call 'my target personas,'" she quipped.

"Oh but I am. I have listened to your album all summer." He was serious.

She raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Willingly? Enjoyably?"

He didn't commit, but gave a subtle smile. "My little girl loves your music," he added, to put it into context.

The thought of him enduring the same songs on repeat, probably far from his elective taste, just to make his daughter happy warmed her heart.

"I liked that 'Let it slide' song. It's a cool mindset to have, just shaking things off and not letting them weigh you down."

"Thanks. It's easier sung than done, though," she smiled at him, "Take it from someone who's always cared way too much to shake off anything anyone ever says or does. But let's keep that our little secret."

He chuckled and mimed, zipping his mouth shut.

"So, what was the second option? For the auction." She circled back to her initial question.

"A lightsaber from the prequels, which I may or may not have 'borrowed' from the set. But let's keep that our little secret as well," he looked at her seeking complicity.

"Wow. And you're ready to give up a priceless item like that?"

"Oh yeah, absolutely. It's for a good cause. Anything for the children," he said, a hint of seriousness in his tone.

"You're right. Seems like the very bare minimum after what you did to the younglings," she teased, with a side-eye and a grin.

He shook his head laughing in response.

"Sorry, couldn't resist," she shrugged, "You kinda handed that one on a silver platter."

He must be so over the Star Wars jokes by now, she thought. Maybe that's why he ran off to the Canadian woods. Goats couldn't mock him all day, yelling that they have the high ground, and cows definitely couldn't ask him about the sand.

Solid life choice.

Same night - Hayden's POV

Hayden had taken his seat next to Ewan for dinner. After parting ways with Martina, he had caught himself giggling like an idiot on his way to his table, and his mood had been ruined ever since.

He was bothered. Utterly bewildered. Annoyingly irritated. Ten minutes of conversation couldn't possibly affect him like this. He didn't understand it, and most importantly, he did not like it. It was absurd, and he would not have it.

He kept interactions with the people around him to a minimum. He wasn't in the mood for it. Besides, his mind was already busy trying to sort his thoughts back into some sort of calm, rational order.

Ok, she was drop-dead gorgeous. Big deal. Plenty of women he'd met were. Maybe not to the point it physically hurt just to look at her. Whatever.

She was his kind of funny. So what. Many people were funny. It was common. Not like she was a comedian by any stretch.

She might be open and unfiltered. And that was less common. Maybe that's why talking to her had felt so familiar, like they'd been doing it for ages, like picking up from countless other conversations before—even though none of them had actually ever happened.

Nice. Now he was hallucinating, too. He clenched his jaw—this shit was getting downright ridiculous. He really needed to keep himself in check.

But she had seemed so... real. Which, in this shiny, plastic city, was saying a lot. It must have been only because he'd just met her. Give it some time and she'd surely reveal herself to be just as fake as everyone else. Granted.

It didn't matter, anyway. He didn't want to and couldn't get involved with anyone. He'd been down this road before, and what did it ever get him? Boredom, at best. Pain, at worst. No use getting burned again.

And for a moment, he believed it.

Then his gaze inadvertently landed on her, a few tables over, gesturing like her life depended on it, laughing in the most uninhibited manner, and he wasn't so sure anymore.

There was such a light in her, a wild warmth that flickered in the copper embers of her eyes. But he was no moth, and she was no flame, he had to know better than to fucking fall for that.

It was just that she seemed so...soft. The kind of softness that wasn't helpless or unwary, though. It was deliberate, intentional.

Like the violets that grew on his farm, right where the meadow met the woods. They looked so delicate, so fragile, as if one blow of icy wind or a cold night could fatally crush them for good. And yet, every winter, they bloomed recklessly—and they thrived.

The host announcing Martina's performance faintly registered, briefly interrupting Hayden's spiral of thoughts. The lights dimmed, and she stepped onto the stage, her voice filling the room as she began to sing.

Ewan leaned in and asked, "She's really good, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is." Hayden said, keeping it cool as he gulped down something unwelcome fluttering in his throat.

He tried to keep his composure as her voice nestled into his ears, like broken crystals dancing into a hypnotic symphony.

If there had been even a shred of a chance he could let this go, it disappeared the moment she started singing.

He sipped his wine, as he waited for the song to end, then he quickly made an excuse about an urgent phone call.

Same night - Martina's POV

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've got something extra special on the auction block tonight—a once-in-a-lifetime date with the incredible Martina Moreschino! Talent, charm, and beauty—what's not to love? We'll start at $10,000!" the auction master announced, kicking off the bidding.

Martina spotted a bunch of paddles going up—some from the nearby tables, others from bidding agents locked into their phones.

She had originally planned to donate one of her stage costumes, like she always did, but after they were discovered in her stalker's hideout, it just didn't feel right anymore.

So Jessie had come up with this idea. Martina had sighed and agreed, repeating herself it was all for charity.

Within thirty seconds, the bids had already hit $35,000. She met a few faces in the room, smiling and nodding at her, as if they were praising her for something she didn't even deserve credit for, and it kind of made her uncomfortable.

She glanced over at Hayden, but he seemed completely absorbed in his phone, fingers flying across the screen at lightning speed.

Martina could have sworn she'd felt his eyes on her more than a few times that night, which she didn't mind at all. But she must have been tripping, because now, as they auctioned off her date, he hadn't even glanced up from his phone, not once.

He must be distracted by more important matters, she thought, picturing him Candy Crushing for dear life.

She refocused on the auction, and the current bid almost made her spit out her wine. $60,000? This was excessive, and not in some fake humble way. Like she was getting worried about this.

Martina's anxiety spiked as she realized no one in the room was bidding anymore. It had turned into a head-to-head battle between two bidding agents, both taking instructions from someone on the other end of the line.

Who could be so obsessed, so dead set on winning a date with her and willing to pay that much for it? A chilling possible answer crept into her mind.

Whoever they were, the two contenders kept outbidding each other back to back until the price rapidly shot up to $90,000.

She watched the audience murmur in awe as the bidding skyrocketed, and her stomach started to churn. She scanned the room—everyone looked ecstatic. Everyone except Hayden, who remained glued to his phone.

The room was filled with cheers, laughter, and applause, but the higher the bids, the more anxious she got. They were all blissfully unaware of what was really happening.

She recalled Thomas's words from the night of the break-in. "Considerable financial resources...significant means...your dresses...one of them sold for half a million dollars..."

Martina turned to Sara, seated right beside her, and squeezed her arm tightly, her eyes filled with worry.

"What if it's him bidding from afar?" Marti whispered. "He had my dresses... they were auctioned too. He's always had access to these things. How did we not think this through?"

"Marti, relax. We'll have Thomas run all the checks," her sister said, trying to calm her down. "Do you really think we'd let some dangerous stranger—who could be your stalker—actually take you out on a date?"

Sara noticed Marti's still unconvinced expression and added, "Besides, it's probably just some bored billionaire tossing money around for fun. Just breathe."

The bids had hit $100,000. Martina looked around and saw Ewan mouthing, "YOU'RE ON FIRE!" with a mix of surprise and encouragement.

She gave him a half-hearted smile, then noticed Hayden beside him, tossing his phone onto the table. A satisfied grin spread across his face as he finally leaned back in his chair.

He took a sip from his glass, his eyes locking onto hers, cutting through the crowd as if no one else in the room existed.

Great, now she had another reason to feel nervous.

She heard the auction master's voice boom through the microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a staggering bid of $250,000—more than double the previous offer, and now decisively in the lead!"

Her stomach twisted as the insane bid sank in, tension creeping through her body. The thought that her stalker might actually be throwing down that kind of cash just to get close to her made her feel sick.

"Going once, going twice, and... sold for $250,000!" The auction master brought the gavel down with a thud. "Congratulations to our mystery bidder, and a big thank you to Martina Moreschino. This generous contribution will make a huge impact for UNICEF!"

She raised her glass with an awkward nod, then gripped her sister's arm tightly and muttered, "Let's vet the shit out of this mystery fucker."

Chapter Text

LA. November 29th - Martina's POV

"So, you're SURE I'm not in danger?" Martina asked Sara, unenthusiastically applying her lipstick in front of the hall mirror.

"I'm sure, Thomas is sure. Everyone is sure. We've vetted it. You're all good," Sara said, appearing behind her in the mirror.

"How can you be so sure?" Marti narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge if her sister was holding anything back.

"Because we've talked to him. I can guarantee you it's not your stalker," Sara said with a full-mouthed grin.

"Then why won't you tell me who it is?" Martina asked, her frustration growing.

"You'll see him in five minutes anyway. Security will follow you, they'll be right there if anything happens—which it won't."

"What's with all the secrecy? And more importantly, what's with all this optimism?" Marti asked, her suspicion growing by the second.

"Because I know you, mascherina*," Sara said, affectionately booping her sister's nose. "Now, stop talking, fix your makeup, and go!" She guided her to the door and out to the driveway. "And have fun!"

*Italian expression, an affectionate way to say "I know you very well, I know what you really feel or think despite what you say or do".

Martina reached the end of her driveway and spotted Thomas and Philip by the gate, making their way toward the security car.

"Good evening, Martina," Philip said. "We'll be waiting in the car. We'll follow you all night—as always, you won't even notice, and neither will he."

She thanked him and took the chance to fill those five minutes by asking Thomas if they'd found out anything more about the other bidder's identity.

"Not yet. It was a chain of bidders by proxy, so it's hard to trace it exactly," Thomas replied, gripping his belt with both hands.

"So it was really him," an uneasy feeling settled in. "Who else would go through all the trouble of staying anonymous at a charity auction, where everyone shows off their attendance, bids, and wins?"

"We're looking into it," he stated. "It's better not to jump to any conclusion just yet."

"Now take your mind off of it," Philip jumped in. "You're protected. And this one has been cleared." he confirmed. 

"This one. I can't even get a name. Who am I going out with, a KGB agent?" she retorted.

Nobody laughed. Philip looked at her deadpan and replied, "No." Then both he and Thomas climbed into the car with that same stiff, robotic walk they always had.

She swore they were like the Queen's guards. It was impossible to make them laugh.

Her heart raced with anticipation as a black Audi slowly pulled up, its tinted window rolling down, and it skipped a beat when she recognized the driver.

"Hey. It's nice to see you again," he said with a self-satisfied expression, flashing a smile so ridiculously dashing she wanted to slap him. He slid his Ray-Bans onto his head, clearly savoring the moment a little too much.

She shook her head, laughing as she climbed into his car. 

Fastening her seatbelt, she suddenly became too aware of how close they were. Her eyes kept drifting to the way his unbuttoned shirt fit just right and the mix of soap, and pinewood made her want to lean in and breathe him in a little more.She shook it off and tried not to embarrass herself too much.

"Hey yourself," she smiled, "You know, you could have just asked nicely, and I would've gone out with you for free. It didn't have to cost you 250 grand."

"It didn't cost me, I donated," he clarified, "Besides. I've seen the kind of guys who bid at these things—creeps who wouldn't stand a chance otherwise. I just wanted to spare you from that."

"That's really generous of you," she said with a nervous chuckle, realizing just how close to the truth he had gotten.

"Also, I could have just asked you out if either one of us was actually looking to date," he paused, throwing the gear into first, "but we're not. So just to be clear, this isn't a real date. It's a one-time, charity thing. Deal?" 

She felt it in her bones—there was no way she was going to survive this man. At all. But still, she nodded with a grin and said, "Deal."

***

They walked into a cozy Italian restaurant tucked away in the San Gabriel Mountains. The owner greeted them warmly, and before long, they were seated with a bottle of wine and a spread of food in front of them.

"You know, it's a good thing this isn't a real date," Martina said, grabbing a breadstick. "I'm so out of the game I have no idea what the do's and don'ts of a first date even are anymore."

"Well, in my experience, first dates usually involve a lot of boring, shallow talk and withholding things to seem as likable as possible," he shrugged. "Things that should probably be laid out upfront to spare everyone the trouble of the drawn-out 'getting to know each other' phase, which will end in disappointment anyway."

Wow. Here lies optimism, brutally slain by a disillusioned man at an Italian restaurant. In lieu of flowers, please send breadsticks and a side of nihilism. 

She wondered if he cold-opened every date like that and silently thanked the lord this wasn't a real one; otherwise, she'd have spent the whole time overthinking every word. 

Whatever tonight was, she had a different plan in mind.

"Tell you what, since we've already agreed this is a one-time thing, let's keep it as real as it gets. No stupid rules, no small talk, holding back, no judgment. There won't be a second date anyway, so no need to worry about the consequences." She raised her glass. "Deal?"

"Deal." He smiled, intrigued, clinking his glass with hers and taking a generous sip. Without missing a beat, he leaned in closer and asked, "Alright, let's put this to the test. What's your deepest fear?"

"I'll give you my top three: strangers' armpits, outdoor camping and gender reveals."

He burst out laughing so loud it made an older couple at the next table turn their heads, "In that order? What did armpits ever do to you?"

"I was kidding, just letting my intrusive thoughts win." She laughed, then glanced down at her plate."Real answer though is how someone could mean the world to you and nothing to the rest of the world out there. No matter how much you love them, or how long you've sheltered them, once they're out in the world, they could meet someone who might hurt them—maybe even beyond repair—for cruelness, boredom or just for fun, like it's nothing."

She fidgeted with her fork, briefly worrying she might've been too intense. But when she glanced up, he was still silent, intensely studying her.

He had this tendency to allow silence to linger between them as he maintained an unwavering gaze. She found it unsettling in the best way, even though it made her momentarily forget how to breathe.

Most people couldn't hold eye contact for long with her. They usually broke it, out of anxiousness or distraction, but he pinned her down until she was the one who got too nervous to hold it any longer.

She took a sip of her wine, swallowing a little harder than usual, and broke the silence, "What about you? What's yours?"

"I'm not really religious, so I find it very hard to believe that everything happens for a reason. So I find it pretty scary to live with the belief that we're all just a bunch of atoms ruled by nothing but the entropy we generate," he said, then nonchalantly thanked the server who'd just brought their food, like he hadn't just dropped some first-class bomb. So much for boring small talk.

Still, she couldn't ignore the way their minds seemed to align. She already knew he could keep up with her banter, but this was different—more like a mental dance, and with every step, she felt herself being pulled further into him.

"Well, that got deep." She sat up straighter and cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure and shake off the flustered feeling creeping in. Hoping to shift the conversation to a lighter ground, she asked, "So, as the kids say, what's your biggest red flag?"

"That I got into crypto for a while?" he awkwardly admitted.

"Oh my god, ew!," she gasped, dramatically recoiling for dramatic effect. "You should be ashamed."

"I know, I know. I am, deeply," he laughed, patting his chest in mock self-pity. "But in reality, I think my biggest red flag is that I'm just not cut out for relationships. They all crash and burn eventually."

"Elaborate," she invited.

"Well, divorce, for starters. And the other longest relationship I had after that ended with her storming out, yelling I was the coldest man she'd ever been with and that there was only room in my heart for my daughter," he said, finishing his food. "Truth is, I don't think she was wrong." 

"That sucks," she commented. He was basically a walking neon sign flashing 'unavailability' in bright red, but this—she reminded herself, feeling a pang of disappointment—wasn't any of her business, nor something she should get worked up about. Because this wasn't a date. And even if it had been, it clearly wouldn't have led anywhere.

"Yeah, but they usually don't last long. I tend to get bored easily. Plus, I seem to attract women more interested in my money or fame than me. I once dated an aspiring actress who kept begging me to introduce her to directors and producers. And I did. It wasn't until I found her riding the head of casting on my couch that I realized just how serious she was about networking."

"Jesus Christ" she snorted, "Maybe you weren't the problem there, though."

"Maybe not. But I got major trust issues after that, so now I'm also the problem." He gave a bitter smile. "What's yours?"

"My red flag? Uh... do raging daddy issues count?" She blushed. "Growing up, my dad never once told me I was good enough. I spent most of my childhood—and, honestly, a chunk of my adult life too—trying to meet his impossible standards, hoping for his approval. It left... some scars...and my brain to be wired a certain way."

He let a charged silence hang between them. "They count," he said. 

In an instant, she noticed his eyes go darker, burning through her as he tilted closer to refill her glass. 

She glanced at the nearly empty bottle and felt the heat rising in her cheeks. That had to be why she was blushing—not the way he leaned in, not the blindsiding undertones in the conversation. It had to be the wine.

She tried to break the palpable tension in the air, fanning her flushed face. "It's...really hot here," she said, forcing a laugh, "Maybe we shouldn't have finished the whole bottle."

"Do you drink often?" he asked, looking much calmer and more in control than she felt, as he poured the last of it into his glass.

"Uh, not really. My sister could write you a hundred-page essay on how bad it is for your vocal cords," She tilted her head slightly, smirking. "But I make a few exceptions. Tonight's definitely one of them."

"Why?" he pressed, his eyes locked onto hers, daring her like a hand of cards he was suddenly inviting her to counter—as if they hadn't already shaken hands and agreed it was best not to play at all. 

She was a little too inebriated now to recall why she'd even agreed to the terms in the first place, and a little too into it to remind him about them.

"Because it's a one-time thing," she said slowly, resting the glass rim on her lower lip. "And because I want tonight to taste like freedom."

"Tell me a secret," he said, his words coming out like a command.

If it weren't for the wine, she might've been smoother, but her inhibitions were at an all-time low. So, with flushed cheeks, she blurted out, "I had a crush on you when I was 15."

He could have leaned into smugness, teased her about it, but he didn't. He just stared at her, as if he wanted to read her soul. Or steal it and make it his. Or both. 

"What about now?" He leaned forward across the table, his eyes like blue pools of fire, too close for her not to fall right into them.

She felt her breath involuntarily catching in her throat as his words cut through the air.

The moment was shattered by distant shouts and the rapid clicks of cameras flashing outside. They turned to see what the commotion was about, realizing it was likely some celebrity either tailed by paparazzi or who had tipped them off on purpose.

Alarm flashed across her face. They couldn't be seen together—the very concept and nature of this non-date was already hard enough for the two of them to grasp, let alone having to explain it to the rest of the world. He seemed to catch her concern and smoothly signaled the waiter to put everything on his tab.

Then, he swiftly stood up, extending his hand toward her. "Wanna get out of here?" 

***

Same Night - Hayden's POV

Slipping out the back of the restaurant, they quietly made their way to the garden out front, slowing down behind the neatly trimmed bushes—the last barrier between them and the circus at the entrance.

They peered through the leaves, trying to assess the number of paparazzi quickly plotting their escape to his car, parked across the street.

He glanced at her, expecting the same wide-eyed worry from before. Surprisingly, her eyes were now gleaming with exhilaration as she crouched behind the bushes, barely containing a giddy grin.

"Haha, I definitely didn't plan on pulling a Kim Possible to sneak out of a restaurant tonight," she laughed, humming what he could only assume was the show's theme song. 

He had no clue what she was talking about, but it was still pretty funny to watch. "Alright, it's a five-second run to the car. I think we can make it," he said, crouching down beside her.

"I'm in heels, man. Make it 7...maybe 10," she shot back.

"I'll go start the car. As soon as you see the headlights come on, you run for it, okay?"

"Okay, go!" she hissed in a loud whisper.

He made it to the car unseen. She followed right after him, in an impressive 'these-heels-won't-stop-me' sprint. 

She opened the car door but paused before sliding in, taking a moment to glance at the crowd still swarming outside the restaurant. Leaning halfway out, she shook her head and muttered, "Always. Fucking. Kardashians."

Just as she said that, a pap spotted her leaning out of the car, his face lighting up in recognition. "HEY, that's Martina Mo—" he shouted, but before he could finish, she was already inside, slamming the door shut and yelling "HAYDEN, DRIVE!"

He slammed his foot on the pedal, and in no time, the restaurant was left behind. As they were speeding off, though, she suddenly grabbed his arm, "Wait, are you good to drive?" she asked. 

He found the timing of her worry a bit funny, given that he had just gone from 0 to 60 in 5 seconds flat.

He laughed, feeling the adrenaline kicking in. "I'm ok to drive. I'm a big guy, it takes more than a few half-empty glasses of wine to take me out."

They had barely made the first turn from the restaurant when two black SUVs appeared in the rearview mirror, tailing them.

She nodded and grinned, "Then lose 'em."

He kept his focus on the road, weaving through traffic. 

This used to be his thing—the heavy foot, the pulse quickening as the speed needle climbed, that familiar thrill electrifying him with every pass and surge. He stole a few glances at her as she kept checking behind, clearly getting a rush from the chase, too.

"Oh my God! I think we actually lost them! You're incredible!" She laughed, her hand brushing his arm for just a fleeting moment. "Good thing I love my driver—otherwise, I'd be hiring you on the spot! Whew, Jessie would've killed me if we got caught!"

"Who's Jessie?" He asked, confused.

"My publicist," she said, not missing a beat. "This moment definitely begs for a soundtrack." 

For a moment, he didn't know if it was harder to keep up with the traffic or with her.

She scrolled through radio stations until her face lit up. Cranking up the volume, she belted out, "CHILDREN BEHAVE!" She turned to him with a grin, and inviting eyes, "THAT'S WHAT THEY SAY WHEN WE'RE TOGETHER!"

With the windows down, hair flying everywhere, she yelled the lyrics into the night. "Come on! You know this one!" She nudged him, grinning. "You were probably already shaving when it came out!"

Shaking his head, he refused. "No way."

"Come on, Dark Lord of my boots," she teased, her voice drifting into a soft, hopeful plea.

"Of what, now?" He laughed. "Pretty sure that's not a thing."

"It's not, it's an Italian thing—kinda like 'useless,' but way less harsh, I swear. More like a cute, funny thing," she explained, her eyes softening as she melted into the music, the night breeze, and the whole unbelievable vibe of that night.

He smiled as he eased off the gas. When was the last time he'd lived a night like this, where everything kept shifting and he had no idea what was coming next? The last time he'd felt this carefree and fired up? He couldn't remember, but he hadn't felt this alive in years.

He reached for the volume, cranking it up even louder as he gave in, singing along, "Look at the wayyyy, we gotta hide what we're doing... cause what would they sayyy..."

She shot him a beaming grin, clearly enjoying the show far too much. "But you gotta sing with me too, Grammy winner of my boots," he protested.

She threw her head back laughing and joined him.

...trying to get away in the night, and then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground and then you say I think we're alone now...

It was less of a duet and more of shameless ugly singing — yelling the lyrics, cracking up at their terrible voices, and at each other's way-too-dramatic performances.

He had no idea what was happening, but it felt like the car wasn't the only thing that had gone from 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye that night.

He felt like he was high on something. He tried to blame it on the lingering wine in his system or the adrenaline of the paparazzi car chase. But hidden somewhere deep inside of him, flickered the devastating notion that what he was really high on, was her.

He quickly snapped back to reality, realizing they didn't have a destination.

"Where are we going, Marti?" he asked.

She glanced at the side mirror, checking if anyone was still following them, then plugged her phone into the car, setting a destination. He looked at the blue route on the screen, puzzled, "Where's that?"

"My house," she smiled.

"Are you trying to take advantage of me on this non-date?" he teased, raising an eyebrow. "Turning a one-time thing into a one-night stand?"

"I am not," she shot back, rolling her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself. There's something of mine I want you to see."

He burst out laughing, "Pretty sure that didn't make it sound any better!"

"Shut up and drive," she said, shaking her head and peeking her head out the window as they drove into the night. "Dark Lord of my boots."

Chapter Text

Same Night - Martina's POV

"It's... smaller than I expected," he remarked as they stepped through the gate.

She hadn't really put much thought into this house. Truth be told, house-hunting in LA while secretly dreaming of a Tuscan villa made it hard to find anything that felt just right.

She could have splurged on a 15-bedroom mansion in a gated community in Beverly Hills, but coming from a modest background, grandiose displays of wealth made her uneasy. So she settled for this nice little house on the hills, that still cost a kidney, in her opinion, but at least felt cozy and intimate.

"The house is not what I wanted you to see. Come!" she called, running up the small incline toward the house. But instead of stopping there, she guided him right past it and straight to the backyard.

"Ta-daaa!" she exclaimed, proudly gesturing toward her outdoor observatory, eagerly waiting for his reaction.It was more like a tiny backyard house, complete with a door and a retractable roof that allowed the telescope to gaze at the sky, and it even had enough space for a small couch.

"Wow," he replied, both surprised and a little puzzled. "It looks very...crafty. Did you make it?"

"I got it from an online marketplace. They were practically giving it away," she said, opening the door of the observatory for him. "But everything you see inside, that's all me. I did all the decorating," she added, inviting him in.

She watched him as he stepped inside, taking in the space. His gaze moved from her guitars to the cozy couch, the pictures, and handwritten notes on the walls, before finally landing on her. After a moment, he said, "It's beautiful."

"Thank you! I spend most of my time here. I come for inspiration, to clear my head, and I write music here too. But what I really wanted to show you... is this!" She proudly motioned toward the telescope at the center of the cabin.

"This is my baby," she said with a spark of excitement. "It's a Celestron Evolution 9.25! You can use it for stargazing with your naked eye, or for astrophotography. But fair warning—it takes forever to get a good shot!"

"How does it work? Can I give it a try?" he asked, intrigued.

"You can either punch in the coordinates on that computer over there, or just point it at something random." She handed him a pair of D&D dice. "Give it a shot."

He squinted at the dice before tossing them. "Exactly how much of a nerd are you?"

"Shut up," she laughed, rolling her eyes. She read the numbers off the dice and entered them into the computer. Then, she nudged him, scooting him aside and muttering, "Move."

She bent down to peer through the lens. A few moments passed before she realized how close their bodies suddenly were.

"Wow," she said in an exaggeratedly unimpressed tone. "And here I thought space was your thing. But apparently, your sky game sucks. Looks like your coordinates just point straight into the void."

It wasn't true. He got something, but she would have to let the telescope work its way to get a clear picture. 

She straightened up, only to find that his curiosity had drawn him closer to the telescope, bringing him inches from her. Whatever little space remained between them was filled with a tension as thick as steel. 

He was towering over her, eyes as magnetic as difficult to pull away from. 

He looked away first and scanned the area until his gaze landed on a pot with a few leftover cigarette packs inside. His brows lifted in surprise and asked, "I didn't know you smoked. I figured you knew it's also bad for your vocal cords and all that."

"I don't," she crossed her arms on her chest, "It's my sister's stuff. She's trying to give it up, and she asked me to keep it here so she's less tempted to pick it up again."

"Can I borrow one?" he asked.

She nodded, handing him a pack. "Didn't know you smoked either."

"These days, I don't," he replied, lighting one up and taking a first, slow drag. "But fuck, do I miss the hell out of it."

He threw his head back, inhaling deeply. His neck was exposed, veins tracing sharp, tempting lines, she could scarcely look away from. God, he was so hot.

She bit her lip and took a couple of steps back, trying to resist the invisible pull drawing her toward him. To stop her mind going places that were not safe, she turned on the vinyl player and then sank onto the floor, slipping off her heels with a sigh of relief.

"Was it hard to stop smoking?" she asked, bringing her knees to her chest.

"It wasn't easy, but I had to—for me and for my daughter. I didn't want to have this cloud of smoke around her all the time," he said, joining her on the floor and destroying the little distance she had just painstakingly created between them. 

He sat close enough that their shoulders brushed. It was late at night and the air coming through the observatory roof was chilly, but she didn't feel cold. Every atom in her body was ablaze. 

It felt like her mind, senses, and heart were all caught in the same wild current pulling her toward him, only to short-circuit every time reality struck—she couldn't have him.

"Then why light one up tonight?" She asked, her voice a little unsteady. 

He took another long drag and held it in his lungs for a few seconds before turning toward her. Then, with deliberate slowness, he blew the smoke all over her face, letting it trail down her chest. "Because I want tonight to taste like freedom," he said, echoing her own words back at her.

The smell of smoke went straight to her head, and all she could think about was how much she wanted to taste it straight from his mouth. 

Oh, god. This was getting bad. Real bad.

She caught the smirk on his face—he was definitely having fun with this. He knew exactly what he was doing, how every move, every brush, every breath and every word was driving her insane with pent-up longing, and he was enjoying every second of it, pushing her right to the edge, then pulling her back.

He exhaled his next drag in front of him, staring at the wall, and pointed to a picture that showed her tangled up in Trevor's arms.

"Who's that?" he asked.

What did he mean, who's that? Had he been living under a rock? Their relationship had been the talk of everyone's lips for the past four years. 

Maybe he didn't follow tabloids or gossip, but she had expected him to be at least somewhat familiar with sports. Perhaps he wasn't, and he genuinely didn't know who Trevor was at all.

What was she supposed to say? Her mind raced, weighing the angle of his question, sifting through possible answers. Since when had it mattered so much to her to get it right? Not just the right answer—but the answer he wanted.

He kept watching her closely, like it was some kind of test, eagerly waiting for her to fumble through an answer.

She hesitantly started, "Trevor Jones, Celtics' star center, back-to-back MVP for three consecutive—" 

"Who's that, to you," he clarified, cutting her off dryly.

"My ex," she said, freezing for a moment. The only reason that photo was still up was because she'd pinned it there a few weeks ago while writing a song, hoping to fuel her inspiration, and somehow she had forgotten to take it down.

He gazed at her with his piercing blue eyes, as if trying to decipher more from her face than from her words.

"What happened?" He pressed.

"I guess what always happens?" she said with a bittersweet smile. "You find someone and he swears he'll never take you for granted, but then he does. Over and over. Next thing you know, he's caught on a boat making out with a Celtics dancer, and it's too far gone to fix."

He nodded, then pushed further, "But you thought it was a good idea to keep it up in your secret hideout. So you're still holding on to it?"

"No, no, no. Not at all. It's not like that. I mean, there's a lot to forget and a lot to move on from. But I've stopped thinking about it all the time." Maybe it was him making her nervous or the lingering tipsiness, but she slipped up and shared more than she meant to. "I definitely haven't thought about him in the last few weeks, I'll tell you that much."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his fist clench and his body tense. He had started this game of pushing her to the edge just to see her teetering on the brink. 

But every time she dangerously threatened to lose her balance and fall into him, it seemed to trigger an unwelcome reaction in him that he wasn't prepared for and struggled to control.

"What changed?" he muttered through gritted teeth, as his eyes bore into her with a silent warning to carefully think her answer through this time.

The honest answer would have been 'You.' 

But the tension between them already felt stretched and strained to its limit. She feared she might break it if she said that, and she wasn't sure that's what he wanted. 

So, she just whispered, "I don't know."

It seemed she'd made the right choice. He relaxed, taking another drag and blowing smoke in the air like a work of art. 

She knew she was about to do something reckless, tiptoeing into a potential minefield, but she needed to shift the attention off herself for a minute and catch some air. So, she asked, "Uhm... What about you? What happened with the... uh, you know..."

"With the divorce?" He anticipated her question, and she nodded at him.

"I was stupid. And selfish. And I made a stupid decision, one I'll regret forever," he said, with a thin veil of remorse on his eyes. "It would have ended either way. But it could have ended better. And that was on me."

He turned to her, and her stomach dropped. His gaze was too close to hold and too intense to escape. He clenched his jaw and suddenly shifted his eyes away and to the right, which was both relieve and torment at the same time. 

He noticed the scattered music sheets by her guitar and, without a second thought, snatched one up. "Well, well, what do we have here?"

"No! No one's supposed to see those!" She shouted. 

Most of it was rough drafts of new songs, but some were fully finished tracks from her upcoming album, already in the process of being recorded. 

He raised his arm, holding a sheet up, and she instinctively sprinted, reaching for it.

"Gimme that!" She quickly snatched the paper from his hand, but as she pulled back she realized she'd thrown herself all over him and was now leaning against his chest.

Her heart hammered in her throat as their faces hovered inches apart. The scent of smoke mixed with his clean, pinewood cologne was intoxicating, and in a moment of weakness her gaze fell to his lips. He followed instantly, eyes dropping to her lips as well for a moment that stretched a little too long.

His jaw tightened suddenly, and even through the haze of the moment, she noticed the tension taking over his face, as if he were angry at her. What for, she didn't know, but they had danced around this line far too many times in one night, and she couldn't take another round.

"You...should probably go," she whispered, her voice barely a whisper.

Jumping up, she nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He stood too, moving slower, more controlled, tilting his head as he quietly studied her face.

"Did you forget about our deal?" he asked, his voice sharp as his eyes, locking onto hers with a harsh, unforgiving grip.

"No. I remember it," she said in a shaky breath.

"I'm sure you do," he replied, with a condescending tone in his voice.

He started circling around her, "I meant it when I said I wasn't looking to date," he said, firmly. She turned her head, trying to keep up with his impossibly slow, tantalizing steps around her.

"So, as a matter of fact, I think it is best if I go," his voice was low and hypnotic, perfectly in sync with his entrancing movements. "Wouldn't want to start something we can't finish," he continued.

She had no idea what game they were playing or what the rules even were. All she knew was that whatever it was, he was a master at it, and she was hopelessly outmatched.

"'Cause it wouldn't stand a chance...right?" She muttered with hesitation.

"You're a smart girl, M. You tell me..." he said, his tone far from rhetorical. "You should be able to figure it out."

"It would make too much noise," she said, under her breath. "And you hate the spotlight. We would need to hide all the time."

"True. What else." He pressed, still circling around her. 

"You're not emotionally available. Too many trust issues. You wouldn't trust this. Or me. Or even yourself," she recited, recalling fragments of their earlier conversation.

"I'm impressed. You're doing... so good." He dragged out the last words, and it took everything in her to stop the rising wave in her brain, about to flood her entire body down to her core with an unexpected rush. "Come on, M. What else?" 

"I was cheated on by my ex, you cheated on yours," she said. He stopped in front of her, lazily twirling one of her loose curls between his fingers.

He was testing her, waiting to see if she would come out to play this wicked little game with him—enjoy it, even—deliberately putting her through each twinge of discomfort and equally intense flicker of pleasure, keeping the reins of both.

She could feel him towering over her, and her breath started to quicken. There was plenty of room to move away but she couldn't move one single muscle in her body. She just managed to look away, not wanting him to catch the blush staining her cheeks.

"Look up," he commanded, sending shivers down her spine. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes again. "You're not done yet. Go on."

Everything about him was intoxicating—his movements, his voice, his calculated words, his scent, his eyes. She wanted him so badly, and he was making her spell out one by one all of the reasons why she never could. 

She took a deep breath and rattled off everything she could think of, desperate to say whatever he wanted to hear from her and finally put an end to this.

"We have busy lives. We live in different countries. You're ten years older than me. You have a daughter. I want to move back to Italy. It would burn too fast and end in flames," she paused to catch her breath, her heart racing.

He let the curl slip from his fingers, locking eyes with her as a wicked, satisfied grin slowly spread across his lips.

She was certain he was torturing her—and enjoying every second of it. Looking for an out, she continued out of spite, "You'd probably get bored very quickly, and you'd never feel anything real for me anyway."

He listened with an amused expression, clearly pleased by her over-delivery. She wasn't sure if he noticed she was also trying to convince herself in the process.

"We'd probably clash over politics, social issues, food choices, or even music tastes! Maybe we just wouldn't get along. Maybe we wouldn't even have any sexual chemistry."

In an instant, the subtle smirk on his face faded into a serious frown as he drew closer, closing the distance between them. 

"Oh, M... you were doing so well...until now," he said, patronizingly. "You really believe that?" he asked, looming over her. "Let's see about that."

He slowly turned to the nearby table, intentionally knocking a pencil off the edge with the sole purpose of watching it drop to the floor.

Then, his eyes darted back at hers, as a devilish grin spread across his face. "Pick. It. Up." 

The command lingered in the air, and she felt a wave of heat setting both her mind and body on fire. 

Before she could fully wrap her head around it, she found herself sinking to her knees, driven by nothing but pure instinct. 

She picked it up and placed it back in his hand. As her fingers brushed against his, he leaned in, his deep voice whispering, "Good girl."

Violent shivers shook her body at his words, going straight between her thighs.

Relishing her reaction, he placed his hand right above her collarbone and gently pushed her back until she hit the wall behind her. Then, his hand crept higher, gripping the middle of her throat, starting a slow, exquisite squeeze that was gradually constricting her breath with careful precision.

His eyes drilled into hers, breaking through every defense. "A global superstar like you...the world's always watching your every move. You need to be in control all the time. Control your face, words, your actions, even your body." His mouth hovered so close to hers she could feel his hot breath on her lips. "How's that pressure treating you, M.? I bet the mere thought of letting go, having someone else take over has your brain melting and your panties soaked."

He loosened his hold just enough for her to catch her breath. His eyes darkened, fingers lightly grazing her throat, as he leaned in close.

"Tell me something, M. Did the sound of people clapping ever drown out that little voice inside you saying you're not good enough? Poor little girl fought all her life for her father's nod of approval, only to find herself battling for the world's," he whispered, his lips barely brushing her ear.

Jesus Fucking Christ, she was so turned on.

His foot boldly nudged hers open, forcing her to spread her legs wider. He placed his knee between her thighs, pressing it firmly against her pussy. 

His hand traveled higher on her throat, settling just beneath her jaw and restricting her air and blood flow at the same time. She could feel her heartbeat slowing down under his grip, and all she wanted to do was give into that feeling. As he kept pressing his knee over her clit, she rolled her eyes back in pleasure and a muffled moan escaped her lips.

A satisfied smile curled his lips. Keeping his hand on her throat, he went on to whisper in her ear. "I see right through you, M. You're like an open book to me. I could show you pages you've never even read about yourself. So don't think for a second I wouldn't be able to give you just exactly what you crave in the deepest, dirtiest, darkest parts of your soul."

He pulled his hand away from her throat, and she whimpered at the loss. 

Instinctively, she placed her hands on her chest, her wide eyes locked on him.

"Are you ok?" He asked. 

She nodded slowly, speechless and still trying to wrap her hand around what had just happened.

He reached for her hand and pressed it to his lips, just like he had done the first time they met. "Best non-date of my life," he said. 

And just like that, he was out the door.

Chapter Text

Flying to London. December 11th - Martina's POV

"You know, Marti, I've always admired this about you. You never, under any circumstances, get too caught up or obsessed with anything. You're like the poster child for moderation." Sara's voice oozed sarcasm through Martina's headphones as she kept her eyes glued to her iPad, watching Revenge of the Sith.

It was a long flight from LA to London, and she needed a way to pass the time. The fact that she opted for a Star Wars prequel trilogy rewatch was...purely coincidental.

"Moderation? I don't know her," Marti replied nonchalantly. "I'm not obsessing, by the way. I'm just watching a movie. A mainstream one. Made history, you know?" she added, raising a single eyebrow.

"I am aware of the phenomenon, yes." Sara retorted, scraping the cream cheese off her bagel. "And I suppose you're watching it for...the plot?" She smirked, gesturing with her knife toward Hayden on the screen.

It had been two weeks since their non-date. When Sara had asked her sister how the date had been, Martina had huffed and dismissed it as 'one hell of a ridiculous idea'.

That reaction alone had been enough to make Sara suspect there was more to the story than her sister was letting on, and she hadn't stopped teasing her about it ever since.

Martina took a big bite of her bagel, attempting a muffled, mouth-filled protest, "It's a great plot."

"You do realize you've been clenching your fist through every romantic scene in this movie and the previous one, right?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"I have not!" Marti protested, outraged. "Shut up."

"You totally have," Sara insisted, nodding. "I don't get it, Marti. I thought something had gone wrong with the date because you haven't said a word about it. But here you are, pining over Jedis in robes, so...I don't know what to think..."

"It was good, ok? Then it was really good. And then...it was over. I don't know." Marti sighed. "Why do you even care—you're the one who called it a PR nightmare in the first place."

"Well, it is a nightmare when you pull impulsive stunts that are televised to millions of people – especially if they completely clash with the strategy Jessie and I work so hard on." Sara's gaze softened. "But if you really wanted to date him, or anyone else, you know we'd find a way to keep it private and make it work. We wouldn't let the media obsess over it or overshadow your work like before."

"Looks like you won't have to work as hard," Martina replied drily.

"But why?" Sara asked, looking confused.

"It's complicated. Eat your cream cheese," Martina bitterly shut off both the conversation and her iPad in one go.

She grabbed her pillow, wedged it between her neck and the plane side wall, and put on her sleep mask. Jet lag was going to be a bitch tomorrow, and she needed to beat it before the Jingle Bell Ball.

London. Jingle Bell Ball. December 13th - Martina's POV

"Marti, 15 minutes and you're up!" Sara popped her head into the dressing room to give her the heads-up, then disappeared back down the corridor.

"Okay, thanks!" Marti said as the makeup artist added the final touches to her glittery, frosted eyeshadow.

Her phone suddenly buzzed with a text from Mary, Ewan's wife: "Hey girl, break a leg tonight! See you in a bit."

As it turned out, Ewan was in London the same week as her. He had a Disney+ event for the Kenobi show the day before she was set to perform at the Jingle Bell Ball.

So, since he and his family were already in town, he had reached out to come see her, and she had hooked them all up with VIP passes.

A few seconds later, Jessie knocked on the door. "Are you ready, Marti? Can you walk with me to the stage?"

"Sure!" She got up from her seat and hurried over to Jessie.

"So, small change of plans—we're staying a few more days. The BBC Radio 1 interview got pushed back," Jessie said, matter-of-factly. "Also, I just wanted to make sure you remembered, honey—after you get off stage, you need to swing by the press area. If they ask about the album, keep it breezy, keep it cool...but give them a little tease."

"I got it, Jessie. Thanks," she said as they approached the stage, and the mic tech began setting her up.

"Oh, and I've arranged seven VIP passes for Ewan and his group in the upper section, plus their transfer to the backstage lounge. You'll meet them there after the show."

"Thanks for taking care of—wait, sorry, how many passes did you say?"

"Seven," Jessie confirmed.

"Ewan, Mary, and four kids—that's six passes," Marti said, counting them off on her fingers.

"Hmm, I'm pretty sure they asked for seven," Jessie replied, watching as Marti's brows furrowed in confusion. "Maybe one of the girls brought a plus-one?" she suggested.

"Possible," Marti brushed it off, "Thanks, Jessie. I'll catch you later."

She used the last few minutes before hitting the stage to center herself, mentally running through the performance.

When the production assistant gave her the nod, she flashed her best "I'm—about—to— make—this—stage—my—bitch" smile, stepped into the spotlight, and as soon as the in-ear cue hit, she started her show.

She stayed focused and professional, hit all her marks, all while radiating a fucking merry holly-jolly spirit—right up until the end of her set, when she belted out the final notes and thanked the roaring crowd.

It all went to shit, however, the moment her eyes casually landed on the VIP area.

Right away, she spotted Mary, Ewan, and the girls. She was still waving at them, when she caught an unmistakably familiar 6-foot-tall figure next to them—broad shoulders, dark hoodie and a baseball cap.

He was clapping, laughing, basking in the enjoyment of a show he hadn't been invited to.

Well, technically, he had to be invited by Ewan, she supposed. Definitely not by her. She would never have invited him.

The memory of his hand wrapped around her throat, his lips barely brushing hers, and his knee pressed between her legs had never really left her.

And the memory of that night was all she had, endlessly looping in her mind, whether she was asleep or awake. Whether she wanted or not.

In one stupid, play-pretend date, he had made her feel more than Trevor—or any man before him—had in years.

He had talked to her in a way she was sure no other man ever would again. He had toyed with her, and made her love every second of it. He had stolen a moan or two from her, and then left her hanging, taking away some of her dignity with him, too.

He had touched something deep inside her. Barely just brushed it. Only for a moment. But it had been enough to screw her brain over.

Hadn't he messed with her mind enough? He'd made it clear he didn't want to date her. Fine.

It already hurt enough on its own without having him hanging around as a constant reminder. The least he could do now was leave her alone.

After all, there was only so much she could give in to her obsessive tendencies. But if this really was a closed door, she needed to stop tiptoeing around it, hoping it would someday magically, mercifully open for her, all the while spiraling out of control.

That couldn't happen. He was right about one thing.

Her life was all about control. And she couldn't afford to lose it. Not ever. It was all she had, and she needed to keep it.

At all times. At all costs.

As soon as Marti finished her interview, she stepped down from the press platform and found Jessie waiting for her.

She had that familiar look—wide eyes and pursed lips—that Marti had seen many times on her face over the past year.

She couldn't tell if it had always been part of Jessie's repertoire of facial expressions or if she'd developed it since becoming her new publicist.

Either way, it was remarkable. She looked like someone who had just walked into a room full of rabid baboons flinging flaming shit at each other and couldn't check out because, at 4 million dollars a year, it was now very much her monkeys and her circus, too.

She looped her arm under Marti's and leaned in close, whispering, "So I guess we've figured out who the 7th pass was for. Anything you want to update me about?"

"Well I would have updated you if I'd known he was coming. But I had no idea," Marti said."So, no. No updates on my part."

"Alright, honey, just remember—I can't protect your privacy if I don't know what I'm supposed to be protecting," she said, giving Martina a warm, maternal look before straightening up and shifting back into business mode as they headed toward the lounge. "On that note, there are a lot of A-listers back here, and I can't ban all the cameras. If you don't want to wake up to a brand new shitstorm tomorrow, especially after the Emmys, keep things low-key."

Marti nodded, like there was actually something to keep low-key, rather than the absolute cosmic void of his nonsensical behavior.

She broke away from Jessie, and stepped into the backstage VIP lounge.

It wasn't anything extravagant—just a comfortable space with a few seats and couches, some refreshments, and subtle festive decorations thrown here and there.

Martina's heart shamefully skipped a beat when she saw Hayden, casually laughing and having fun.

In an instant, she realized the only thing she would need to be discreet about was the mounting irritation that seeing him there sparked in her—and the itching desire to slap him right across his face.

Their eyes met briefly before she quickly shifted her attention to Ewan, Mary, and the girls.

She hugged each of them, thanking them profusely for coming to the show. Then, turning to Hayden, she delivered the most deadpan, flatlined, indifferent "Hi" she could muster.

He greeted her back, looking slightly amused by her attempt to act cool and detached.

Great. Glad she was entertaining to him both on and off stage. Less glad she didn't know karate to knock that smug look off his face.

Mary wasted no time pulling Martina over to the drinks table, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

Barely able to contain herself, she quipped, "So, I thought London was cold in the December, but holy fuck, nothing like that 'hi' I just heard. Pretty sure the temperature dropped like 50 degrees." She raised her eyebrows, taking a sip of prosecco. "Anything I should know about?"

Good lord, what was with everyone's radar today?

There was nothing to know. Nothing to see. Keep it moving.

Martina inwardly battled her panic and played it cool. "What? Oh, no, not at all. I was just caught by surprise, that's all.'"

"So were we," she shared. "We were all out to dinner last night after the Disney+ event, when Ewan casually mentioned we'd be coming here today and Hayden just sort of insisted on tagging along."

"Oh," she said. And what a fun way to kill time. He could have just taken a cruise on the Thames like any other tourist and call it a day.

"Yeah...you know, that 'oh' you just said? It doesn't really help with the allegations," Mary scrunched up her nose and shook her head. "Jeez, Ewan said you were good at acting, but—"

"Mary," Martina said with her most polite, affectionate smile, trying to let it transpire that she'd love nothing more than for her to mind her own business. "There's nothing going on. Nothing I'm interested in continuing, anyway."

"Alright, alright, I'll drop it!" Mary raised her hands slightly in surrender. "Anyway, how long are you staying in London? Tomorrow night we're hitting up this speakeasy karaoke bar that Ewan's obsessed with. A bunch of his friends and people from the Kenobi show will be there," she said. "Come with me and make the night bearable? You know how he gets on karaoke nights... I cannot, for the love of me, do another duet with him over bagpipes."

"Is he coming?" She tilted her head in Hayden's direction.

"I don't think so. He said he had something to do and couldn't make it."

Martina instinctively narrowed her eyes at him. He better not.

"Text me the details." Martina smiled. "I've got to head back now, but say goodbye to the girls and Ewan for me. See you tomorrow!"

Chapter Text

London. December 14th - Hayden's POV

"Hey man, so the dinner wrapped up quicker than I thought. Are you still at the speakeasy?" Hayden asked Ewan over the phone.

The dinner hadn't magically wrapped up early—it was more that he'd intentionally moved it up an hour and impatiently sped through it after overhearing Mary mention that Marti would be with them that night. But now wasn't the time for technicalities or semantics.

"Oh yeah, mate, the night's just getting started!" Ewan replied on the other end of the

"Great, I'll be there in 10."

He relaxed for the rest of the cab ride, taking in the sights along London's streets. He'd always liked this city.

Big metropolises weren't, and never would be, his cup of tea, but European cities—with their old-world elegance—felt a bit gentler, and didn't max out his senses right away, unlike the big cities in the US or Canada.

He'd hoped that coming here for the Disney+ event and a few other press commitments would give him a break from LA and make it easier to take his mind off her. It hadn't.

She suddenly felt inescapable. Not only had she latched onto his frontal lobe like an obstinate cat over the past two weeks, but now she seemed to be everywhere.

He'd turn up the TV to watch a Leafs game, and there she was—suddenly appearing on screen during the commercial break, gliding out of a Porsche with feline grace and locking eyes with the camera in a way that made him want to bite his knuckles.

When he drove to pick up his daughter from practice, her music blasted from the radio. Then of course, Lena wouldn't stop talking about her, which was nothing new, but now he was hearing it all differently.

Then, last night at dinner, he found out she was in London at the same time as him, and he thought he just had to go see her.

If he was honest, he hadn't done much thinking at all. He wasn't really sure what he was doing either, other than following this visceral pull inside him.

Besides, that cold shoulder she'd given him at the after-show? Adorable. She was holding onto it so proudly—like he couldn't just crush and shatter it in seconds if he wanted to. Absolutely lovely.

He guessed it had to be because of their date.

But what about it, exactly.

He wanted to know more—he needed to know exactly what thoughts were bouncing around in that bubbly head of hers.

He covered his cab ride, and snuck into the speakeasy from the back.

It was an old-school London bar, all brick walls and vintage vibes. Posters of musical legends like The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and Queen were hung all around. Just the type Ewan loved.

At the center of the room, a karaoke stage bathed in neon blue lights was already set up, while at the bar, acrobatic bartenders were juggling bottles and theatrically pouring drinks like the Cirque the Soleil was in town.

It was surprisingly simple and understated for a speakeasy, except for a row of private booths tucked behind plush red velvet curtains in the far corner—the only touch of deliberate opulence in the whole pub.

He made his rounds, greeting everyone he recognized, and kept looking around the room.

The moment he spotted her, it was like she knew.

Their eyes connected instantly, like charged magnets, but there was no smile, no wave, not even a mouthed 'hi' from her.

She just glared at him, and then looked away.

He smiled to himself. Absolutely fucking adorable.

Grabbing a beer, he made his way over to Ewan to catch up with him and his friends, but he never took his eyes off her.

He followed her around and watched her playing darts, taking selfies, and chatting it up with whoever was around.

Everyone but him, apparently.

She looked stunning, as always—a cascade of dark curls, a black sequined dress that caught every light and every eye in the room, and lips a deeper red than usual, wrapped around the straw of her second drink of the night.

He was by the karaoke stage talking with Ewan when he noticed her with Mary, coming right in their direction. Every goddamn step she took towards him, she got even more beautiful.

Mary greeted them, then affectionately grabbed Ewan's arm, "Hold off on your playlist for a second, would you? Marti and I need our little moment first!"

Judging by her movements and somewhat slurred words, Mary had a few drinks herself. She kissed Ewan on the cheek to thank him, before dashing to the stage, shouting, "Marti, let's go!"

"It's nice to see you," Hayden whispered to Marti when she finally stood in front of him.

She walked past him, her steps controlled and painfully slow, and shot him a lethal glare. If looks could kill, this one would have pierced straight through him—and what a glorious way to go.

She joined Mary on stage, and in an instant, the harsh look on her face disappeared, as if it had never been there.

They shared an excited glance as the first notes of Murder on the dancefloor pulsed through the speakers.

Despite being two drinks in, she was owning it like a pro—precisely on beat, razor sharp pitch, clear voice, flawless dancing.

Oh I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know about your kind. And so, and so, and so, and so, and so, and so, and so I'll have to play...

If you think you're getting away I will prove you wrong...I'lll take you all the way, boy just come along...

She sang, casting sneaky looks in his direction from time to time, and he wondered if she was just casually singing a 2000s hit or actually aiming the lyrics at him.

As the song went on, her movements grew more sensual—swaying her hair, running her hands over her thighs and swinging her hips. She twirled around the mic, peeking at him to see if he was enjoying the show.

He was. A little too much.

His jaw tightened at the idea of everyone savoring it so casually. All he wanted was to walk right up on that stage and claim her, kiss her, as if she belonged to him and him alone.

The song ended, and everyone clapped as Mary and Marti shared a laughter-filled hug on stage.

She stepped down and headed straight to the bar for yet another drink.

He remembered her saying she was a casual drinker, that she usually kept it tight. Why was she drinking so much tonight?

He followed her at the bar and, taking the drink from her hand, asked, "Don't you think you've had enough for tonight?"

"Don't you think that's none of your business?" she fired back, batting her eyelashes at him.

He closed his eyes and smirked, relishing the sharpness.

This was an entirely different shade of her he had not seen yet, a far cry from her usual warm and delicate aura.

It was true what they said—you can't have light without dark. Apparently, she could be as soft as a marshmallow and as sharp as a blade, and fuck, did he love both sides.

Ewan's voice boomed from the stage, calling her up. For the second time that night, he watched her walk right past him. "Watch my drink," she said, rather dryly.

They started singing Country Roads. A classic, except he'd never fully grasped how a 50-year-old song about Virginia was such a staple in so many British pubs.

It was an acoustic version, with Ewan on the guitar. Their voices blended magnificently, and everyone—including him—was hypnotized.

How she could hit every single note and handle her breath three drinks in was beyond him. He tuned in on her voice, and Jesus Christ, it wasn't just "almost heaven" like the song said—it was full-blown paradise.

Everyone in the pub got really into the song, singing and cheering with hugs and beers in the air, and when the song ended, yells and claps filled the room.

She returned to him just to reclaim the drink she had left him in charge of. "Thanks a bunch," she said, heading towards the private booths and disappearing behind the red velvet curtains.

"Marti, wait," he called out.

She sank into the couch inside the booth, and he sat down next to her. Without lifting her gaze from her phone, she fired off a text, then sighed, "What, Hayden? What is it?"

"You're mad. Why?" he asked her.

She squinted at him, and for a moment, he couldn't tell if she was about to deck him or just walk away. But, surprisingly, she did neither.

Instead, she swallowed the last of her drink, set the glass on the table, and slowly rose from the couch, positioning herself directly in front of him.

Holding on the headrests behind him, she smoothly swung one knee over, then the other, settling herself on either side of his legs.

In a heartbeat, she was astride him. He took in the sight of her, his breath catching in his throat, every single one of his senses captured and held hostage by an inescapable, crippling Stendhal Syndrome.

"I'm mad, Hayden, because you're giving me mixed signals," she whispered. "And I don't know what to do with them."

The fiery copper embers in her eyes seemed to gleam even hotter and brighter than usual.

Her fingers glided along his neck, tracing invisible patterns that sent shivers racing down his spine.

What was happening? This was his game, and a game he knew well.

He knew who the mastermind was. Him. He knew who moved first. Again, him. Most importantly, he knew exactly how to move her to make her play right into his hands.

He wanted to play with her and kind of hoped she'd let him. What he hadn't anticipated, not by any stretch, was her playing right back, making moves of her own accord.

Now she was on top of him, her dress bunched up around her thick thighs, spread open over his legs. And feeling the warmth of her pussy pressing into him, he was in no position to make a countermove.

She leaned in, her lips grazing his ear as she whispered, "You see, I thought I was supposed to just forget about you and our little non-date. And I have been somewhat successful at that, courtesy of you not texting or calling. But then you change your mind. And now you're... hovering."

Her voice was slow and soft, going straight to his cock. "You're with my friends. You come to shows I never invited you to. And you're crashing my nights out." She paused. "Everywhere I go, there you are."

Her lips became more deliberate, tracing the curve of his earlobe and jawline, while her hair cascaded softly around his face.

His grip on the couch tightened as he breathed her in, utterly intoxicated. "You smell like violets," he murmured.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her cheeks flushed, and her lips suspended inches from his, barely a breath away.

Everything in her was calling him, drawing him in like a siren song—from her velvety voice and heart-shaped lips to the pools of liquid fire in her eyes. He wanted to forget his name and dive right in.

"And you smell like...fear." She breathed out. "You know, for someone who only wanted a one-time thing, you sure spent a lot of time figuring me out, getting inside my head and under my skin. And you're good at it, I'll give you that... but I can do it too."

She placed her hand behind his neck, slowly rocking her hips back and forth on his cock, and when she felt it twitch beneath her, a soft whimper escaped her mouth.

"You know...it's not lost on me how that ever-present smug face of yours has been washed away through the years. You used to walk around like the whole goddamn world was yours. What happened? Mmh? Was it a disappointment? Heartbreak? One too many life's hard pill to swallow?"

Her voice was like honey, dripping taunting words barely above a whisper in his ear.

He felt the weight of her body on top of him as she kept grinding against his hardened cock. There was an unconcealed strain of pleasure in her voice, telling him that the friction was getting to her just as much as it was to him.

"Life scathed you," she continued, "It made you cynical. Bitter, too. Left you thinking there's no such thing as real happiness or love. Certainly not for you, anyway. You're too far above all of that, aren't you?"

How dare she unlock doors of his soul he'd kept closed, even to himself?

She had sidetracked him and was beating him at his own game. And yet, deep down, it made him crave her even more.

His breath grew heavy with desire as he sank his fingers into her hips, eagerly pulling her closer.

She moaned, quickening her pace, and whispered, "So you act like love doesn't affect you, like you're not even looking for it, like it would be a waste of everybody's time to even give it a shot. Because you simply don't...want...it."

She suddenly stopped and locked eyes with him, her finger tracing along his jawline to just under his chin, lifting his lips dangerously close to hers without touching.

"But you're just... scared. And deep down, you're begging to be proved wrong. That's why you're hovering. That's why you're always around."

Her phone buzzed, abruptly snapping them back to reality.

She got back on her feet and smoothed her dress down with a lazy touch. "My car's here. It was nice seeing you too, Hayden."

And just like that, she was gone.

Just like that, she had just made them inevitable.

Chapter Text

LA. December 21st - Martina's POV

A few days later, Martina was back in LA, sprawled across her bed like a decadent young woman straight out of a Ramon Casas painting, feeling utterly mortified.

She couldn't stop replaying that night in London, and every time she did, a flush of heat seared her cheeks.

What on earth had she been thinking? Couldn't she just have chilled?

He had just tried to reach out to her. If she hadn't wanted to reach back, then the balanced and poised thing to do would have been to be polite and keep her distance.

But no, she had to go off, give him a lecture on his jaded psyche, basically insulting him in the process, and make assumptions she had no business making—all while grinding on him, nonetheless.

Absolutely unhinged, unacceptable, crazy behavior.

Some of the details of what she'd said were a little fuzzy too, so she was trying to fill in the blanks and decide if an apology was owed, possibly before seeing him again.

Not that it mattered—the chances of running into him after last time were pretty slim, anyway.

As she lay in her bed, soaked in embarrassment, a chat notification popped up on her phone - an invitation to Ewan's New Year's Eve party.

She'd overheard people on set talking about it, but hadn't given it much thought.

Originally, she'd planned to spend the holidays with her family in Italy.

But the filming schedule for Blackwood Manor had fallen behind, and now production wanted them back to start shooting in the first week of January, throwing a wrench in everyone's holiday plans—hers included.

The invitation was followed by a voice message from Ewan, "Hey, Marti! So, since you're not heading back to Italy for the holidays, does that mean you'll be in town for New Year's Eve? Because if you are, you are not just invited—you're required to be at my party. Now don't panic, it's nothing major, just a wee get-together with a few friends. Oh, and did I mention Lewis Capaldi's comin'? I'm already picturing you two doing a duet at midnight—how brilliant would that be?! Right, first, let me know you're comin'. Second, bring Sara—tell her Jude Law's gonna be there, that should do it! And third, I'll have a word with Lewis about the duet. It's gonna be amazing!"

Jeez. That sounded like...a lot, and she wasn't sure she was in the mood for a party that big.

Ewan said 'nothing major', but then managed to casually drop Lewis Capaldi and Jude Law's names within 30 seconds of voice note.

Besides, the guy practically knew half of Hollywood and was a raging social butterfly, so she couldn't trust him.

Still, it was sweet of him to invite her and Sara. And if Sara ever found out that Marti had the chance to go to a party with Jude Law and didn't take her, she'd never hear the end of it.

While she was still mulling over her response, the face of a familiar co-star flashed on her phone screen. She giggled, knowing exactly what this was going to be about.

"Let me guess—you got Ewan's invite and spent the last minute squealing like a 16-year-old throwing your pink bra in the air. How off base am I?" she teased.

"Throwing my pink bra, my pink knickers, and why not, a bit of myself off the balcony too," Rahul said with a laugh. "We're going, right?"

"I'm still evaluating my options."

"Options? Pfft! What options???" he scoffed, "It's Ewan McGregor's party! No chances in hell I'm skipping that. Though, it'd be a hundred times better if I had someone almost as antisocial as me to kick it with."

"I'm not antisocial. I'm selective," she clarified.

In all honesty, it had been a blessing to meet Rahul on the set of Blackwood Manor.

She wasn't sure if "antisocial" was the right word, but they had definitely connected over their shared introverted and polemical vibes.

He was one of the most unassuming, down-to-earth, easygoing people she'd ever met in the industry. Like her, he loved his job but sometimes hated a lot of what came with it.

Going with him would have meant having someone to hang out with who wasn't hell-bent on mingling or sucking up to the starlets of the moment—someone she could actually relax and have fun with.

"I heard Kate on set saying there might be a pod racer AR station," she teased, fully aware of how much of a Star Wars fan Rahul was.

"Oh FUCK OFF, are you serious?"

"It's what I heard," she chuckled.

"Guess we're locked in now."

"Alright, I'll swing by your place, and we'll roll together."

"Can't fucking wait."

LA. Ewan's New Years Eve Party. December 31st- Martina's POV

"So much for 'nothing major,'" Marti laughed to Rahul as they dropped off their coats and stepped into the party's location.

It was this huge two-story mansion, with the whole ground floor made of glass walls that opened up to the surrounding garden.

There had to be at least 200 people there already. It definitely didn't look like the "wee get-together with a few friends" Ewan had promised. On the bright side, though, it wasn't as over-the-top as Cardi B's son's birthday party. That would never be topped.

Ewan's style wasn't majestic balloon displays, cookies with edible rhinestones, or Marvel characters bursting out of gigantic cakes. He was more into technological recreation—both old and new.

That's probably why there was a huge playground for adults in the garden, set up in a tent-like structure, complete with everything from classic video games to VR stations and AI-powered immersive simulators.

"Bloody hell, this is amazing!" Rahul exclaimed with excitement, "Wanna grab drinks before we dive in?" he asked, already making his way to the bar with her in tow.

Sipping their drinks, they scanned the crowd, thrilled to see familiar faces from the Blackwood Manor cast. Less thrilling, however, was the sight of the usual "IT" crowd—those kinds of celebrities who entered any given room like they were main characters, and everyone else meaningless extras. Cue a bit of their usual shit-talking.

"I swear to God, I bet he'd shag himself if he could. Just look at him—tell me he isn't the kind of bloke who has a cheeky wank while admiring himself in the mirror. And those ridiculously plump, filler lips... ugh, fuck him."

Marti almost spit out her drink laughing. Rahul was ranting about a somewhat famous standup comedian just a few feet away. In his defense, he was still salty because they had both been after the same girl, and she'd chosen the comedian over him.

"Look at my sister over there. Bless her heart, she's living her best life," Marti said, nodding toward Sara, who was perched on the same couch as Jude Law, laughing a little too hard at whatever he was saying. "I've got to give her credit though—took her less than five minutes to track him down, like a truffle dog."

As they continued to sip their drinks, Marti's gaze distractedly wandered across the crowd and for a freeze-frame, heart-stopping moment she thought she'd seen Hayden. But before she could be sure, the tall, familiar silhouette had already vanished back into the crowd.

It couldn't be him. Mary or Ewan would have mentioned it. Besides, he was probably tucked away at his forest farm in Canada with his family. She must have got it wrong.

"Hey, where did you go? Looks like you've seen a ghost." Rahul asked.

"Uh...I thought I recognized someone. Probably not seeing straight already. Damn, this mezcal is kicking my ass," Marti joked. "I need to pull it together by midnight—I'm supposed to sing with Lewis."

"Are you? Why didn't you tell me?!" He asked.

Marti played it down, "Because Ewan wanted it to be a surprise. Plus, it's just two friends singing, that's all."

"No," Rahul shook his head, "two friends singing are my aunt Samira and her pals at Old Tom's, screeching like dying cats during their very drunk rendition of Dancing Queen. You two have, what? 10 Grammys combined? No biggie whatso—"

He was cut off by Ewan's enthusiastic voice. "Heeeey, you two! So glad you could make it!" Ewan said, greeting them with a big grin. "Have you hit the arcade yet?"

Leading them to the station, Ewan proudly unveiled the Star Wars pod racer setup to an already ecstatic Rahul.

He jumped on it right away, and watching him light up like a kid on Christmas morning, Marti had a feeling he'd be parked there for the rest of the night.

"Now I know you're not into gaming," Ewan glanced at Marti. It was more that she sucked at them, really. "But I have something I think might be just your cup of tea," he suggested.

He walked her toward a small chamber with black, fabric-padded walls."I present you...the DreamBox."

It had the shape of a 10 by 10-foot cube. "First, you answer a few questions on this computer—your tastes, your vibes, your jam, and all that."

"What happens next?" she asked as she started answering the quiz on the screen.

"Magic!" he declared with theatrical flair, his usual childlike exuberance shining through. "Just take off your shoes, step inside, and enjoy the show."

Marti stepped into the chamber, a little bit hopeful and a little bit skeptical at the same time.

It was pitch black, and she couldn't see a thing, but a familiar sensation spread under her feet. It felt like walking barefoot in a garden. Slowly, a faint light began to fill the room, and as she glanced down, she realized she was standing on real grass.

The projection over the padded walls gradually shifted, transforming into a vivid countryside scene. A quaint stone cottage stood in the distance, framed by sparse trees. To her right, laundry fluttered on a line, swaying in the same gentle breeze that was softly stirring her hair.

She could smell the trees and flowers, just like back at her parents' place. Closing her eyes, she soaked in that feeling of pure, blissful freedom.

Suddenly, a click sounded behind her, and a familiar scent of pinewood filled the air. It might have fooled anyone else as part of the scene—but not her. She'd learned to recognize that scent. It had filled her lungs once and settled deep in her memory ever since, so she knew immediately it wasn't part of the simulation.

Her heartbeat quickened.

She turned and saw Hayden standing right in front of her. He looked impossibly good in a tailored blue suit that showed off his broad shoulders and lean build. He was wearing a matching blue shirt under it, with no tie, and a few top buttons casually undone. Christ on a cracker, RIP her.

"Hayden, hi," she muttered, "I thought you were out of town for the holidays."

"I'm flying out later tonight," he said softly, walking toward her. Her breath caught in her throat with each of his steps.

"Look, I wanted to apologize for the other night in London," she said hesitantly, lowering her eyes. "It wasn't my place to say those things. I didn't—"

"What I said about not being cut out for relationships..." he cut her off and made another step forward, "It might just be a cynical facade I've built to protect myself...and maybe I've convinced myself to believe it. But it still feels true..."

She looked silently, wide-eyed at him, hoping his stare wouldn't kill her because that's definitely what it felt like when it lasted more than a few seconds.

"And I meant it when I said I wasn't looking for anyone... but you're a goddamn masterpiece, and it's driving me insane. You're so soft, so warm. You're one of the purest things I've ever laid my eyes on," his gaze dropped to her lips, and he swallowed. "And there are a lot of things I'd like to crush in you, but not that."

His fingers wound through a loose strand of her hair. "I've tried to push you out of my head. Tried to play it cool, tried to hold back. But I can't do that if you do something like what you did the other night." His smile softened as he tucked the strand behind her ear. "If one of us crosses the line, I genuinely have no idea where it would take us. We'd be going into it blindly. It could get messy and you could get hurt."

She was completely lost in his words, too captivated and too far gone to respond with anything reasonable—or to even care about what he'd just said.

Was it her turn to say something now?

She searched his face for hints, only to see the softness disappear in a second. He leaned in, whispering in her ear, "So, you need to carefully think about what you want, M. Long. And hard."

She closed her eyes, her brain and body helplessly reacting to his words, as her stomach plunged into the depths of hell she wanted to be swallowed by.

"Because if you so much as nod at me, I won't be able to control myself. And I won't be able to stop what happens next. Take your time and think about it. Come to me when you know."

Another click.

She opened her eyes again, but the room had gone dark again. The simulation was over, and he was gone.

She waited a few seconds in the darkness, unable to move or to stop her heart from hammering in her chest.

She slowly made her way over to Rahul, still at the PodRacer station, watching him as he played a few more rounds.

"Come on, time for another drink!" Rahul announced, pulling her toward the bar again.

They chatted with some people already gathered there.

Everyone around them was having fun. She, on the other hand, had caught Matt Rife's eye, who had come up to her, and as a result, she wasn't having fun in any shape or form.

Besides, she was physically there but mentally on autopilot, still stuck on Hayden's words.

'Take your time and think about it,' he said. Think about what? Her brain was all over the place, and she couldn't think straight.

She politely refused the drink Matt Rife was offering her. She didn't have it in her to listen to him, for the third time that night, insist he'd never had any kind of cosmetic surgery. Plus, Rahul was right. He was definitely the guy to jerk off to himself in the mirror.

Stepping out onto the patio for some fresh air, she tried to come out of the maze of her thoughts, sorting through them one by one.

Could she fix this with a one-night stand? She was afraid not. Of course, she couldn't. Greedy bitch.

Was she ready to date again? She wasn't sure. It's not like she'd get a push notification when this new chapter of her life unlocked, anyway.

Maybe, for once, she could take it slow and rein in her obsessive tendencies. The thing was, whenever she liked something, she was more of the "binge it all at once" type, rather than savoring it bit by bit.

And really, what was the point of taking it step by step if he was only going to stick around until he got bored?

She might as well dive in, get her fill, get him out of her system and move on—preferably before catching feelings and ending up flat on her ass.

Pacing back and forth outside, she turned and glanced through the glass walls, catching a glimpse of Ewan introducing Hayden to Victoria, their co-star from Blackwood Manor. She felt her stomach drop and her fists clench involuntarily. Oh gosh. Was it too late for this as well?

"Penny for your thoughts," came Sara's voice from behind her.

"Did you bravely manage to unglue yourself from poor Jude?" Marti teased her.

Sara grinned at her comment, a hint of annoyance in her smile, "Did you enjoy playing 7 minutes in heaven in the DreamBox with Hayden?" she fired back, erasing the smirk from her sister's face.

"Oh shit. Do you think anyone noticed?" Marti asked apprehensively.

"No, I only did because I was already watching, waiting for you to come out," Sara reassured her, with a calm smile.

"So Jude. How'd you like him?" Martina asked.

"Hmm, not sure we clicked, not in that way," she confessed. "But it's been a fun night so far... What about you? Do you like him?"

Marti let out a troubled sigh and nervously looked down at her own feet.

"Jeez, Marti," Sara scoffed. "Overthinking much?"

"Well you know me. It's either that or impulsive thoughts." A nervous smile curved Marti's lips.

"Yeah, I am all too familiar with your poor decision making process," Sara walked by Marti's side resting her head on her sister's shoulder.

"This is gonna take me down, Sara. I can feel it," Marti said, shaking her head.

"Goodness gracious Marti, you're such a drama queen," Sara rolled her eyes. "You only just met the guy. Don't get so ahead of yourself. It's just a crush! And you know what grandma always said, 'do you know what a crush is?'"

"Lack of knowledge," they laughed in unison.

"Exactly. Like, maybe he listens to Joe Rogan religiously. Maybe he's rude to waiters. I think there's a higher chance he'll disappoint you than actually take you down. It's really not that deep, Marti. Go for it," Sara said with an encouraging smile.

"It's just that last year has been...eventful to say the least. Breaking up with Trevor, then getting back together, only to break up all over again. And I ended up with a broken heart and four years of my life down the drain."

"You didn't waste those years. You will cherish the good times and learn from the bad ones. Besides, that was last year. The new one's right around the corner."

Marti smiled softly, looking at her sister. "I just don't wanna get my heart broken all over again."

"Then don't. Protect yourself. If it gets too much, you're an adult and you can handle it like such," Sara looked at her sister like Marti knew what she meant.

But Marti didn't. "By running away?" She asked?

"No, Marti. Not running away," Sara chuckled and looked at her sister like she was the most hopeless of all her causes. "Something about healthy boundaries, you might have heard of them. Come on, let's get back inside, I'm freezing and it's close to midnight."

Back inside, the vibe had completely shifted from before.

It was darker, and the music was much louder. You could tell by the way people were moving and dancing that the alcohol had kicked in, ramping things up a notch or two since the party began.

The excitement for a new year, full of hopes and promises, was palpable in the air.

As she passed the bar, she spotted Ewan and Lewis taking whisky shots. She made her way to them, gave Lewis a hug, and grabbed a drink with them as they went over the details of their upcoming duet.

As soon as she felt the whisky hit her head, she excused herself and slipped away to find a restroom. She needed a moment to clear her head and freshen up before midnight.

The restroom was empty and quiet, muffling the music pounding outside. Alone with her thoughts, she realized they were pounding in her head just as loudly as the beats beyond the walls.

She splashed her face with cold water to regain clarity. Clarity, however, did not come.

Instead, she sensed the dam restraining her pent-up emotions teetering on the brink of collapse. Want, desire, danger, fear, wishing, and longing—everything was about to break through and swallow her in a giant wave.

The alcohol coursing through her system didn't make it any easier to resist them. She could still hear his words in her ears, and how he'd said them, like a haunting echo chamber.

'...think about what you want, M. Long. And hard.'

Maybe her sister was right. Maybe she was overthinking it, after all. Maybe she just needed to shut her brain off for once.

She closed her eyes, fragments of memories flooding her mind, and he was in every one of them—the scent of pinewood, his sharp blue eyes, his hand wrapped around her throat, his fingers digging in her hips as she ground against him, and the last thing he had said to her.

'Because if you so much as nod at me, I won't be able to control myself. And I won't be able to stop what happens next.'

What happened next. She was dying to know. Her stomach twisted, heart pounding in her chest. She was done thinking, she just wanted to feel.

A surge of heat pulsed through her, flushing her cheeks. She needed to find him. He mentioned having a flight later, so she had to track him down before midnight—before she was expected on stage, before he left.

She moved through the crowd, searching, but she couldn't find him. She looked at the bar, the game station, outside, and even the dance floor—knowing the chances of finding him were slim, but determined to leave no stone unturned.

As she scanned the room, she spotted Rahul locking lips with a girl she didn't recognize. Good for him. Nearby, Victoria was dancing with other people, which at least had to mean she and Hayden hadn't disappeared together. And that was good for her.

Jesus, she had looked everywhere and he was nowhere to be found. Had she been so stupid to overthink herself to death and not even notice him leaving?

Just as disappointment began to settle in, she huffed and casually glanced up at the mezzanine overlooking the dance floor—and there he was.

He was already looking at her, and she had no idea how long he'd been doing that. Through the crowd, the chaos, and the noise, his eyes were set on her alone, as if nothing in the whole room was even worthy of his attention, as if nothing in the world could make him look away.

Oh boy, this was definitely gonna take her down.

She swallowed, her heart pounding so hard she could almost feel it in her throat. Midnight was dangerously close, but she needed to talk to him first.

She reached the stairs leading to the deserted mezzanine and slowly walked toward him, her hand lightly grazing the railing.

"I thought about it," she began, stepping closer until she was right in front of him, "I know what I want."

He smiled and said, "When I said think about it, I meant for more than an hour."

"I don't need to," she insisted, wavering ever so slightly.

"And what is it that you want," he drew out his words impossibly slow.

She thought to herself a million answers, but the words just wouldn't come out. She stood there, hoping he could somehow read them in her eyes or in the way her body was magnetically inching closer to his.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," his voice was firm and demanding. "What is it that you want?"

She couldn't breathe, let alone speak. She closed the space between them until her body pressed firmly against his, their chests rising and falling together in sync.

He ran his thumb over her cheek, and his touch seared her skin. She knew she'd come to play with fire—and oh, did she want to get burned.

She looked up at him without even blinking, and mouthed a single prayer. "Crush me."

The dark gleam beneath the surface of his eyes flared like a bolt of lightning cutting through the night, and in an instant, he was all over her.

His lips crashed into hers, then melted together, their tongue hungry for each other. She'd never been kissed with such intensity—so fiercely, so passionately. It was...everything.

He put his hands on her waist, effortlessly lifting her and spinning her around, until her back was against the railing and a thick curtain behind her shielded them from view.

Every drop of blood in her veins ignited, as a wave of heat rushed through her, from her burning cheeks to the aching core between her legs.

He broke the kiss, looming over her. No one had ever looked at her like that. Like he was fucking her with his eyes. Like he wanted to devour her. Like he was dying to know how she tasted.

She was hanging from his lips. Literally. And he fucking knew it.

He softly glided his index and middle finger along her lower lip, then lightly tapped it two times, as a subtle command to open her mouth.

She complied, parting her lips and he slipped both fingers inside, sliding them on her tongue. She moaned, feeling herself getting wetter by the second. God, she wanted him so fucking bad.

Closing her mouth around his fingers, she sucked and licked along their entire length. She'd rather die than to break eye contact and miss out on the way he looked almost hypnotized by his fingers going in and out of her mouth.

A barely audible "fuck" escaped his lips, his brow furrowing. He pulled his hand from her mouth, and she felt it trail under her dress, slowly tracing up her thigh.

His hand slid into her panties, fingers tracing up and down her pussy. "God, you're so fucking wet for me already," he growled in a husky voice.

He started drawing slow circles on her clit with the same two fingers she was licking just moments ago, and a broken whimper escaped her mouth.

The music was too loud for anyone to hear anyway, but she had no idea how hidden they truly were from the crowd below.

"Can they see us?" she muttered, panting.

"Not from down there. But anyone could walk up these stairs at any moment. Do you want me to stop?" he asked, sliding one finger inside her as a cocky smirk played on his lips.

"Oh, fuck," she moaned louder. His mouth lingered over hers like he wanted to breathe in and swallow every sound leaving it. "Tell me to stop, M.," he dared her, as she writhed beneath him.

"I... mmh..." she muttered, not making any sense. Her body and mind were engulfed in heat and ecstasy, and whatever was left of her inhibitions was washed away by alcohol.

"What was that?" His deep blue shards sliced through her soul. She swore to God he could make her come with those eyes alone without even touching her.

But his finger kept curling inside her at a steady rhythm, hitting that sensitive spot again and again. He withdrew it, spreading her warm slickness along her slit, all the way up to her swollen clit as he asked again "Want me to stop?"

Another moan left her lips as she shook her head, but he still wasn't satisfied. He brought his other hand on the back of her head and firmly tugged her hair back. "When I ask you a question, you answer."

"No, please, don't stop," she desperately cried out.

"You sound even better than I imagined, begging for me to keep fucking you with my fingers," he said, sliding a second finger into her, and she nearly saw stars.

"Oh God" she yelped, throwing her head back, eyes rolling in ecstasy.

He picked up the pace, his fingers thrusting in and out of her at an angle that drove her wild. His thumb pressed firmly on her needy clit with perfect pressure, and she felt her walls begin to clench around him.

"You know I wish I could do this forever, but I'm afraid time's not on our side tonight," he said as yells and claps began drowning out the fading music. As the countdown to midnight began, she instinctively turned her head toward the floor below.

He firmly grabbed her cheeks, jerking her head back toward him and gave her a small slap. "Eyes on me. Forget them and focus on my voice, M. I'm gonna count you down—on zero, you're gonna be a good girl and come all over my fucking fingers. Do you understand?" he asked with a growl.

She nodded with a whimper, feeling her climax building to the point of no return.

"9...take my fingers fucking deeper...

8..."

The distant buzz downstairs was a mere background noise; all that mattered was the voice of the man counting down in front of her.

"7...Fuck I knew you'd be such a good girl for me...

6...and come all over my fucking fingers..."

His words hit her like multiple shots of heroin to a clean slate, leaving her no choice but to give in. She closed her eyes, as she let the waves of pleasure crashing over her build up even more.

"5...don't you fucking close your eyes, M...

4...look me in the fucking eyes when I make you come..."

"Hayden, I can't —" she whimpered when she thought she couldn't hold it any longer.

"4...don't fucking come yet...

3...good girls wait...

2...and you come when I tell you to...

1...hold it...

...Hold it...

0...that's it, good girl, fucking come on my fingers now..."

"Oh god," she moaned as she finally let go and felt her walls clenching around him one last time before she exploded, shuddering and dissolving into pleasure under his touch.

She watched the satisfied grin spread across his face as he withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean.

Her body was still trembling, her nervous system overwhelmed by the aftershocks of the sweetest, most violent pleasure.

Her mouth hung open, and the sight alone of what he'd just done could make her come again, she was sure. My god, he was impossibly hot.

"I knew you'd taste this fucking good," he whispered.

This was all so stupid hot. He was stupid hot. She shook her head and leaned her forehead against his chest for a moment, trying to pull herself back together.

"Are you okay?" he asked, adjusting her panties and smoothing her dress back into place. She nodded, and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

From down below, Ewan's voice rang out through the microphone. "Happy New Year, everybody! And what better way to kick it off than with a surprise? Lewis and Martina, come on up to the stage!" Everyone erupted into cheers, chanting their name.

"Looks like you're wanted downstairs," he said, smoothing her ruffled hair back into place.

"When will I... When are you..." She tried to gather her thoughts, but the words wouldn't come. Her head was still spinning from this overwhelming high, her body still riding it.

"My car will be here soon, and I'll be gone for two weeks," he said with a soft smile, answering the questions she hadn't quite finished.

"Oh, okay," was all she could manage, her voice barely audible as the crowd below grew louder, chanting her name with increasing intensity.

"They're all waiting for you. Go," he said, before kissing her forehead. "Happy New Year, Marti."

"Happy New Year, Hayden."

Chapter Text

LA. January 15th - Hayden's POV

Hayden spent the entire flight back from Canada nervously pacing around, repeatedly opening and closing the mini-fridge.

The reason for it was that earlier that morning, he had casually wandered into the fields behind the farm and just so happened to end up at the edge of the woods, where the violets grew.

He had hand picked them and placed them in a small pot with a little bit of dirt. Once he boarded the jet to go back to LA with his family, he had stashed the pot in the mini-fridge, hoping to keep them in a more stable environment.

His primary concern revolved around how long it would take for them to wither, and whether they would even make it to LA.

The second, more alarming, was: what the hell was he doing smuggling agricultural items cross borders? At this point, he half-hoped someone would nab him for environmental crimes—or for being utterly pathetic. Either worked.

He felt so stupid that he had already contemplated throwing them away twice, and they weren't even halfway through the flight.

He shook his head at the absurdity of his current state and, honestly, the whole last two weeks.

The farm had always been his sanctuary—a place to fully disconnect, recharge, and escape. It was his haven, where he could leave work, LA, and all the noise behind. Making homemade soap with Lena, playing Scrabble, the Outdoor Farm Show, long walks, slow life—anything that drowned out the noise of everything else.

And that's exactly what he'd been trying to do, but this time, things felt a little different.

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about New Year's Eve party for one fucking second. The embers in her eyes turning into molten fire, her strained moans in his ears, and the way she came undone in his hands.

Random thoughts of her kept blindsiding him in the middle of the day, catching him off guard when he was just minding his own business.

If he spent the afternoon reading, he'd catch himself wondering if she'd read the same book and what she thought of it. Taking care of the animals at the farm would remind him of how excited she'd been about his idea to auction off animal care classes for charity.

Enjoying a late cup of tea under the stars brought back memories of her backyard observatory, and he couldn't help but wonder what his random dice roll had captured in the sky that night.

A few times, he even thought about calling or texting her.

But to say what, exactly? He had no clue. Uneasy didn't even begin to cover how he felt about it.

He didn't like that she kept crossing his mind so often, and he definitely didn't like being unsure of his next move.

He figured he'd stop thinking about her sooner or later, but that hadn't happened. And now, here he was contemplating delivering hand picked violets to her. And that, he liked even less.

When he landed at LAX, he said goodbye to his ex and daughter, making plans for when he'd see her next.

Then, he headed home, and after a quick shower, he was still debating whether 8pm was an appropriate time to text her and see if she was home.

He struck a deal with the voice in his head calling him a loser, convincing himself that in reality, he wasn't eager to see her. It was just that the flowers had already been through enough on the flight, and they probably wouldn't last until tomorrow. He just had to give them to her. And with that, he hit send.

After a few minutes, his phone lit up.

What was that supposed to mean? He shot off another text for clarification but got no response, so he decided to just get in the car and drive to her house—the address still saved in his navigation.

He didn't find a general at the gate, but two security guards who, judging by how quickly they waved him through, had clearly been briefed on his arrival. He didn't remember there being guards the last time he visited, but he shrugged it off.

As he walked up to the front porch, he noticed a woman already standing in the doorway. She had wavy reddish hair, but toned down with some blonde in it, and amber eyes. He would have guessed a few years older than Martina and a good eight inches taller.

Although they looked different, he could spot the underlying family resemblance in the shape of her eyes, especially in the way they darted with the same lively energy. It was enough for him to guess that she had to be her sister, Sara.

She looked at him with an unimpressed expression, framed by large round glasses, her arms crossed as she leaned against the door.

Oh, right. The general at the door.

He remembered speaking with her over the phone, fielding an unusual number of questions before the charity date with Marti, but they'd never actually met in person.

"You must be Sara. Nice to finally meet you in person—I'm Hayden," he said, reaching the front door with an easy smile.

"Pleasure to meet you. Marti told me you were coming," she said, her Italian accent noticeably thick, unlike her sister's, which was barely there at all.

She also had a slightly more brusque attitude, and he couldn't tell if it was protective older sibling instincts or simply her natural personality.

"Come in," she gestured, inviting him inside and closing the door behind them. "I have to warn you, though. She's been sick with the flu for a few days and has a high fever, so I'm not sure visiting is the wisest choice."

"I didn't know. How is she now?" He asked.

"Well, being the stubborn idiot she is, she decided this morning she was going to beat the fever by working out. And she fainted. Go figure."

A worried expression crossed his face. Maybe coming here wasn't the best idea after all.

"Yeah, it wasn't cute." She casually flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. "But that," she said, glancing down at the small pot of violets in Hayden's hands, "however, is."

They exchanged a long look. Sara scrutinized his face, attempting to gauge his intentions—both for tonight and for her sister in general. The intensity of the stare was definitely another family trait.

For a moment he suspected she was just going to stare until he left.

"I can just leave them here if she's not feeling well." He proposed.

"She's been sleeping all day, but she's up now. I heard her playing the guitar just a few minutes ago, so I suppose you could deliver those yourself." For the first time since their introduction, she smiled. "Upstairs, second door on the right."

He knocked on the door and waited for Martina to invite him in.

"Hey," he said softly as he stepped into her room.

She smiled weakly. "Hey," she replied, her voice raspy and faint.

She was sitting on the bed with her guitar resting on her lap and a stack of music sheets beside her. Quickly, she gathered the papers and set them on the nightstand, gently placing the guitar on the floor.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I hit menopause early. I was literally shivering an hour ago, and now I'm hot flashing again," she said, patting her flushed cheeks with her fingers.

"Fever will do that to you," he smiled. "Can I sit?"

She nodded, and he sat at the foot of the bed. Her eyes shifted to the small pot of violets in his hands. "What's that?" she asked.

"They're violets," he said as he handed them to her. The words "They're for you" stuck in his throat, along with the fact that he had hand picked them that morning and carefully tended to them during the flight to keep them from wilting.

"Thank you," she said, raising her brows in suspicious surprise. She took the violets with a smile, inhaling their scent. As she stretched to place them on the nightstand, the blanket—already half off—rolled off completely, slipping to the floor.

His eyes slowly drank her in. She was wearing nothing but a thin, silky tank top, shorts, and Super Mario socks. Dark circles framed her tired eyes, and her curls were ever wilder than usual. And yet somehow, it made no difference to him. If anything, he felt even more drawn.

"How was Canada?" she asked, sinking back into her bed. "How are the piggies?"

"It was good... Piggies are fine," he laughed, surprised she even remembered. He started telling her how the lake had frozen over and you could skate on it, and how he'd finished putting up lights around it. Then, he pulled out his phone to show her some videos he'd taken.

"Shut up! Is that where you live up there? Oh my God, it looks like it's straight out of a fairytale," her eyes gleamed.

She listened intently as he delved into the depths of farm life, from digging holes to building ponds, and his current project of expanding the apple orchard and turning the hayfield into a lavender field.

The way she looked genuinely interested was definitely a countertrend. He was used to meeting uninterested faces staring back at him whenever he talked about it.

The women he dated typically treated it as an eccentric hobby of his—one they made it clear they had no intention of ever picking up—at best, or an endless source of boredom, at worst.

"Maybe one day you could come," the words spilled out before he could second-guess them, carried by the wave of enthusiasm from having someone actually enjoy his farm talk. "I mean, if you're up for it."

"Are you serious?! Of course I am!" Her face lit up. "Good luck teaching me how to skate upright on a frozen lake. Please fish me out if it cracks."

He laughed, picturing the scene. "I'll do my best."

He could tell she was getting tired, but she still got up from the bed and made her way to the desk, to retrieve something from the drawer. She made a little run back on the bed and she knelt beside him, leaning in a little closer.

"This is what the telescope captured that night," she said, handing him the picture. "Apparently your random dice roll caught five of the Seven Sisters, also known as the Pleaiades. Two were outside the field of your coordinates, but considering they were actually random, it wasn't too bad. Turns out you do have some sky game after all."

"Wow, it looks amazing," he said, his eyes captivated by the cluster of bright blue stars standing out against the blackness of space. He lifted his gaze, only to find himself even more mesmerized by her large, maple-brown eyes, sparkling at him like galaxies of their own.

He disengaged, and looked down. Big mistake. He swallowed hard, taking in the thin black top barely covering her breasts, exposing part of her stomach, and the tiny shorts bunched high around her thighs.

He wanted to touch her so badly. But he couldn't. Right? He could feel the feverish heat radiating from her body—she had fainted just earlier today.

What a fucking questionable choice to be on the same bed with her this close to him. Now he had to keep his fucking pants on and his hands to his goddamn self if he didn't want to risk her fainting all over again.

She leaned in even closer, completely unaware of the chastising thoughts racing through his head—with her flushed cheeks and wet, rosy lips. Too close not to have consequences.

The second after, her mouth was on his. Soft, hot, searching, wanting, taking. She shifted smoothly, straddling him, and he ran his hands up her back, pulling her closer.

There was something about feeling her weight on him—the softness of her waist, the curve of her wide hips, and the firmness of her thick thighs—that drove him absolutely fucking wild.

Their lips moved together in a slow dance, their tongues exploring each other's mouths and eagerly intertwining. The sweetness on her tongue pulled him in even more and made it impossible to draw back. With a slight shift, she pushed him with his back on her bed.

He had already missed several exits to stop this, but he had to now, before it got out of hand. He felt bad enough for dropping by when she needed rest and recovery. As much as he wanted to tear her clothes off and fuck her on that very bed, he couldn't let that happen that night. And he wouldn't.

His body tensed as her mouth dangerously started trailing down his neck. Summoning all his strength to regain control, he murmured, "Marti, I think you need to rest now. You've had enough cardio for one day."

"I can tell you exactly what my body wants right now," her whispered words slid over him like the softest silk, "and it's not rest."

He could feel the warmth of her breath against his neck and her lips softly brushing over it. Then, the moist heat of her tongue licking his skin, followed by the graze of her teeth sinking in.

Jesus Christ. He felt his cock harden at the thought of just how much control this was going to take.

He tried to gently push her away, saying, "We can talk about what your body wants when you're not burning hotter than the surface of Mars, alright?"

"But I'm feeling better..." she pouted, "So we can talk about it...right...now," she dove back on his neck, sweeping her tongue flat up along his jugular.

Fuck, she was driving him insane. He swallowed and exhaled, trying to collect himself, but before he could, she snuck her hand under his shirt, her nails lightly scraping his waist.

She hovered her lips near his, not quite kissing him, but brushing against them, teasing him with every breath. "I've been thinking about what you did to me at the party, how you touched me. And now I want more..."

Oh fuck. Not the needy whispers. The last thing he needed now was to hear how badly she wanted him. His cock responded instantly, getting even harder—like that was possible.

"Marti..." he breathed out, "I can't give you more. You're sick, you look exhausted, you passed out just this morning. I'm not going to touch you tonight."

She kept moving in a sinuous and snake-like dance over his body "Do you want to know how many times I've touched myself thinking about it?"

"Fuck..." He buried his head back in the mattress and closed his eyes, clenching his jaws. "I'd rather not."

"Must've been at least four," she purred into his ear, her voice soft and breathy, fueled by the way she was grinding against his cock through their clothes.

He wished he was a better man, because he was just one thin breath away from just unzipping his pants. He was on the brink of giving in to every cell in his body begging him to lose control right then and there, but he pushed the thought away once again.

"I'm not touching you tonight, M." He pressed his hand to her forehead, feeling the heat radiating from her. "Not when you're burning up like this."

She let out a frustrated sigh and rolled onto her side beside him. He exhaled in relief, thinking she'd leave it alone, but when he glanced at her again, it was evident the sheer spark of desire in her eyes was far from extinguished.

"Then I guess I'll have to do it myself," she said in a stubborn whisper, her hand caressing up her thighs. "And make it five times."

There was a gravitational force keeping him in place, his eyes locked on the slow, hypnotic movement of her hand traveling up between her legs, touching herself over the fabric of her shorts.

She wiggled out of them and slipped her slender finger into her panties, delicately working her clit until she began squirming and whimpering.

She was making herself moan right under his eyes, and he swore he needed goddamn handcuffs now just to keep from touching her.

"I want to watch you," she whispered, her voice fractured with pleasure. "Please... let me watch you touch yourself in front of me."

He knew it from the moment she'd leaned in and kissed him on that very bed, that she would make this hard on him. But he hadn't anticipated this level of relentless commitment in pushing him to madness.

He let out an intense, craving exhale, "Jesus Christ, Marti. Are you trying to push me right over the edge so that I rip your clothes off and shove my cock inside you harder and harder until you scream my name?"

"Oh fuck," she gasped, her movements quickening in response to his words.

"Now you want to watch me jerk off while you're playing with that sweet little cunt of yours, making yourself cum, and I can't even touch you?" he said, releasing his belt buckle.

"Yes, please...I want to watch you so bad," she breathed, her voice a lethal combination of moaning and pleading.

"You're driving me fucking insane," he growled, unbuttoning his jeans and freeing his already hard cock.

He nearly lost it when he saw her eyes roll back just as they landed on his cock, and he hadn't even started stroking himself yet. Her lust-filled gaze stayed fixed on his hand as it moved over his cock, and she bit her lip, sucking in a shaky breath. "I want you inside of me, Hayden..." she cried out.

"Shut up," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Your voice goes straight to my cock, and it's taking every ounce of myself not to tear your goddamn panties off, so please. Shut the fuck up."

He pumped his cock faster, as he watched her squeeze her thighs together and her eyes fluttering shut. Her breathing grew heavier, louder, each pant driving him closer and closer.

He reached out with his free hand, the back of his fingers grazing lightly over her covered breasts. Her breath hitched as he hooked his index finger inside the edge of her top, slowly pulling it down until her breasts were fully exposed.

Jesus fucking Christ. He tightened his grip around his cock and pumped himself even harder. She was so fucking beautiful.

"I'm so close," she gasped, her legs trembling in uneven, desperate shakes. "I want you to come all over me."

Fuck, she was going to be the death of him. He moved in closer, his free hand gripping the back of her hair, tugging it back. The pressure building inside him was hitting the limit, and he was about to come as well.

"Where do you want me to come, M.?" he growled. "Want me to paint that pretty little face with my cum? Or should I cover your stomach instead?"

"Oh god, anywhere you want, Hayden...I'm coming..." she whimpered, throwing her head back. Then, she fell silent for a moment before a loud moan ripped from her throat and her body spasmed right in front of him.

It was too much.

He gave a few final, hard strokes to his cock, and then exploded with a deep groan, thick, hot lines spilling over her breasts and stomach, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

It took him a couple of minutes to catch his breath and come back to his senses. When he finally came down and opened his eyes, he adjusted himself and zipped up his pants, hoping to dear god that none of her moans had made their way downstairs.

He spotted the bathroom door and quietly made his way over, grabbing a couple of towels and dampening them. Returning to her, he used one to gently clean her and placed the other on her feverish forehead to cool her down.

Then, he carefully lifted her into his arms and tucked her under the covers. She looked as though she had already drifted blissfully into sleep.

"Marti? Are you awake?" He asked softly.

"Mmphhgrh.." She mumbled.

He smiled softly and murmured, "Yeah, I'm going to head out now. I've got a flight to Paris for work tomorrow."

"Paris holds the key to your heart... And all of Paris plays a paaaart," she started singing a song he didn't recognize, her words drawn out lazily and sleepily, drifting through the air like a goofy lullaby.

"Are you alright?" he checked in.

"Fucking peachy, dude," she replied with a big smile, chewing the air before rolling onto her side and burying her face in the pillow, nuzzling her hair against it.

She was cute, and warm, and funny, and dirty. As beautiful as deadly.

She was a terrifying precipice. She was the irresistible call to discover what lies beneath, the adrenaline leaning over and the fear of falling right into it, all wrapped into one.

He brushed his hand softly across her cheek, like grazing the edge of the cliff, then quietly closed the door behind him and walked away.

While he still could.LA. January 15th - Hayden's POV

Hayden spent the entire flight back from Canada nervously pacing around, repeatedly opening and closing the mini-fridge.

The reason for it was that earlier that morning, he had casually wandered into the fields behind the farm and just so happened to end up at the edge of the woods, where the violets grew.

He had hand picked them and placed them in a small pot with a little bit of dirt. Once he boarded the jet to go back to LA with his family, he had stashed the pot in the mini-fridge, hoping to keep them in a more stable environment.

His primary concern revolved around how long it would take for them to wither, and whether they would even make it to LA.

The second, more alarming, was: what the hell was he doing smuggling agricultural items cross borders? At this point, he half-hoped someone would nab him for environmental crimes—or for being utterly pathetic. Either worked.

He felt so stupid that he had already contemplated throwing them away twice, and they weren't even halfway through the flight.

He shook his head at the absurdity of his current state and, honestly, the whole last two weeks.

The farm had always been his sanctuary—a place to fully disconnect, recharge, and escape. It was his haven, where he could leave work, LA, and all the noise behind. Making homemade soap with Lena, playing Scrabble, the Outdoor Farm Show, long walks, slow life—anything that drowned out the noise of everything else.

And that's exactly what he'd been trying to do, but this time, things felt a little different.

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about New Year's Eve party for one fucking second. The embers in her eyes turning into molten fire, her strained moans in his ears, and the way she came undone in his hands.

Random thoughts of her kept blindsiding him in the middle of the day, catching him off guard when he was just minding his own business.

If he spent the afternoon reading, he'd catch himself wondering if she'd read the same book and what she thought of it. Taking care of the animals at the farm would remind him of how excited she'd been about his idea to auction off animal care classes for charity.

Enjoying a late cup of tea under the stars brought back memories of her backyard observatory, and he couldn't help but wonder what his random dice roll had captured in the sky that night.

A few times, he even thought about calling or texting her.

But to say what, exactly? He had no clue. Uneasy didn't even begin to cover how he felt about it.

He didn't like that she kept crossing his mind so often, and he definitely didn't like being unsure of his next move.

He figured he'd stop thinking about her sooner or later, but that hadn't happened. And now, here he was contemplating delivering hand picked violets to her. And that, he liked even less.

When he landed at LAX, he said goodbye to his ex and daughter, making plans for when he'd see her next.

Then, he headed home, and after a quick shower, he was still debating whether 8pm was an appropriate time to text her and see if she was home.

He struck a deal with the voice in his head calling him a loser, convincing himself that in reality, he wasn't eager to see her. It was just that the flowers had already been through enough on the flight, and they probably wouldn't last until tomorrow. He just had to give them to her. And with that, he hit send.

After a few minutes, his phone lit up.

'Yes you can drop by. See if you can make it past the general at my front door.'

What was that supposed to mean? He shot off another text for clarification but got no response, so he decided to just get in the car and drive to her house—the address still saved in his navigation.

He didn't find a general at the gate, but two security guards who, judging by how quickly they waved him through, had clearly been briefed on his arrival. He didn't remember there being guards the last time he visited, but he shrugged it off.

As he walked up to the front porch, he noticed a woman already standing in the doorway. She had wavy reddish hair, but toned down with some blonde in it, and amber eyes. He would have guessed a few years older than Martina and a good eight inches taller.

Although they looked different, he could spot the underlying family resemblance in the shape of her eyes, especially in the way they darted with the same lively energy. It was enough for him to guess that she had to be her sister, Sara.

She looked at him with an unimpressed expression, framed by large round glasses, her arms crossed as she leaned against the door.

Oh, right. The general at the door.

He remembered speaking with her over the phone, fielding an unusual number of questions before the charity date with Marti, but they'd never actually met in person.

"You must be Sara. Nice to finally meet you in person—I'm Hayden," he said, reaching the front door with an easy smile.

"Pleasure to meet you. Marti told me you were coming," she said, her Italian accent noticeably thick, unlike her sister's, which was barely there at all.

She also had a slightly more brusque attitude, and he couldn't tell if it was protective older sibling instincts or simply her natural personality.

"Come in," she gestured, inviting him inside and closing the door behind them. "I have to warn you, though. She's been sick with the flu for a few days and has a high fever, so I'm not sure visiting is the wisest choice."

"I didn't know. How is she now?" He asked.

"Well, being the stubborn idiot she is, she decided this morning she was going to beat the fever by working out. And she fainted. Go figure."

A worried expression crossed his face. Maybe coming here wasn't the best idea after all.

"Yeah, it wasn't cute." She casually flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. "But that," she said, glancing down at the small pot of violets in Hayden's hands, "however, is."

They exchanged a long look. Sara scrutinized his face, attempting to gauge his intentions—both for tonight and for her sister in general. The intensity of the stare was definitely another family trait.

For a moment he suspected she was just going to stare until he left.

"I can just leave them here if she's not feeling well." He proposed.

"She's been sleeping all day, but she's up now. I heard her playing the guitar just a few minutes ago, so I suppose you could deliver those yourself." For the first time since their introduction, she smiled. "Upstairs, second door on the right."

He knocked on the door and waited for Martina to invite him in.

"Hey," he said softly as he stepped into her room.

She smiled weakly. "Hey," she replied, her voice raspy and faint.

She was sitting on the bed with her guitar resting on her lap and a stack of music sheets beside her. Quickly, she gathered the papers and set them on the nightstand, gently placing the guitar on the floor.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I hit menopause early. I was literally shivering an hour ago, and now I'm hot flashing again," she said, patting her flushed cheeks with her fingers.

"Fever will do that to you," he smiled. "Can I sit?"

She nodded, and he sat at the foot of the bed. Her eyes shifted to the small pot of violets in his hands. "What's that?" she asked.

"They're violets," he said as he handed them to her. The words "They're for you" stuck in his throat, along with the fact that he had hand picked them that morning and carefully tended to them during the flight to keep them from wilting.

"Thank you," she said, raising her brows in suspicious surprise. She took the violets with a smile, inhaling their scent. As she stretched to place them on the nightstand, the blanket—already half off—rolled off completely, slipping to the floor.

His eyes slowly drank her in. She was wearing nothing but a thin, silky tank top, shorts, and Super Mario socks. Dark circles framed her tired eyes, and her curls were ever wilder than usual. And yet somehow, it made no difference to him. If anything, he felt even more drawn.

"How was Canada?" she asked, sinking back into her bed. "How are the piggies?"

"It was good... Piggies are fine," he laughed, surprised she even remembered. He started telling her how the lake had frozen over and you could skate on it, and how he'd finished putting up lights around it. Then, he pulled out his phone to show her some videos he'd taken.

"Shut up! Is that where you live up there? Oh my God, it looks like it's straight out of a fairytale," her eyes gleamed.

She listened intently as he delved into the depths of farm life, from digging holes to building ponds, and his current project of expanding the apple orchard and turning the hayfield into a lavender field.

The way she looked genuinely interested was definitely a countertrend. He was used to meeting uninterested faces staring back at him whenever he talked about it.

The women he dated typically treated it as an eccentric hobby of his—one they made it clear they had no intention of ever picking up—at best, or an endless source of boredom, at worst.

"Maybe one day you could come," the words spilled out before he could second-guess them, carried by the wave of enthusiasm from having someone actually enjoy his farm talk. "I mean, if you're up for it."

"Are you serious?! Of course I am!" Her face lit up. "Good luck teaching me how to skate upright on a frozen lake. Please fish me out if it cracks."

He laughed, picturing the scene. "I'll do my best."

He could tell she was getting tired, but she still got up from the bed and made her way to the desk, to retrieve something from the drawer. She made a little run back on the bed and she knelt beside him, leaning in a little closer.

"This is what the telescope captured that night," she said, handing him the picture. "Apparently your random dice roll caught five of the Seven Sisters, also known as the Pleaiades. Two were outside the field of your coordinates, but considering they were actually random, it wasn't too bad. Turns out you do have some sky game after all."

"Wow, it looks amazing," he said, his eyes captivated by the cluster of bright blue stars standing out against the blackness of space. He lifted his gaze, only to find himself even more mesmerized by her large, maple-brown eyes, sparkling at him like galaxies of their own.

He disengaged, and looked down. Big mistake. He swallowed hard, taking in the thin black top barely covering her breasts, exposing part of her stomach, and the tiny shorts bunched high around her thighs.

He wanted to touch her so badly. But he couldn't. Right? He could feel the feverish heat radiating from her body—she had fainted just earlier today.

What a fucking questionable choice to be on the same bed with her this close to him. Now he had to keep his fucking pants on and his hands to his goddamn self if he didn't want to risk her fainting all over again.

She leaned in even closer, completely unaware of the chastising thoughts racing through his head—with her flushed cheeks and wet, rosy lips. Too close not to have consequences.

The second after, her mouth was on his. Soft, hot, searching, wanting, taking. She shifted smoothly, straddling him, and he ran his hands up her back, pulling her closer.

There was something about feeling her weight on him—the softness of her waist, the curve of her wide hips, and the firmness of her thick thighs—that drove him absolutely fucking wild.

Their lips moved together in a slow dance, their tongues exploring each other's mouths and eagerly intertwining. The sweetness on her tongue pulled him in even more and made it impossible to draw back. With a slight shift, she pushed him with his back on her bed.

He had already missed several exits to stop this, but he had to now, before it got out of hand. He felt bad enough for dropping by when she needed rest and recovery. As much as he wanted to tear her clothes off and fuck her on that very bed, he couldn't let that happen that night. And he wouldn't.

His body tensed as her mouth dangerously started trailing down his neck. Summoning all his strength to regain control, he murmured, "Marti, I think you need to rest now. You've had enough cardio for one day."

"I can tell you exactly what my body wants right now," her whispered words slid over him like the softest silk, "and it's not rest."

He could feel the warmth of her breath against his neck and her lips softly brushing over it. Then, the moist heat of her tongue licking his skin, followed by the graze of her teeth sinking in.

Jesus Christ. He felt his cock harden at the thought of just how much control this was going to take.

He tried to gently push her away, saying, "We can talk about what your body wants when you're not burning hotter than the surface of Mars, alright?"

"But I'm feeling better..." she pouted, "So we can talk about it...right...now," she dove back on his neck, sweeping her tongue flat up along his jugular.

Fuck, she was driving him insane. He swallowed and exhaled, trying to collect himself, but before he could, she snuck her hand under his shirt, her nails lightly scraping his waist.

She hovered her lips near his, not quite kissing him, but brushing against them, teasing him with every breath. "I've been thinking about what you did to me at the party, how you touched me. And now I want more..."

Oh fuck. Not the needy whispers. The last thing he needed now was to hear how badly she wanted him. His cock responded instantly, getting even harder—like that was possible.

"Marti..." he breathed out, "I can't give you more. You're sick, you look exhausted, you passed out just this morning. I'm not going to touch you tonight."

She kept moving in a sinuous and snake-like dance over his body "Do you want to know how many times I've touched myself thinking about it?"

"Fuck..." He buried his head back in the mattress and closed his eyes, clenching his jaws. "I'd rather not."

"Must've been at least four," she purred into his ear, her voice soft and breathy, fueled by the way she was grinding against his cock through their clothes.

He wished he was a better man, because he was just one thin breath away from just unzipping his pants. He was on the brink of giving in to every cell in his body begging him to lose control right then and there, but he pushed the thought away once again.

"I'm not touching you tonight, M." He pressed his hand to her forehead, feeling the heat radiating from her. "Not when you're burning up like this."

She let out a frustrated sigh and rolled onto her side beside him. He exhaled in relief, thinking she'd leave it alone, but when he glanced at her again, it was evident the sheer spark of desire in her eyes was far from extinguished.

"Then I guess I'll have to do it myself," she said in a stubborn whisper, her hand caressing up her thighs. "And make it five times."

There was a gravitational force keeping him in place, his eyes locked on the slow, hypnotic movement of her hand traveling up between her legs, touching herself over the fabric of her shorts.

She wiggled out of them and slipped her slender finger into her panties, delicately working her clit until she began squirming and whimpering.

She was making herself moan right under his eyes, and he swore he needed goddamn handcuffs now just to keep from touching her.

"I want to watch you," she whispered, her voice fractured with pleasure. "Please... let me watch you touch yourself in front of me."

He knew it from the moment she'd leaned in and kissed him on that very bed, that she would make this hard on him. But he hadn't anticipated this level of relentless commitment in pushing him to madness.

He let out an intense, craving exhale, "Jesus Christ, Marti. Are you trying to push me right over the edge so that I rip your clothes off and shove my cock inside you harder and harder until you scream my name?"

"Oh fuck," she gasped, her movements quickening in response to his words.

"Now you want to watch me jerk off while you're playing with that sweet little cunt of yours, making yourself cum, and I can't even touch you?" he said, releasing his belt buckle.

"Yes, please...I want to watch you so bad," she breathed, her voice a lethal combination of moaning and pleading.

"You're driving me fucking insane," he growled, unbuttoning his jeans and freeing his already hard cock.

He nearly lost it when he saw her eyes roll back just as they landed on his cock, and he hadn't even started stroking himself yet. Her lust-filled gaze stayed fixed on his hand as it moved over his cock, and she bit her lip, sucking in a shaky breath. "I want you inside of me, Hayden..." she cried out.

"Shut up," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Your voice goes straight to my cock, and it's taking every ounce of myself not to tear your goddamn panties off, so please. Shut the fuck up."

He pumped his cock faster, as he watched her squeeze her thighs together and her eyes fluttering shut. Her breathing grew heavier, louder, each pant driving him closer and closer.

He reached out with his free hand, the back of his fingers grazing lightly over her covered breasts. Her breath hitched as he hooked his index finger inside the edge of her top, slowly pulling it down until her breasts were fully exposed.

Jesus fucking Christ. He tightened his grip around his cock and pumped himself even harder. She was so fucking beautiful.

"I'm so close," she gasped, her legs trembling in uneven, desperate shakes. "I want you to come all over me."

Fuck, she was going to be the death of him. He moved in closer, his free hand gripping the back of her hair, tugging it back. The pressure building inside him was hitting the limit, and he was about to come as well.

"Where do you want me to come, M.?" he growled. "Want me to paint that pretty little face with my cum? Or should I cover your stomach instead?"

"Oh god, anywhere you want, Hayden...I'm coming..." she whimpered, throwing her head back. Then, she fell silent for a moment before a loud moan ripped from her throat and her body spasmed right in front of him.

It was too much.

He gave a few final, hard strokes to his cock, and then exploded with a deep groan, thick, hot lines spilling over her breasts and stomach, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

It took him a couple of minutes to catch his breath and come back to his senses. When he finally came down and opened his eyes, he adjusted himself and zipped up his pants, hoping to dear god that none of her moans had made their way downstairs.

He spotted the bathroom door and quietly made his way over, grabbing a couple of towels and dampening them. Returning to her, he used one to gently clean her and placed the other on her feverish forehead to cool her down.

Then, he carefully lifted her into his arms and tucked her under the covers. She looked as though she had already drifted blissfully into sleep.

"Marti? Are you awake?" He asked softly.

"Mmphhgrh.." She mumbled.

He smiled softly and murmured, "Yeah, I'm going to head out now. I've got a flight to Paris for work tomorrow."

"Paris holds the key to your heart... And all of Paris plays a paaaart," she started singing a song he didn't recognize, her words drawn out lazily and sleepily, drifting through the air like a goofy lullaby.

"Are you alright?" he checked in.

"Fucking peachy, dude," she replied with a big smile, chewing the air before rolling onto her side and burying her face in the pillow, nuzzling her hair against it.

She was cute, and warm, and funny, and dirty. As beautiful as deadly.

She was a terrifying precipice. She was the irresistible call to discover what lies beneath, the adrenaline leaning over and the fear of falling right into it, all wrapped into one.

He brushed his hand softly across her cheek, like grazing the edge of the cliff, then quietly closed the door behind him and walked away.

While he still could.

Chapter Text

LA. January 16th - Martina's POV

A sliver of sunlight filtered through the leaves outside her window, landing mercilessly on her sleepy eyes. The memories from the night before hit her the same merciless way right after she woke up.

For a split second before regaining full consciousness, she wondered if it had all been a dream or a fever-induced hallucination.

She shifted in the sheets and glanced around her room. The little pot of violets on the nightstand, bathed in the same rays of morning light, told her it hadn't been a dream.

She got out of bed, brushed her teeth, and hopped into the shower, as more memories from the night before swarmed her mind: her tongue on his neck, his hand pulling her hair, his veiny hand wrapped around his thick, hard cock. God. A wave of heat spread across her face.

While she was making her bed, her eyes caught his sweater draped at the foot. Lifting it to her nose, she inhaled deeply, letting the scent of pinewood flood her senses. He must've left it behind. She stood there, holding it for a moment longer.

What was she doing? Her rational side called her back to reality. She quickly folded the sweater and placed it on a shelf, giving it two small pats of self-imposed, healthy detachment.

Everything about this still felt very fleeting and fragile. For all she knew, she might hear from him tonight, in ten weeks, or never again. So maybe, it was best to keep her emotions in check and her nose out of his sweater.

He'd said he got bored easily and quickly. But how quickly? How much time did they really have left? It was probably only a matter of time before something triggered his fight-or-flight instincts. So, how was she going to spend however little time they had until then?

She picked up her guitar and dealt with her conflicting emotions the only way she knew how. By the end of the morning, she had crafted the main melody of a new song and scribbled a few raw lyrics onto paper.

Over the following days, whenever she wasn't filming on set, she'd call Nick to whisk her off to the studio to keep working on the song. It still wasn't done—the second half needed some work—but she was thrilled enough to call Sara to the studio to play her what she had.

"So, what do you think?" Marti asked her sister while they waited for Nick to pick them up and drive them home from the studio.

"I think this has big hit potential, Marti," her sister replied, adjusting her glasses with her finger.

"Right? I know! Which is why...I want this to go on the new album." Marti timidly proposed.

"The new one you mean, the one you've basically wrapped up every song for? The one you wanted to be a sonically and lyrically cohesive, cathartic, breakup concept album? That album?" her sister inquired as Nick's car approached the sidewalk.

"Yeah, well, the thing is...I've been having second thoughts about the tracklist," Marti confessed as they climbed into the car, "I'm thinking of taking a few songs off and adding new ones. I was obsessed with making it cohesive, but most of it was written right after the breakup. It's a lot of dwelling on the past—pain, disappointment, hopelessness. It's... cohesively hopeless."

They greeted Nick, and Marti gave him a wink as she casually dropped a handful of cinnamon hard candy into the cup holder—their little ritual whenever she returned from the studio.

Sara let out a nervous sigh as she slid into the back seat next to her sister. She pushed her glasses back again, but this time they didn't need fixing. Bad sign.

"I've got a meeting with the label execs on Monday. What am I supposed to say to them?" Sara flipped her ponytail dramatically, turning to Marti. "I'll just tell them what we've got so far—pain, disappointment, and hopelessness. But don't worry, we're scrapping it and starting from scratch. They'll be thrilled," she lamented.

Martina chuckled at her sister's exaggerated distress. "Tell them I'm feeling awesomely inspired and need a little bit more time to finish it."

"Right, because there's nothing a dozen hard-nosed, numbers-obsessed, middle-aged men in executive positions love to hear more," Sara retorted, giving her a pointed look.

"But I'm the label's top-selling artist, that's got to count for something right? I'm only asking for a little more time," Marti insisted.

"You're still not above deadlines, my dear," Sara replied. "Anyway, we've got our own roundtable Friday next week. We'll add it to the agenda and discuss the details then." With that, she ended the conversation.

The roundtable was a monthly gathering where they discussed a wide range of critical topics—from her public image and PR commitments to music developments and the nitty-gritty of business metrics and sales performance. Given her unique circumstances, security updates were also always part of the agenda.

What made the roundtable particularly daunting was its comprehensive nature. On paper, squeezing all the discussions into one session seemed efficient given her packed schedule. But in reality, it often felt like a long-ass, soul-sucking marathon that drained the life out of her.

She parted ways with Sara as soon as they got home. She threw herself on the bed and laid there like a starfish, wondering about Hayden. A week had gone by since they last saw each other, and she wasn't sure when the next time would be. Maybe she could call or text. She didn't even know where he was.

She absentmindedly opened TikTok, and after a few scrolls, the algorithm answered that question for her. It was like her conscience, it knew her better than herself, and she could never escape it.

Apparently, there was some convention event in Paris where he was a guest speaker. A short clip of him being interviewed onstage caught her attention. A woman from the crowd yelled, "You're sexy," to which he chuckled and casually replied, "I'm aware of what I'm aware of."

She laughed to herself. Great, now she was smiling like an idiot to a phone screen.

She was still internally debating whether to text him or not when her phone chimed with a text notification from an unknown sender.

Something immediately felt off.

After the break-in, Thomas made her switch numbers, so probably a total of 20 people had this new one.

A sinister sixth sense made the hair on her arm stand up, as she silently prayed it was just a political spam message or Just Eat texting her about a new Mexican place opened nearby.

But it wasn't.

She jolted upright in bed, her heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else. Her blood ran cold, and her hands trembled as she gripped the phone, frozen in fear.

LA. January 26th - Martina's POV

Martina wasn't having a great day. And for more than one reason.

She took her seat at the monthly roundtable and braced herself. It was going to be a packed one.

Just last week, Martina's biggest worry had been convincing her label to give her a little bit more time to finish her new album.

She'd been so anxious waiting for Sara's meeting with the execs that she'd bitten the cuticles on her thumbs until they bled. Which, of course, she didn't know then was going to be least of her concern today.

Surprisingly, the meeting with the label had gone smoothly, and they had given her full control over the album's timing and release. So, the discussion about the album's progress ended pretty quickly.

The next item on the agenda was her Public Image, which was always one of the most stressful parts. And today was no exception, because a full-blown shitstorm was raining down on her.

California was in the middle of a heatwave, with temperatures reaching unseasonably high levels for this time of year.

Forecasters had issued a heat warning, predicting temperatures between 80 and 90 degrees. It was the 30th consecutive day without rain, the longest winter drought in recent memory, and the risk of wildfires was at an all-time high.

This, of course, had reignited discussions about man-made climate change. To make matters worse, a report had just been released ranking celebrities by their private jet usage and carbon emission. She was in the top three.

Jessie was leading this section and was in full crisis resolution mode. "I already have the press release drafted and ready to go. Firstly, while the jet is technically yours, you're not the only one using it. We lent it out to half of New York last year..."

Mostly Trevor, to be honest, who not only treated Nick like his personal Uber, but also regularly used her jet and would've gladly taken it to grab groceries—or even to the bathroom—if only there'd been a helipad nearby. Her publicist couldn't have known that, though, and it was beside the point.

"...So placing all the blame on you is actually inaccurate," Jessie concluded.

"Can we point out the absolute unrealistic expectation that she should fly commercial?" Sara chimed in. "Picture crowds camped outside, airports swarming with people screaming. It would cause massive delays and disruptions for regular travelers—not to mention the safety concerns."

"They'd likely argue that she signed up for this—that it's the price of fame she has to pay," Jessie replied. "Most people aren't familiar with airport logistics or her schedule. They'd probably suggest some far-fetched way she could secretly fly commercial and make it look effortless."

"Alright, Jessie, let's stick with the original statement. It's true we lent out the jet, but they have a point. A lot of those short trips last year could have been avoided. I've expressed my reservations about traveling this way before, so I'm actually glad this issue has come to light." Marti pointed out.

"And I'm not a fan of this 'us versus them' mentality. We should all be doing our part. So, moving forward, we'll be more mindful of our schedule and travel plans. If there's a more sustainable way to get where we need to go, we'll take it—even if it takes a bit longer. Honestly, it'll do us all some good to step off this constant hamster wheel of ubiquity," Marti sealed the discussion.

They took a break before the final section of the roundtable—the one dedicated to Security, led by Thomas. She had both anticipated and dreaded it ever since receiving that unsettling text a few days ago.

She was especially frustrated because it felt like everyone was downplaying the situation, and she was starting to feel increasingly irritated.

Every time something like this happened, they all sounded like a broken record. They'd launch investigations and audit every device in her circle for cybersecurity gaps.

But nothing ever really changed.

The reality was that, unlike physical attacks or the break-in, which got law enforcement involved, a random text to a celebrity didn't raise as much concern.

She understood they weren't an immediate threat to her safety, but it still meant her stalker was back, once again, and actively after her.

"How can you not see it? It means he's close! He said he liked me better when I smelled like lavender. My perfume smells like violets, he must have been close enough to smell it on me. And even before to know that my former perfume was lavender!" she argued, trying to justify her level of alarm.

"You were Gucci's brand ambassador for their lavender perfume. Your face was plastered on billboards everywhere—it's not exactly a secret," Sara pointed out.

"Okay, but how would he know I smell like violets now? That means he's not just some guy watching from a distance—he's close!" Martina protested.

Thomas tried his usual reassuring fit, "Keep in mind you spend a lot of time in crowded places, packed venues, and meeting tons of people. You pass by plenty of bystanders. He could've just been near you once and caught a whiff. Doesn't mean he's close to you in your day-to-day life."

"Thomas, I appreciate your constant reassurance, but are you seriously suggesting I should calm down because the fact my stalker only managed to get close enough to smell me once isn't necessarily an indicator that he can smell me whenever he wants?" Her diplomatic tone was hanging by a very thin thread.

"It's not just that," Sara jumped in. "There's a whole Reddit thread speculating what celebrities smell like, and Buzzfeed Articles where it's mentioned your perfume might be violets. So, what Thomas is trying to say is that it's kind of public information. Anyone obsessed enough could have easy access to it, even if they'd never met you in person."

Rationally, it was supposed to calm her down, yet it wasn't enough to stop her churning stomach.

"Even so, we all gave our devices for security updates just two months ago. Why can he cut through like it's nothing?" Marti pressed.

"It's possible the steps we've taken aren't enough to stop him. We're investigating how to set up special security configurations on all our device to block out any anonymous or unauthorized number," Thomas suggested.

She took a short lived breath of relief.

Somehow, the idea of shutting him out scared her even more. Having a sense of his obsession—whether it was from how often he texted or the momentary breaks—gave her at least the illusion of control over the whole thing.

Maybe not control, but a shred of insight, which was better than nothing.

Blocking him out would have left her completely in the dark about his intentions, and the possibility of provoking his anger didn't thrill her either.

After four interminable hours, the roundtable was finally over.

Martina, Sara, Thomas, Philip, and Jessie headed toward the elevator, and as the doors opened to the lobby, they were met by the sight of a crowd of protesters gathered outside the building's entrance.

They were shouting slogans and waving signs with crossed-out airplanes and messages like "No Planet B" and "You're the problem, it's you."

Sara quickly dialed Nick's number, instructing him to meet them at the back entrance as they hurried in that direction. She then placed a hand on Marti's arm and reassured her, "Breathe. It will get better after the press release, I promise."

When the car arrived and they were walking to it, just a few steps from safety, a group of protesters, who had circled around from the front, ran toward them.

As one protester charged forward, Philip moved quickly to block him, but another managed to slip through the chaos. Martina only caught two hands clutching a bucket before black paint exploded across her face.

She felt Thomas grab her, lift her off the ground, and carry her to the car. For a moment, she held her breath, terrified of what substance had just hit her—wondering if it was toxic or corrosive.

After a few tense ten seconds, she realized the only thing burning was her throat, stung by the sheer humiliation.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry Marti," Sara kept saying, getting into the car as well. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Gotta thank them for sticking to non-toxic paint, very thoughtful and on-brand," she said, trying to get as much as she could away from her face.

Sara looked at Jessie, Thomas and Philip who had also made it in the car, "I saw phones recording, this will go viral in no time. We need to come up with some damage control plan, right now. She can go home, and clean herself up." Then, she turned to the driver seat. "Nick, can you circle around and take the underground parking? Drop me, Jessie, and Thomas back at the office first, then you can take her and Philip home."

Nick, utterly overwhelmed and confused by the chaos unfolding inside and outside of his car, kept throwing horrified looks in the rearview mirror, but nodded firmly.

"Wait, why is Thomas coming with you?" Marti asked.

"We'll go over what happened and draft an emergency plan to assess the risks of your next public appearances and coordinate the response. We'll fix it, don't worry," Sara reassured her once again.

A few minutes after they exited the car, she found herself alone in the backseat with her thoughts. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror, then down at her paint-splattered clothes.

As if the overwhelming weight of everything wasn't enough, there was also a relentless voice in her head, telling her she deserved it.

She noticed the paint dripping down from her clothes had stained all of the velvety car seats of Nick's car. "Nick, I'm afraid I got paint all over your seats back here."

"Miss Marti doesn't need to worry about it. We'll have it cleaned," he reassured with his usual warm smile. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel like I need a permanent vacation from this, Nick. I'm probably going to get canceled anyway, and rightfully so. I feel like such a failure," she sighed.

He furrowed his brows, as if he couldn't make sense of what she was saying. "People, they are going to protest, and it is their right to do so. But they should not attack people like this, no. If Miss has made a mistake, she can learn from it and make it right. It does not mean she is a complete failure in everything else she does," he said, convinced of his own judgment.

"Sometimes I wonder who I would be if Sara hadn't convinced me to audition for XFactor," she said with a bitter smile. "If I hadn't won, I'd probably still be in my little hometown in Italy, selling gelato instead of albums. I wouldn't be on the list of the top three polluters in the world, and I certainly wouldn't have black paint dripping down my face."

"But Miss Marti is not meant for 'little'," his kind eyes shown through the mirror. "And life, it is not made for ifs, buts, and maybes. If I had never taken a risk and left my boring job at fifty, I would still be in my hometown in Sicily, yes, and I would not be the one chauffeuring Miss Moreschino around."

"Right," she chuckled.

"But now, my sister has pictures of me and Miss Moreschino in the kitchen and all my family talks about Nick, who made it big in America. And I have the privilege of working with a kind and beautiful soul like Miss," he nodded with the warmest smile.

"You're kind, Nick but I think I'm far from that. Maybe I should really quit," she said in a small voice, on the verge of tears, feeling unworthy of the compassion she was receiving.

"Why does Miss say that? Miss cannot quit," he said, giving a light punch on the steering wheel. "You bring art into the world and joy to many people. Little girls at the concerts, I see them. They're inspired by you. A light would be gone if you stopped doing what you do."

She felt a prickling sensation in her eyes that wasn't brought by the paint, and Nick handed her a tissue from the driver seat.

"Everything will get better, Miss," he said. "Time will make it better. Time and maybe some soap."

They both laughed while she blew her nose. "Thank you, Nick."

Chapter Text

LA. January 26th - Martina's POV

Once she arrived home, she indulged in an hour-long shower and collapsed onto the couch, drifting into a much-needed nap.

The incessant beeping of her phone woke her up, notifications flooding in from every social media app. Close-up pictures of her paint-splattered face had broken through.

She refrained from reading the comments or the headlines she could already imagine. Sara and Jessie were working on it. She needed to be patient, and possibly take her mind off of it.

Looking for a distraction, she decided to go over her lines for the upcoming Blackwood Manor scene she had to film, but she had already memorized them, so that didn't keep her occupied for long.

Maybe she needed to sweat it out, she thought, turning to physical activity. She hit the treadmill in her outdoor gym, but after just twenty minutes, she was drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Jeez, this heatwave was no joke—it felt as hot as July—but her plan was to keep going until her legs gave out.

Suddenly, Hayden's name flashed on her phone screen, and in her rush to pick up, she almost face-planted on the treadmill.

"Looks like someone's not having a good day," he said with an amused tone.

"You think?," she joked back, feeling a little bit uplifted from just hearing his voice through the phone.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked, catching her completely off guard.

"As in now?" she asked, incredulous. "Oh god, yes."

Disappearing or teleporting to another reality would have been ideal, but since those options weren't on the table, getting out of town was a close third.

"I'll be there in twenty," he said before hanging up.

She quickly scrambled off the treadmill and dashed into the shower for the third time that day. She grabbed a tiny floral yellow sundress from her summer clothes pile, put on oversized glasses, and tucked her hair under a baseball cap to avoid being recognized.

Upon arriving at the gate, she barely waited two minutes before spotting his black Audi gliding down the sidewalk. Without hesitation, she flung open the door and jumped inside, fighting the spontaneous instinct to lean in and kiss him.

After all, her body wasn't her head. It didn't know how to overthink or second guess. It just...felt.

It wasn't just a spontaneous urge of the body, though. She also wanted to kiss him for arriving just at the right time, rescuing her from the most disastrous week in a long time, without her even having to ask.

She held back anyway, and greeted him with a simple "Hi."

"Wow, I'm surprised you could so easily fit me into your busy schedule of wicked environmental destruction," he said, smirking. "Glad you could squeeze me in between single-handedly deforesting the Amazon forest and dumping oil all over baby ducks."

She laughed at his roast. "Before you say anything..the short flights, they were for--"

"Maintenance... I figured," he interrupted.

"Yes," she confirmed, before going off on a rant a mile a minute. "But we're trying to do better. We have a huge offsetting plan, and we're financing research into SAFs. And did you know that flight emissions account for only 2% of total global CO2 emissions, while just 100 companies are responsible for 70% of it? So—"

"So the same pressure put on individuals should be put on big corporations and governments," he interjected, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," she replied, surprised. "How do you know all this? Do you own a jet too?"

"I do not. I live on a self-suffienct farm for most of the year, so I don't exactly require one to move from one crop to another," he said, starting the car. "I mostly fly commercial, except when Ewan lends me his jet for special occasions. But I suppose I'm somewhat familiar with private flights because back in the day, when fame was less... manageable, I shamefully flew private almost exclusively."

"Jesus, we're definitely going to hell," she sighed.

"As long as we get there sustainably," he replied, starting the car and extorting a laugh from her, as he sprinted down the street.

"So...what's the plan?" she asked.

"The plan is to drive out of the city... I know a place away from the crowds," he turned his head to her. "What do you say?"

"Let's go," she grinned, putting on her sunglasses.

She quickly shared her location with Sara and then Philip, who would be following closely behind. That was the only connection to the outside world she wanted—or rather, the only one she needed.

She tossed her phone into her purse and onto the backseat. Beyond that, she wanted to disconnect from everything outside this car and wherever it was taking them.

Away from damage control strategies, and heavy safety reinforcements she'd surely be presented with in the upcoming days.

She knew what was coming. But right now, she wanted lightness.

***

Same day - Hayden's POV

They chatted about everything and nothing as they drove out of the city, leaving behind its hectic six-lane highways.

The drove through the Santa Monica mountains, winding past rolling hills, glimpses of ocean views and patches of wildflowers. She rolled down the window and stretched her arm out, letting the air rush over her skin.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her gradually taking control of the music, scrolling through the songs, in search of the perfect one to let loose to. It was a bit of a cacophonic mess, with all the jumping between tracks, but he still let her.

He observed the slow but steady evolution happening in the passenger seat as she transitioned from humming a few notes to softly singing in whispers, to drum-riff-mimicking, and chest-beating heartfelt belting.

It looked like more than a silly act, though. It seemed like a fully uninhibited and unabashed way of decompressing. It was goofy and ridiculous, but it was entertaining to him.

Besides, it had to be one of the most harmless and healthiest ways to let go of pent-up stress from someone who, given her level of fame, was likely handling a lot.

They drove on, passing through small towns and speeding along oak-lined country roads as they entered the Malibu Hills area.

They finally arrived at Cielo Blu Vineyard, definitely one of his favorite spots, and parked the car at the top of the hill.

She scanned the surroundings with curiosity, trailing behind him as they made their way across the tidy gravel parking lot and passed through the entrance gate.

He greeted Tony, the owner, who personally guided them through a picturesque garden filled with many rustic tables to a more secluded spot farther away, with a nice view of the vineyard below and the distant valley.

Pointing to a cocoon-shaped swinging chair for two, sheltered from the surrounding tables, Tony indicated the spot they had reserved for them. In front of the chair, a small table was already set with snacks and a selection of wine glasses for tasting.

"I had the feeling this could be your vibe," he said, while she took a look around and sat on the swing.

"It...is," Martina said, smiling softly, as he took his place next to her.

She sounded...so moved. Reaching for the food on the tray, he turned to spy her face and noticed her eyes were sparkling and wetter than usual. Was she about to cry? Over a vineyard?

He listened as she talked about how the place reminded her of the picnics she enjoyed back in Italy during her college days—when life was simpler, and the big sliding door of her past had yet to slide and catapult her into this reality.

The breeze gently brushed her hair, and she seemed to enjoy it as she let her sandals slip off her dangling feet. He noticed her close her eyes and take a deep breath, followed by a small tear rolling down the corner of her eye.

He'd never seen anyone cry over a vineyard before, but this wasn't the reaction he had expected when he had decided to bring her here. "Are you ok?" He asked.

She quickly wiped the moisture from her eye, rubbing it dry on her thigh. "Yes, sorry. Just had a bit of a rough day," she smiled. "But this," she said gesturing at the wine glasses in front of them, "is honestly just what I needed."

"I know it's not your favorite kind of flight but..." he tried to lighten up the mood, "I did what I could."

She laughed, shaking her head as she playfully tossed a peanut at him. "You jerk."

He had studied her closely and could swear he'd seen at least a dozen different emotions in just the last hour they had just spent together, none of which she had bothered to hide or restrain.

He couldn't recall a single moment in his life when he had felt so genuinely transparent about his emotions. Heck, he couldn't recall a time where he had felt this many.

His heart was so accustomed to broadcasting only black-and-white programs that he couldn't take his eyes off the full spectrum of bright colors taking shape in her.

How did she do it? How had she managed to keep her heart so open, so unguarded.

It wasn't normal. It wasn't even wise. Sooner, or later—if you were lucky, life found a way to punch you in the gut, and you had to build a solid wall for protection.

Keep your guard up, with your hands high to shield your face and your elbows close to your body to protect your ribs. The more you left exposed, the greater the risk of taking more hits.

That was normal, that's what he knew. And that's what he did.

She, on the other hand, moved through life swinging her arms and bouncing her step like a gleeful little girl off to flower picking.

It was reckless. Unadvisable. He needed to understand her better.

"What's it like?" he asked.

"What's what like?" she looked at him puzzled, bringing her knees close to her chest, resting her chin upon them.

The way the golden light of the sunset was igniting each dancing copper flame in her eyes felt like a personal attack to him.

"To feel so much," he clarified, hoping she wouldn't catch in his eyes the pain of someone who didn't even remember.

A lopsided bittersweet smile appeared on her face. "It's a pain in the ass, that's what it's like. But it's a blessing at the same time."

"Elaborate," he said, picking up an olive from the tray.

"Well, it pays the bills, for starters. If I didn't feel so deeply and wasn't able to put it all into lyrics, I'd probably be unemployed—and I'd have gone crazy by now." She reached for the first glass of rosé on the table. "It's my only talent and escape from my own mind. Besides, I could never sing songs written by others just for the sake of going viral, nor could I twerk my way up the charts. Not that there's anything wrong with that—just not my thing."

"No? I can picture you like that, actually," he lied, just for the thrill he got whenever her lips curled into a smile of his own making.

"I'm sure you do," she chuckled. "But no, really. Feeling a lot...I think people assume it comes easy, like you're just born with it, but sometimes it's not. It's a choice. A hardcore one you have to make every day. It's so much easier to just shut all of it off."

This also felt like a personal attack to him.

"I don't think people make the actual, conscious decision. It's not like there's an accessible switch to turn all of your emotions off all at once," he objected. "I think it just happens over time."

"It can. But for me, there was a switch. There were times I just couldn't handle it, and I turned it all off," she said, dropping her glass and taking up another. "When I found out my dad had cheated on my mom, I focused on studying, graduated six months early, and finished at the top of my class. I felt nothing at all, which was both alluring and frightening, but in my mind the latter kind of always won."

It was fascinating. He loved how her mind worked, like a beautiful, complex machine he'd gladly spend hours trying to figure out. "So, how did you switch it back on?"

"That happened involuntarily and unexpectedly. One day, I just defroze, I suppose. I was at a traffic light on a busy street when I looked up and saw a window with Spider-Man decals on it. There was a little kid inside, running from one side to the other, holding up his toy in the air. He noticed me, shot a web at me with his wrist, and then walked away laughing hysterically. I don't know—it was meaningless on its own, but it looked so pure and filled with joy. I kind of had an emotional breakdown after that and cried for all the things I hadn't allowed myself to feel in previous years," she laughed, throwing her head back. "So, I guess the answer is: Spider-Man."

There he went. He'd done it again.

Taking carefree strolls along the precipice of her, innocently peeking over the edge, until it didn't feel harmless anymore. Until he liked what lay beneath. Until the pull drawing him in became irresistible and impossible to ignore, and all he wanted to do was dive headfirst into the unknown, with no promise of return.

He clenched his hand around his wine glass and finally asked the question stuck in his throat from the beginning, threatening to eat him alive if he didn't. "How do you know if it's too late to come back?"

"If you want to come back, it means you still see something better on the other side of where you are. And as long as you want to, I don't think it can ever be too late," she said, with a smile that hit him deep in his chest—that he'd forgotten to protect with his elbows—deluding him into thinking there was still hope for him, too.

She leaned back in the swaying chair, settling into a more comfortable position.

As she removed her baseball hat, her dark curls tumbled down her shoulders, framing her cheeks, which had turned pink and then red from the wine and the light of the setting sun hitting her face.

She was stunningly beautiful. And only part of it had to do with the way her little sundress perfectly draped over her curves, or the way she absentmindedly licked her bottom lip every time she took a sip of her wine.

It was more about the warmth he had always felt her radiate, which little by little had somehow turned into a blazing fire he could actually feel tingling on his skin.

And he got this stupid idea that maybe, if he spent enough time around her, it would thaw the coldness inside him, too.

Their eyes locked for a moment before she looked away and fanned herself. "Jeez, this red is hitting me hard. What is it?" She reached for the bottle on the table and turned it to read the label. "Barbaresco, makes sense."

He caught himself smiling, at himself, at her, at the wine. He didn't even know anymore. "I love your rolling Rs," he made fun of her pronunciation, knowing damn well it was the only correct way to say it, given the wine's provenance.

"Oh really? And I love your 'out and abouts,'" she shot back, laughing and mimicking his Canadian accent.

He continued to laugh until only the lingering remnants of it hung in the air at the edge of the precipice.

And then he felt it. It was a matter of seconds.

The ground crumbling beneath his feet, the treacherous vertigo hitting him, a jolt too intense to counter, and the utter lack of instincts to fight it.

He was falling in.

***

Same day - Martina's POV

Despite starting off heavy and deep, the conversation flowed easily into lighter tones and topics between them, and thank goodness for that, because the alcohol in her system wasn't compatible with much else.

She asked him about his next projects and how long he'd be in LA. He said he'd be around for a few months but didn't go into details, citing all the NDAs he'd signed, which sort of answered her question.

When he asked her about her next album, claiming his kid was eager to know the release date, she matched his reluctance and held back on the details too.

He asked if she was into motorcycles. She wasn't, and it turned out he wasn't a fan either. They later discovered they had to thank Ewan for that, who had scarred them both for life by giving them a ride on his bike, driving like he was fleeing the apocalypse.

He was looking at the wine on the table as if he wanted more, but he couldn't have any, if he was to stay sober enough to drive them back safely.

He looked at her the same way, as if just one more drop of her would be enough to intoxicate him. There was a yearning in his eyes, but it carried a hint of pain and distress that she didn't know how to react to.

There was only one glass left for the whole flight, and they decided to share it, so she scooted closer to him in the chair. Like a defensive reflex, he tensed up immediately, as if her mere presence was making him uncomfortable all of a sudden.

A drop of condensed water on the outside of the glass she was holding fell right onto her clavicle, dipping on her sternum and down to her breast and she watched him following it with his eyes.

She wanted to kiss him, but she wasn't sure it was a good idea—she never was. How could she, when everything was all so touch and go. But she was tired of this tension building up every time, only to creak under each of their uncertain steps.

There were so many reasons it could all burn down in flames anyway. All she cared about in that moment was following her instincts and etching this moment into her mind forever.

It was a risk. She took it.

Leaning in, she kissed him on his lips.

It was brief, almost chaste, and it caught him off guard. Outrageously off guard, judging by his look.

Pulling back quickly, she found his piercing blue eyes fixed on her, harsher than she'd ever seen them.

"What are you doing?" Hayden asked, his tone clipped.

"I... uhm... I'm sorry I...thought..." she mumbled.

She didn't know what she thought. It's not like they hadn't kissed before...but not like this.

The owner came to interrupt her stuttering. "Sorry, Mr. Christensen, just a heads-up that we have a big party kicking off in about 30 minutes with over 70 guests, so it might get a little crowded soon."

He turned to him and thanked him politely. "No worries Tony—we were just about to leave anyway." Then he got up, barely looking at her as he said through clenched teeth, "I'm going to get the check. Don't move. Wait here."

She stayed there, mortified, watching as waiters and servers busily set up the tables for the upcoming party. After a moment, she stood up and walked over to the railing that bordered the garden, overlooking the vineyard below.

She ran a hand through her hair and shook her head. Jesus, she had somehow managed to ruin everything. Why couldn't she have just enjoyed the moment without messing it all up?

This was definitely the last time she would see him. No doubt about it. He would drive her home, and she knew she'd never hear from him again. That much was certain. She sighed and turned to the right.

There was an inviting pathway leading down, so she decided to follow it. She just wanted to explore for a little while before heading back to where he had left her. Maybe if he didn't find her there, he'd actually be happier about it.

Wandering through the rows of the vineyard, she finally emerged on the other side, finding herself in a beautiful grove of olive trees.

She breathed in the scent of the surrounding nature. It wasn't quite the fragrance of the Mediterranean woods she had grown up with back home, but it came close.

The distant sound of music drifting from the garden snapped her back to reality. She realized she had been gone for about five minutes, so maybe it was time to head back.

When she opened her eyes, she found him staring at her a few feet away, and he didn't look pleased.

He walked slowly in her direction, his tone sharp. "I thought I told you not to move."

"I wanted to smell the trees," she said in a small voice.

"Of course you wanted to smell the trees," he said, moving closer in slow, predator-like steps.

She instinctively retreated to the back of a tree trunk as he cornered her. "And if I hadn't seen you coming down here and followed you, what was I supposed to tell your bodyguard waiting outside?"

"How do you know—" she looked at him puzzled.

"I observe," he cut her off dryly. "I notice things."

It was that switch in him again. Just like during that stupid charity date. He had been kind, and open until they had gotten too close and something in him completely shifted. This time, she knew what caused it and it was all her doing.

"Well... good thing you didn't lose sight of me, then. We should probably get back—" She feigned resolution and started to move forward. But he placed two fingers on her chest, pushing her just enough to pin her back in place against the tree.

"Not so fast," his voice was cold as stone. "What do you think you were doing up there? Before."

She blushed violently. "I just... I wanted to kiss you, that's all. It felt like the mood was... right... Okay? I don't know..." She muttered in an increasingly frustrated voice.

"You thought the mood was right. And what was it right for? Sweet kisses under the setting sun?" he asked, a stark mocking vein in his voice.

She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment and lowered her eyes to avoid his harsh gaze, but he immediately forced her face up, lifting her chin. "You thought this was going to be the first of a long series of romantic little dates?"

"No," her pride roared in her chest, but it came out as a choked whisper.

"No? Are you sure, M.?" He lightly brushed his thumb across her lower lip, captivated by the way his own finger slowly dragged it down.

He traced his hand down her chin and neck, moving further until his fingers found her breast. A shiver ran through her and she winced as he pinched her nipple.

"You seem to have forgotten what this is," he almost spat out the last words with disgust.

His hands devoured her body, sliding over her thighs and under her dress as he slowly knelt before her. He had barely just touched her, and she was already breathing heavily, trembling in anticipation of his next move.

His fingers hooked at the sides of her panties, and his lust filled eyes shot up at her. He stilled for a second. If she wanted out of this, this was her chance to say so. Instead, she brought her hips forward and placed her hands on his, pushing them down.

He slowly lowered them to her knees and then to her ankles, keeping his eyes locked on hers as she lifted one foot after the other to step out of them.

Rising to his full height again, he pressed his body against her, pushing her back against the tree trunk once more.

"Maybe you need...reminding," he growled, gripping both her wrists with one hand and forcefully pinning them above her head, causing a soft whine to escape her mouth on impact.

His free hand dipped between her legs, eagerly sliding under the hem of her ruffled dress, cupping her already wet, aching pussy. She arched her back and sucked in an uneven breath.

He moved his face close to hers, his lips almost touching hers. "This is not some lovey-dovey shit," he said, his fingers rubbing her clit as he swallowed the needy whimpers coming out her mouth.

Running his fingertips along the length of her slit, he gathered the warm moisture and brought it up on her sensitive nub, igniting a heat that radiated through her core, as he increased the pressure on her clit. "It ain't about candlelit dinners and romantic picnics," he hissed.

He worked his fingers up and down her folds, lingering for what felt like an endless second at her entrance, as he looked straight into her eyes. "And most of all," he shoved two fingers inside her, tightening the grip on her wrists at the same time, "It ain't about sweet kisses at sunset."

She let out a loud moan as she felt his long, thick fingers sliding in and out of her and his thumb drawing steady circles on her clit at just the perfect pressure.

"What if it doesn't work for me?" she asked, through labored breaths.

He pressed his body into hers harder. "Judging from how wet you are, it seems to be working just fine for you as it is for me."

She rolled her eyes back and moaned even louder as he quickened his pace, curling his fingers inside her.

"In fact...I think you want more." He leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Don't you?"

She bit down on her lip and nodded, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks as desire and shame coursed through her with the same intensity.

"I asked you a question," he stopped and almost pulled both his fingers out of her. "Answer me."

"Yes!" She cried out. He shoved his fingers back into her, and thrusted them deeper and harder, "Oh god, I want more."

"Yeah, you do," he let go of her wrists to unbutton his jeans and take out his hard cock. "Because you're a dirty...needy...little...slut."

His words melted her brain, sending waves of pleasure down her spine. She couldn't fathom why she responded like this to his every harsh stare, rough touch, and even rougher words, but she was. There was no use denying it.

He placed both his hands on her waist and lifted her up a bit, her back still against the rough surface of the tree but higher than before. She wrapped her legs around him, grasping a branch to support part of her weight.

His eyes dipped lower to watch as he slowly slid his cock over her warm, wet slit a few times before aligning himself at her entrance and pushing the tip inside her.

She let go of the branch as soon as she felt the strong grip of his hands under her thighs. She placed her arms over his shoulders. He stared straight into her eyes for a long moment, as if waiting for something. She was on fire, consumed by desire. But she knew what he was waiting for. She stared back through half-lidded eyes and gave a little nod.

His hips pushed forward with a controlled, steady motion until he was inside of her. She felt the length of his thick, hard cock sliding in and stretching her open. She cried out, as he pressed his lips against hers, and groaned into her mouth in response.

God, he was so big. She had noticed it the first time he had pulled his cock out on her bed, but nothing could have prepared her for the overwhelming sensation of him filling her up like this.

He controlled his movements and his breathing to give her time to adjust to his size, thrusting into her slowly and steady. He pulled out slightly, to look down and take in the sight of the full length of his own cock slipping in and out of her wet pussy, "Fuck, you're so fucking tight."

"It's you," she gasped out. "You're too fucking big."

He picked up his pace, "Yeah? This is what you wanted?" his hands grabbed her ass, fingers sinking deep into her skin, hard enough to hurt and to release sparks of pleasure at the same time. "You wanted my big cock filling you up and stretching you open like this??"

"Yes," it came out as a broken plea. A sweet, familiar pressure was already pooling in her lower stomach, stemming from the heat, the wetness and the friction between her legs.

"See I've been really gentle with you until now, M. So tell me, are you going to be a good girl and take me hard and fast as well?" he asked in a gruff voice.

She felt her walls clenching and releasing in response to his words, nodding her head in agreement. He restrained himself, slowing his movements. "I need goddamn words."

"Yes, please. Deeper, harder, faster. I'll take it any way you want to give it to me," she cried out.

"Jesus, fuck," he released a deep, throaty groan, his eyes devouring her as he thrust into her with force, unleashing all the pent-up need he had held back until then.

She felt a twinge of pain with each deep plunge and the rough texture of the trunk against her skin, but she didn't mind. Pain and pleasure blended together so well she could hardly tell them apart.

"You're taking me so well, M.," he moaned in a low, strained voice that she could have listened to forever. "I swear, your cunt was fucking made for me."

She threw her head back in pleasure and he buried his face in the crook of her exposed neck, sinking his teeth in as he kept slamming into her hard and rough.

She ran her fingers through his hair, feeling her walls tightening around his cock even harder.

He felt it. He immediately lifted his head up from her neck and he locked eyes with her. "Ask me for permission to come," he commanded.

"What?" she said, panting.

"I won't repeat myself. Ask me to come, or I'll stop right now, and I won't let you," his voice low and demanding.

She hesitated a second more, not sure if he was serious. As soon as she felt him slowing down she cried out, "No! I need to come!"

He slowed down even more, digging his fingers into her thighs. Coming to almost a complete stop, he smirked as he relished the desperate look on her face. "Be polite."

"Please!" she whined, "I need to come. Please, Hayden, let me come on your cock."

A satisfied grin spread across his face as he latched onto her neck, biting down hard, and started to hammer himself into her again, more forcefully than before.

She saw stars. She clung to him tightly as pleasure erupted from her clit, sending waves of ecstasy up her spine and through her shaking legs.

He pounded into her a few more times before pulling out and releasing himself on her thighs with a low, deep grunt. "Jesus fucking Christ," he groaned through heavy breathing as he lifted his head from her neck.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he helped her down and waited until she was stable on her feet again. Then, he leaned in and kissed her, with intensity, the way she wished he had done earlier.

As he withdrew, she opened her eyes, searching for some kind of clue in his gaze, but all she found was the same confusion that was probably in hers.

It was yet another shift in their fragile dynamic, and neither of them knew just how it would affect them.

What had changed between them? Something? Everything? Or nothing at all.

They remained in silence as he grabbed a tissue from his pocket to clean her and helped her put her panties back on.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his tone giving nothing away about his current feelings or thoughts.

"Yes, thank you," she whispered.

They walked up to the car, taking the back exit of the winery, without saying a word. She waved at Philip in the car, to let him know everything was ok and got in the car with Hayden.

They drove in silence, and she felt too exhausted—emotionally, physically, and mentally—to keep her eyes open. She drifted off for the entire ride, only waking to the sound of his voice gently stirring her.

"You're home, Marti. You need to wake up," he said, whispering.

She slowly opened her eyes and realized they were already outside her gate. Rubbing her eyes, she sighed, still heavy with sleep.

Reaching for the door handle, she turned to him, uncertain of what to say.

Thank you for saving my day? No, with everything that had just happened, it felt excessive.

Thank you for the company? No, that would have worked if they had been both eighty years old and had just spent a nice day at the hospice together.

It was too late for mental gymnastics anyway, so she cut short and opted for "Thank you for...everything."

"You're very welcome," he said.

His eyes were soft again, nothing like his harsh expression from earlier. It felt as if she had entered the car with one person and was now facing a completely different one.

There was something else in his eyes that she couldn't quite make sense of, like a deep sense of pained guilt.

She wasn't sure what he felt sorry for, even though she had her ideas.

It was just that she couldn't hold it against him.

Whatever twisted, dark side of him she'd seen today had awakened something deep inside her—something she hadn't even known existed.

And maybe it had been dormant, maybe buried. But whatever it was, it had definitely responded.

Chapter Text

LA. February 9th - Martina's POV

"Hello, beautiful people!" Marti chimed as she hopped into the car parked outside the recording studio.

"Hello, Miss Marti," Nick greeted her with the same enthusiasm.

"WOW, you're definitely in a good mood today!" Sara remarked.

"I am! We finally wrapped up the song!" Marti exclaimed. "And I absolutely love it! Oh, and we've already started working on a few more. I think I could finish everything even faster than we expected, so maybe...we can start discussing release dates. What do you think?"

"You're going to give me a heart attack before the end of the month with all these changes," Sara said, whipping her snatched, business-like pony tail to express all her irritation. "That's what I think."

"Come on, Sara! It's all good news!" Marti moved closer to her sister in the backseat, slipping her arm under Sara's.

"We'll kick off the rollout plan with the promotion team, and I'll bring it to the label," Sara said, firing off an email from her phone while sending two calendar invitations for the upcoming meetings.

"Thank you, you're the best!" Marti leaned forward to kiss her sister on the cheek.

"So, since I'm here scheduling this week's meetings, and I've already blocked off two hours with Jessie for the No Planet B incident..." Then, she sneakily side-eyed Marti. "Anything else you might want to discuss?"

"Apart from that podcast pushing conspiracy theories that I'm related to Mussolini?" Marti genuinely asked. "You told me you were working on the cease and desist letters."

"Oh, that? No, we already sent them. They lawyered up, though, so it's probably going to take some time to get it removed. But we'll make sure it comes down—one way or another, we're going to win that," Sara stated matter-of-factly.

"Wow, you do sound kinda fascist when you say it like that. Maybe mom and dad really adopted you, and you're the one actually related to him. Better get your 23andMe results straight," Marti teased her.

Sara didn't dignify her sister's joke with more than an eye-roll. "That's not what I meant. You went out with Hayden a few days ago. For the whole night. In public. Was it, like, a real date? Because if you two are making things more official, I think it's a good idea to let Jessie step in."

She knew exactly what this was—a classic Sara-thon, getting way ahead of the situation and running before they even needed to walk.  Marti widened her eyes in disbelief. "Sweet baby Jesus, Sara! What for?"

If Sara was about to make a fuss over just a two-hour date at a vineyard, Marti had no idea what she'd do if she found out what had happened in the olive grove. Luckily, she'd never know. Either way, it was way too soon to be having this conversation.

"Well first of all, we could have him sign a few standard NDAs just to cover our bases, make sure he's not talking about you or your relationship to the press. The guy looks like he's hasn't been media trained since the 2000's," Sara remarked, biting her nails with a raised brow and a snobbish expression.

"The guy," Marti repeated, "spends most of the year minding his own business on a farm up in Canada. Who's he gonna tell, the bears? He hasn't had media training since the 2000s for a good reason—because he doesn't need one. He hates the spotlight, barely tolerates the media, and only does press when it's for his work. I honestly can't think of a single reason why he'd want to bring any unnecessary attention to his personal life."

"Still, he's out of the loop. He doesn't get how things work these days," Sara said, pausing to start biting her nails on her other hand. "A harmless, offhand comment in an interview can get twisted into clickbait just like that. And if he's not working with us, he could end up accidentally screwing up everything we've got going on."

"Oh my God, Sara, do you hear yourself? He won't talk. No NDAs." Marti said with a final tone.

She was positive he wouldn't utter a word, on purpose or by mistake. His privacy had seemed a non-negotiable for him, and he was already risking it by just hanging out with her, he wasn't going to risk it even more.

Besides, maybe retreating up north had made him less familiar with the way the media was spinning news and gossip these days, but he wasn't stupid.

Marti sighed, gazing out of the tinted car window, nervously tapping on the armrest.

In most relationships, people often dreaded meeting each other's parents. In hers, it was the moment she had to introduce her publicist that made her anxious. And inevitably, that moment always came.

Because despite her wish to consider herself just a normal person leading a normal life, she wasn't.

Normal people didn't have crowds camping outside their building or strangers secretly snapping photos of them during dinner. They definitely didn't have the media dissecting every aspect of their private life, overshadowing their career.

That's why they had brought in a powerhouse like Jessie to handle PR. She'd done a fantastic job protecting Marti's Privacy—letting her keep some semblance of normalcy—and making sure they controlled the narrative, rather than letting the media run wild.

But none of that happened by magic.

Great strategies came with a lot of contracts, rules, and endless explanations—things that, come to think of it, someone who hadn't dealt with in years, might need a refresher on.

He might have already known NDAs were for mutual protection or that it was best to stick to restaurants where they had special privacy arrangements and no-phones policy.

But maybe he didn't know it was usually smarter to keep the paparazzi on your side—meaning on your payroll—throwing them a bone now and then, rather than having them hound you everywhere you went.

Did he know hard launches were usually timed with other big announcements—like album releases or premieres—to create buzz, but spaced out enough so they didn't eclipse everything else?

He definitely didn't know about all the specific safety measures she had to take because of her stalker—the ultimate gift from fame.

It wasn't a breezy, wing-it-as-you-go thing, but that was what being a global star of her caliber, constantly under a magnifying glass, entailed.

It was a lot to handle, and an even bigger burden to place on someone for simply getting close to her. Sooner or later, everyone she dated had to decide whether to stick around or jump ship.

Not that they were actually dating—as he had so eloquently and convincingly pointed out. She didn't even want to imagine how fast he'd bolt if she brought him into this.

He had almost lost it over just a simple kiss, for goodness' sake. What would he do if she actually said the word "relationship" out loud and started talking about medium to long-term PR strategies, Backgrid paid photo ops, or orchestrated press seedlings?

"I still think there are other aspects we need to discuss, and it would be nice to have him involved, that's all," Sara insisted.

"Sara, I said no. I don't want to bulldoze this thing before having the chance to see where it could go...if anywhere. I don't know," Martina said, trying to fish her words out of the sea of doubts flooding her brain.

Sara's expression hardened. "It's in his fucking interest too. If, god forbid, it leaks out before either one of you is ready, shit will hit the fan. And he'll be wishing he took that 60 minutes of time away from his crops to discuss it and have a backup plan."

Martina was very stubborn, but one thing she didn't have was tunnel vision. And she could see her sister had a point.

"Might I add—and this is me stepping out of manager territory to speak to you as a sister btw—Trevor set the bar pretty low for anyone after him, but at least he sat through every PR meeting we did and signed every NDA we gave him."

"Gold Star for the class sweetheart," bitter sarcasm drenched Marti's words. "See how well that turned out."

Marti caught Nick chuckling at her remark in the rearview mirror and smiled back at him. That man had patience like no one else. He listened to her and her sister bickering almost every day and still managed to find it funny.

"My point is, this is the goddamn bare minimum that even Trevor could do," Sara said, raising her index finger for emphasis. "You deserve someone who doesn't cower like a scared little girl, 'cause these things...they might seem big, and yeah, they're a pain in the ass sometimes, but really...when you look at them for what they are, they ain't shit. You've gotta know that."

She knew. But they were acting like children. And if he was going to cower like a scared little girl, then she had every right to shake her head and tap her ears, drowning out all the things she didn't want to hear.

When she arrived home, she retreated to her backyard observatory to unwind and take her mind off him. As if.

She stayed up late, adjusting her telescope and capturing a few easy shots of the Milky Way. Then, she threw herself on the couch, waiting for the exposure to work its magic and dozed off without even realizing.

When she woke up the next morning, she dragged herself to the kitchen for breakfast, acknowledging the disappointing fact that sleeping on it hadn't brought her any clarity—just a stiff neck.

She sat at the kitchen table with overly toasted bread and her laptop open in front of her, absentmindedly scrolling through her emails, when her eyes stopped on one from "Unknown."

It was nothing good. Her eyes were glued to the ominous sender's name, the harsh black pixels stark against the white background.

She hesitated, in a frozen paralysis, and then slowly hovered over the email preview to read it.

'You should be careful who you bring into your life, little bird.

Whoever gets close to you, gets close to me. And I can be difficult to deal with, you haven't seen half of it.

Have you told him you're already spoken for?

Tell you what, stay away from him and I might even consider leaving you alone for a while.

You look like someone who might need a break.

Think this through, little bird.'

She dropped her toast and pushed her laptop away, as if it was contaminated, the very sight of it making her feel sick to her stomach.

Right when she was about to call Thomas, her sister's name appeared on her screen. "Don't panic, I'm coming over."

Sara tried the best she could to hide the weary breathing of someone who is, other than walking fast, pretty much in panic.

"I told you he was close! Did you read the email? How does he know who I'm seeing?" Marti asked, her heart pounding in her throat.

"What? What email? What are you talking about?" Sara asked, her tone confused.

"The email from the stalker!" Marti explained, realizing they were both upset and hyperventilating but apparently for completely different reasons. "Oh god. What else am I supposed to be panicking about???" She jumped up an octave.

"Shit. Uh, you know what, I'm basically at your house, we'll talk when I get there. I'll be there in 2 minutes, just try to stay calm, it's no use to—"

"SARA ELENA MORESCHINO, what else should I be panicking about!" She yelled on her phone.

"Uhm...Marti, it got leaked. Fevered Dreams. It got leaked. I am so sorry." Sara said in a small voice. "I'll be right over."

***

Sydney. February 14th - Hayden's POV

Hayden stepped out of his room in a five-star hotel in Sydney, phone in hand, which he'd been staring at for the past five minutes.

He was late, irritated, and thoroughly confused.

Also jet-lagged, but that had nothing to do with his current altered state. With his frequent international trips, he had more or less mastered the process to beat it: adjust your circadian rhythm to the new time zone, avoid napping, no coffee after 3 PM, plenty of sunlight during the day, and repeat.

So no, it wasn't jet lag.

His irritation and confusion came from the first—and only—text Martina had ever sent him. And what was worse, it looked like it was also going to be the last.

She'd never called or texted him before, not once. So it was remarkable that her very first message had been, "I think it's best if we don't see each other again. I can't have this anymore."

What kind of message was that? What kind of behavior was that? Why couldn't she have this? What kind of word choice was that? What were the reasons? He was baffled.

This was wildly unprecedented, to say the least.

For one, he was usually the one doing the leaving—and when he did, at least he had the decency to do it in person.

This time, he was the one being left—through text! And with no explanation! He was butt-hurt. Partly because of his dumb ego, but also just plain hurt, full stop.

What they had was...precarious and undefined. It was hard to tell exactly what it was. But he had no problem recognizing the one thing it wasn't: over.

He wasn't done with her, not by a long shot. And she wasn't done with him either—he knew that for sure. He'd seen it in her eyes just a few days ago. As much as he hated to admit it, he had...felt it too.

"Ugh," he muttered to himself as he climbed into a taxi headed downtown.

How had it ever come to this? That's what he got for saving a global pop star from tripping over her dress at the Emmys. A catastrophic butterfly effect that had crashed right into his once unbothered, peaceful life.

Clearly, he hadn't evaluated the consequences. And he should have. Now, as a result, all he had was an infuriatingly cryptic text to obsess over and a hard time getting her out of his mind.

"And we're back! You're listening to iHeart Radio," the upbeat voice on the taxi's radio chimed. "Time to jump in and catch up on the latest news about our favorite pop queen, Martina Moreschino."

Of course. Why not. Just what he needed.

"Looks like it hasn't been her day or week or month or even her year—if we're quoting friends! From getting her heart monumentally heartbroken last year, to that near-epic fall at the Emmys, and let's not forget getting her face paint-splattered just a few weeks ago. But the drama isn't over for Martina just yet, as news broke earlier this week that her lead single from the yet-to-be-announced album was leaked by unknown sources. She fired back with her trademark sass, saying, 'Well, we'll see you in court, but in the meantime, stream it, I guess.' Gotta love her spunk, right? Alright folks, here's Fevered Dreams."

The song started playing.

He didn't know what he was expecting and yet, he had an unusual eagerness to hear it.

He listened to every word, each lyric bringing up flashes of...whatever it was that they shared.

It was like she'd somehow managed to put into words what he'd been going back and forth restlessly and fruitlessly trying to pin down.

Suddenly, he was right back in it, reliving the whole thing through her music.

His heart wasn't beating at the normal rate. He remained seated in the taxi and did not move an inch, trying to fake a detachment he simply did not have. He had no choice, though.

He pressed his back against the worn, rattling door of his emotions, shaking with every hit from the relentless feelings pounding on the other side.

He needed to be very still, hold his position and keep it together. It was the only way he could keep that damn door closed.

At that moment, the only thing he could deal with was facts. The first being that none of this felt like it was over. Oh, he'd see her again.

But he'd be damned if it was only in his dreams.

Chapter Text

LA. February 27th -Hayden's POV

God, he loved this place, Hayden thought as he stepped into the Roxie Cinema, a charming little theater tucked away from the city's glitz and glam.

Though it wasn't flashy and didn't host global movie premieres, over the years it had carved out a niche for itself, becoming a go-to spot for indie cinema gems.

It was the perfect place for emerging talents or even established actors trying to branch out of Hollywood's blockbuster production machine.

Tonight, it was presenting the inaugural screening for the film, both starring and produced by Ewan and his daughter, Clara.

Hayden quickly snuck through the back entrance, dodging the small crowd of photographers and interviewers at the front.

Glancing around the crowded room, he spotted Ewan and his family in the front row. He waved from a distance and walked over to congratulate them.

"Man, I'm so glad you made it!" Ewan exclaimed with a grin.

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything," Hayden replied. "You've got so much going on though—it's hard to keep up!"

"Oh, you know him," Clara chimed in, "He's squeezing in as much as he can before he hits retirement age."

"Retirement? Pfft, nonsense," Ewan interjected. Then, he looked right at Hayden."The women in my life lay on the sarcasm thick, I'm telling you. And I've been outnumbered for ages. Just wait until Lena grows up and you'll know what I mean."

"Tell me about it. I already feel like I'm walking on eggshells. You wouldn't believe the things a sassy 9-year-old can come out with," Hayden replied.

"See, that's what I mean. Keeps you in check, right? Keeps you humble," Ewan laughed.

After a bit more small talk, Ewan said, "I figured you'd want something a bit more private for the screening, so I reserved you a seat in the back row. Your name's on it."

"Appreciate it, mate. I'll stay for the Q&A, too. Drinks after, if you're up for it?" Hayden asked.

"Absolutely. I'll meet you out back afterward," Ewan said with a pat on his shoulder.

Hayden settled into his seat, looking around the now-packed theater. It wasn't just a casual look—he was scanning. He was searching. Her.

She had to be here, considering how tight she was with both Ewan and Clara.

As the lights dimmed and the opening credits rolled, he noticed a woman's silhouette just a row ahead, to his right. With a quick, almost stealthy movement, she pulled off her baseball cap, freed her ponytail and put it back on.

There she was, hidden in plain sight, her scarf still bunched up, covering half her face. His heart jumped to his throat.

She must have entered at the last minute from the back entrance as well. But why? She was used to walking carpets in all shades of red, so a low-key event like this should have been a breeze for her.

Imagining her outside though, with the photographers going wild, he realized why.

It wasn't for her own sake. She wanted to keep the spotlight shining right where it belonged that night—on Ewan and his daughter. If she'd made a grand entrance, the media surely would've found a way to make it all about her, and she didn't want to steal the moment from her friends.

He spent the next hour and a half trying to focus on the movie, but his attention kept drifting to her. He couldn't resist sneaking glances, watching her reactions to the good bits. He just wanted to be sitting next to her, breathing in her perfume, and laughing at her sharp, witty comments.

Oh, for fuck's sake—he couldn't even hear himself think over his own pathetic, little thoughts.

The only reason he'd ever let her get under his skin and fuck him up like this was because he could always use the time in between their encounters to pull himself together and feel like himself again. In control.

But after this, they would both go home their separate ways, and who knows if and when he'd see her next time. He'd have all the time in the world to regain control once and for all, and never think about it again.

Which was what he had been wishing for from the start.

Yet somehow, this wasn't making him feel better, or more like himself at all—it was driving him insane, and he couldn't just sit back and do nothing about it.

As soon as the credits began to roll, he noticed her getting up from her seat and heading toward the exit. It was now or never.

He stood up too, leaving behind the room filled with enthusiastic applause, and followed her.

She was right outside, retrieving her coat from the closet. Just as he moved to approach her, he was suddenly blocked by a massive 6'3" man, with sharp Nordic features, the bodyguard who had followed her at the vineyard.

"Stay back, sir!" the blonde man ordered in a clipped tone, causing her to whip around, startled.

She breathed a sigh of relief the moment she recognized him. "It's okay, Philip. You know he's fine," she said, gesturing for the bodyguard to step aside and leave Hayden alone. "Can you give me a minute? Wait here—and get the car ready, please?"

She grabbed his arm and quickly pulled him into a corner of the deserted hallway, out of sight from her bodyguard or anyone else. "What do you think you're doing, creeping up on me like that?" Martina asked sharply.

"I wasn't creeping," he said through clenched jaws. "I just wanted to talk to you."

"Well, I've got an early pickup at 5 a.m. tomorrow, so I need to head home and get some rest. Besides, I already know what—"

He stepped closer, narrowing the space between them. "I said I wanted to talk, but rambling monologues aren't really my thing. Now, can you handle a dialogue?"

She lifted her head and shot him a glare, clearly annoyed but she still nodded.

"I heard the song..." he began.

"Great. D'you like it?" she cut in, her tone defiant.

He always liked it when she came off this rough, like abrasive powdered glass. It only made him want to strike his match against her and bask in the exhilarating arsonist thrill.

"Yes, I did. Just curious...is the song all yours? Did you write it?" It came out condescending, but that wasn't the real point.

"Co-wrote the music. Words are mine," she replied, her attitude already softening.

"Words are yours," he repeated with an impressed accent in his tone.

His hand slid up her arm, his thumb slowly tracing a line down her forearm to her wrist, which he took in his grip.

She shivered but stayed still, her eyes silently following the movement of his hand.

"And, may I ask, did you write it before or after telling me you 'couldn't have this anymore'?" he said, emphasizing the last words with a slow shake of his head.

"Right before," she whispered.

"Interesting," he nodded, his thumb still sweeping over her wrist. "Cause, you see, it's hard for me to figure out how you could write a song like that and be a moaning mess in my hands one moment, and then call it off the next. One might even call them mixed signals, and I recall you not being a fan."

"I can't do this right now," she said briskly, her body tensing as she tried to pull away and head back to her bodyguard.

He could tell she was holding something back.

Whatever inner conflict she was wrestling with, she wasn't ready to talk about it tonight. Maybe not ever. And he couldn't force it out of her. He had to let her go, for now. And he would. In a sec.

He just had to say something out loud first.

It was about the song—the haunting way she sang about not being forgotten, about wanting to stay in his memories long after it was over, and meeting her again in his dreams.

He tightened his grip on her wrist, his jaw clenching. "You're not so easily forgotten, M.," he said.

She stared at him, like she was unsure if she had heard him right.

"If all you needed to hear was that I would remember this, you just had to ask." She looked at him confused and unsettled. Her wide maple eyes staring at him in a way that was also too much to bear. "Trust me, I won't forget about this. And judging from the pulse in your wrist, you won't either."

She withdrew her wrist with a brusque movement, bringing it close to her chest.

"I've... I have to go," she whispered, her words barely audible.

She found a narrow gap between him and the wall, slipping out of the corner and back into the main hallway where her bodyguard stood waiting. And then, she was gone.

***

LA, March 12th - Martina's POV

Martina was shutting herself off in a bubble, trying to focus on the scene she was about to film. It was her final scene—perhaps the most challenging she had ever shot.

All of her fictional sisters had been murdered at Blackwood Manor by a mysterious ghost, who, in the end, was revealed to be her father—aka by Ewan's character.

The scene had her running desperately through the manor's maze, as she stumbled into the thorny branches. She'd then try to flee into the house attic, with Ewan's character chasing her.

Most of the sequence had already been filmed, but today's focus was on the most gruesome part—her father shattering an old mirror over her, leading to her character's death, with the final cliché shot of the "life leaving her eyes."

In addition to the emotional aspects, there were physical challenges as well. She had to control her breathing, avoid fluttering her eyes, and make it credible, not over dramatic.

And there was so. much. blood. Thankfully, it was vegan and tasted like strawberries.

Flanagan was a fan of blood. He always said that no matter how much you show in a scene, it's just a fraction of what would actually spill on the floor for similar wounds in real life.

She sat in the makeup chair, fake mirror shards lodged in her face, with blood pouring down her cheeks and neck.

It was hard enough to stay focused on the upcoming scene after three hours in the makeup chair with five artists working around her.

But her concentration completely went down the drain when two little kids burst in, running and laughing, with another one chasing after them.

It was so unexpected and out of context that her eyes snapped wide in a distinct 'the-fuck-is-this?' expression.

Patricia, the FX prosthetic makeup artist working on her wounds, read her face and pointed to a leaflet on the wall.

Ah yes. It was "Bring Your Child to Work Day" on set. She had seen the leaflets around but had completely forgotten about it.

And by the way, not that she was an expert, by any stretch, but was it considered normal, or even encouraged, to bring children to a place where axes, severed limbs, gallons of blood, and creepy, ungodly screams were everyday staples?

"Looks like we're gonna have a few rascals running around today," Patricia said, laughing.

"Can't think of a better day," Martina joked, thinking about the absolute gore and splatter of the scene they were about to film.

The actual scene took 3 hours to get right. All the fake mirror shards meant to kill her on the scene were obviously fake, but she still managed to cut her arm on a sharp edge of a metal prop, which required an additional first aid intervention.

When Flanagan finally shouted, "Cut," everyone on set, clapped and congratulated her to celebrate the wrap-up of her final scene. She still had a few minor more left to shoot, but this was the big moment, and she had done it.

Making her way down from the old attic set, she headed to the craft services table to finally grab a glass of water and check her phone.

Aside from a video from Sara of a singing cat, all was quiet.

No weird texts. No creepy emails.

No trace of her stalker. She took a deep breath, at least there was that.

A lot of questions still crowded her mind, unanswered. Did the leak of her song have anything to do with him? Had ending things with Hayden granted her the quiet peace she was enjoying now?

She didn't even know what had gotten into her, just that all of a sudden it was too much.

Her stalker's veiled threats, the fact that he somehow knew she was seeing someone—assuming he wasn't bluffing.

What if he got more aggressive? What if he became an even bigger problem than he already was? What would she do then?

If she could picture Hayden walking away from her public image circus, she was sure dragging him into this mess would make him run for the hills.

Then her single got leaked. It was all too much, and in one impulsive moment, she clung to the only bit of control she had left—ironically the one her stalker offered.

And ironically, indeed, it had granted her more peace of mind than all the efforts of her entire security squad combined.

Not like she hadn't asked Thomas to deal with the rampant cybersecurity issue head-on, both to prevent any other leaks and to find out who was sending her texts and emails on her personal accounts and how they were getting through.

Thomas had insisted that it was precisely what the stalker wanted. If he was some kind of cyber expert, he had probably set up a complex network of VPNs, proxies, masked IPs, and who knows what else on purpose. To distract them and waste their time.

He was adamant about not getting caught in the trap, because it would only waste their time, effort, and resources, that should be focused on what truly mattered: her physical protection.

Thomas had finished his heated speech with the words, "Texts and emails won't get you killed. Not having personal security around you at all times will endanger you more."

He hadn't explicitly said, "Not having personal security will," but he might as well. That's how Sara heard it anyway, and it had been enough to make her snap the pencil she was holding in half from fear.

So there she was, going anywhere with Nick and at least two bodyguards in tow, even while on set. It was an absolute pleasure, a blast—she felt like the daughter of some U.S. President.

She leaned against the craft services table, sipping her water while taking in the big warehouse set. Her eyes landed on Ewan, who was now surrounded by the kids that had been running around earlier, their laughter reverberating through the space.

Whose kids were they, anyway? And was she supposed to go say hi? She was never quite sure how to interact with kids.

Little girls were a bit easier; she'd met hundreds of them among her fans. They looked at her with adoring eyes, just as she would have looked at Britney Spears or Avril Lavigne growing up—god bless. Little boys, however. Completely uncharted territory.

While lost in thought, a tall figure suddenly approached her from the side. "First death?" Hayden's voice caught her off guard.

Immediately, she shook off her slouched posture and stood up straight, stepping away from the refreshment table where she'd been leaning on.

"What?" she asked, a bit confused. "I mean, yes. I just died," she said with an awkward smile, gesturing to the fake shards that decorated her face and body. Admittedly, not a lot of rizz there. She could've played her cards better.

"I see," he stepped closer, enough for her to catch a whiff of his now familiar scent, even over the strawberry of the fake blood.

Oh god, the blood. Jesus.

They hadn't seen each other in weeks, and now, with her face completely covered in fake blood, this was how?

The last time she saw him, he had spoken to her with a warmth she'd never expected from him. But then again, maybe she was reading too much into it.

He wanted to know why she had pulled away, but how could she explain? How could she tell him that, in one rushed moment of madness, she had traded whatever they had for a some semblance of peace?

"Hayden, why are you doing here? I...thought I told you I can't—" she started.

"I heard you," he interjected. "But don't flatter yourself; I didn't come here for you. I believe Flanagan's kids are on set?" He gestured toward them. "They're huge Star Wars fans, didn't you know? He reached out to me through Ewan, and I couldn't say no. You know my lifelong debt to the younglings and all that jazz," he said nonchalantly, grabbing a handful of grapes from the refreshment table and tossing them into his mouth.

"Right... Bring Your Child to Work Day," she remembered, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness for having made it all about herself.

"Yeah, Bring Your Child to Work Day. But I mean, this?" He gestured at her whole dead, gory damsel look. "This is just a bonus."

He leaned forward, getting closer to her as he reached for another few grapes. "You look lovely today," he said as he booped her fake blood-covered nose and then tasted his finger, walking away with a smug smirk.

She stood there, observing silently as he approached Ewan with his customary pat on the back, then knelt down beside the enthralled children and engaged with them in what seemed like an endless stream of questions.

Their faces lit up with delight as he entertained them effortlessly. Flanagan was soon down with them thanking Hayden and joining in the fun himself.

After a bit, Ewan broke away from the group and made his way to her, "You know Marti, you're a beautiful woman. But you might want to stop staring at children from a distance when you're a slaughtered mess covered in blood, what do you think? I mean, Flanagan's kids are definitely trained to handle all kinds of weird stuff on set but you're definitely something today," he joked.

"Shit. I...hadn't realized." She turned to hide her face from them.

"So, next Friday. Do you have any plans?" Ewan asked. "Mary wants to salute the start of spring with an Equinox Party."

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Salute how, exactly? Are we talking pagan rituals and sacrificial shrines to Mother Nature, or just firing up the grill outside with elderflower cocktails?"

"I mean... you know how Mary tends to go overboard with themed parties, so it could be a little bit of both. Are you not into it?"

"Yeah, I'm all in—just trying to gauge the vibe. As long as it doesn't turn into Midsommar, I'm even up for flower crown duty," she laughed. "Who's coming?"

"Lewis is coming. You should invite Sara as well. Then a few people from the show: me, you, Victoria, Rahul... I was also thinking about inviting Mike, Tim from FX and his wife."

He must have noticed her eyes twitch a little, because he quickly added, "A small gathering, I PROMISE!"

She laughed. "Ok ok, I'll tell Sara, we'll be there."

Chapter Text

*Just a heads up. If spitplay is not for you, you might want to skip this.*

March 21st - Martina's POV

"Wow... someone's fully committed to their witch era," Sara remarked with a snort as they stepped into Ewan and Mary's garden, dressed to the nines to celebrate the spring equinox.

"Hello, sisters!" Mary greeted them, tossing flower garlands over their heads before pulling them into a big hug.

Marti fell immediately in love with the aesthetic. It looked as if a platoon of fairies, led by Martha Stewart, had marched into Ewan and Mary's Architectural Digest-worthy backyard and transformed it into a haven of ethereal beauty.

There were twinkling lights in the trees, a grand table at the center, draped in silky cloths with flower vases and lanterns on top.

Floating ribbons, flowers and flickering candles hung suspended above it, while pastel colored crystals were neatly placed on each napkin at every setting.

Soft medieval music played in the background, while the air was filled with a slightly overpowering scent of incense.

"Mary, this is wonderful! It looks straight out of a fairy tale. Did you do it all by yourself?" Martina asked, adjusting the blue flower garland that matched her long dress.

"Thank you!" Her radiant, genuine smile lit up the entire garden. "Are you kidding? The girls and I spent the whole week gathering ideas from Pinterest, and then Clara helped me pull it all together."

"What's that over there?" Sara asked, pointing at a small table filled with paints and eggs.

"Well, painting eggs is part of the Ostara tradition," Mary replied. "It symbolizes fertility, and this celebration is all about balance, abundance, and rebirth."

Sara barely let Mary finish before sprinting to the table, eagerly grabbing the brushes and colors.

Sara had always had a knack for art, and it was clear from a young age, too. Back in elementary school, their parents would hang up their drawings on the fridge, and the comparison between Martina's and Sara's was hilarious.

Marti's attempt at a family portrait looked like four wonky potatoes with stick arms, while Sara actually got proportions and resemblance right.

Even throughout high school, Sara loved visiting art exhibitions and galleries, and she filled her bedroom with impressionistic paintings, while Marti struggled to get the difference between Monet and Manet to pass her art history class.

When it came time for Sara to choose a major in university, she had initially wanted to study art. However, their parents had insisted she pick a 'real' one with solid career prospects, so she set her passion for art aside and ended up studying economics and marketing.

Which later had given her the ideal education to become her manager, but at the same time, Marti was sorry that her sister hadn't had the opportunity to explore her artistic side more.

In another life, Sara could have been a traveling artist, spending her days painting café scenes in Montmartre, on the cleanest easel, Marti would bet.

But in this life, deadlines, business contracts, P&L's had taken over.

So whenever Sara found time to reconnect with her creative side, Martina was always happy for her.

Leaving Sara at the painting table, Mary and Martina went for a little stroll around the garden. They passed by Rahul and Lewis, who were gathered around a giant, witchy-looking pot, bent double with crazy laughter.

"Want to know why they're laughing like that?" Mary asked, her cheerful expression tinged with mock disappointment. "It's because of the cauldron over there. It's just a prop—I thought it would add to the theme. But Lewis claimed it would be his designated spot to take a 'shite'—and I quote—in case the cheese got the best of him."

Marti almost choked laughing, "Classic Lewis."

Mary then guided her to a corner of the garden where colorful cushions were arranged in a circle, with a few decks of tarot cards placed in the center. "It's for later," Mary winked excitedly. "Victoria does readings, did you know?"

"I didn't," Marti replied nervously. When it came to this kind of woo-woo stuff, as much as she enjoyed the aesthetic side of it, she tended to be skeptical at best and uncomfortable at worst.

They continued their walk and approached Ewan, enveloped in a cloud of barbecue smoke as he meticulously brushed various marinades over tofu skewers, mushrooms, and chicken wings.

"Wow! If someone had told me a year ago that Ewan McGregor would be hosting private pagan parties while casually grilling at the BBQ, I would've laughed SO hard!" Marti quipped, shaking her head in amused disbelief.

"You and me both." He smiled as he flipped eggplants and peppers on the grill. Then, turning his mesmerized gaze toward Mary, he pointed at her with a giant fork. "Things you do for love."

Marti smiled at the tooth-rotting but adorable scene in front of her. Then all of a sudden, Ewan's eyes brightened up as he started waving at someone behind her.

"You made it!!!" Ewan shouted, "We're all here then, we can officially start the party!"

Marti caught her sister's jaw-dropped reaction to whatever was going on behind her before turning around.

Victoria was walking in, looking as stunning as ever, carrying two bottles of wine. And right behind her, with two more bottles of the same fucking PinotNoir, there was Hayden.

Something inside her broke. She felt it shatter in her stomach, imploding first and then exploding into a thousand sharp little fragments.

But it wasn't the time to give in to her emotions right now. It was a slippery slope of angered pain that she just couldn't afford.

Taking hold of her inner steering wheel and tried to guide herself back on track. Except, the adjustments might have overcompensated the deviation, pushing her toward a path of road rage, clenched fists, and grinding teeth.

As they settled into their seats, Martina found herself sandwiched between Rahul on one side and Sara on the other.

A wave of annoyance washed over her when she saw Hayden and Victoria sitting next to each other, slightly to the right in front of them.

Rahul leaned in closer, whispering, "First of all, how many times do I have to tell Ewan to warn me when there's more than one person from my all-time favorite movie franchise among the guests? One of these days, he'll casually invite me to a paddle tournament, I'll find myself playing against Mark Hamill and George Lucas and I'll just die right there on the spot."

She would have laughed if she hadn't been already clenching her jaws like a manic, seething Rottweiler.

"Second of all," Rahul kept whispering, while reaching for the salad and glancing over at Hayden and Victoria. "When the fuck did that happen?"

She had no answer. Just intrusive thoughts, oscillating between slamming her fists on the table and shouting Italian profanities that would have given her grandma a lethal stroke, and repeatedly stabbing her knife into the table. She could do neither, so she just shrugged.

But that was a good fucking question. When did that happen? And what the fuck was that, exactly.

She recalled them being introduced at Ewan's New Year's Eve party, but she wasn't sure if they had even interacted further.

Rage pumped through her veins, her blood vessels dilating to the gods.

Evidently, they must have had. Foolish, foolish girl. How naive to think he was only seeing her. He probably had a lineup of five other women at any given time, and Victoria was likely one of them.

Victoria was funny, smart, and beautiful. She played one of her sisters on Blackwood Manor, the last one to be killed before her, so they'd had the chance to get to know each other a bit on set.

There wasn't a single thing not to like about her. Martina tried to recall their conversations between takes, but she couldn't remember anywhere they had discussed their romantic lives.

Their interactions had always been cordial and friendly, but never particularly personal or deep, so if Victoria had been dating someone, Martina wouldn't have known.

Hayden looked at Marti a few times over dinner, trying to read her expression and making eye contact, but she avoided it with a vengeance.

The anger in her was burning so much she could have incinerated him with just one look. On top of that, she was desperately hoping the stinging in her throat wouldn't make its way to her eyes—because that would have been the humiliation of the century.

As the dinner progressed, the conversation often drifted towards spirituality, aura cleansing, healing crystals—topics Martina had little to add to. She stayed quiet and listened while Mary and Victoria delved and dished their knowledge on it all.

Among Sara, Rahul, and Lewis, she was definitely on the skeptical side of the table, which made it harder to keep an open mind about everything.

Also, it was impossible to keep a straight face whenever she heard Lewis's shocked, heavily accented Scottish outburst, "It's pure madness, I tell ye!"

At one point during dinner, Hayden offered her the cheese platter, but she sharply refused with a curt, "No." She hadn't followed it with "Thanks." On purpose.

Amidst compliments about her new song, Hayden remarked that it was undoubtedly her best so far, to which she responded with a dismissive, "Written better ones."

But when she saw him pouring Victoria some wine, she felt her hands itch with the urge to throw one of Mary's handmade buns right in his face.

After dinner, Mary insisted on doing some tarot readings. It didn't take a genius of some over-the-top level of introspection to recognize that the energy Marti was bringing to the table that night was downright unhinged, scorned bitch.

She didn't need it verbalized out loud, or shared with everyone else, so she stepped back and let others volunteer for it.

It turned out it was common to do something called a "Past, Present and Future" spread, where three cards were pulled out of the deck and laid down on the table, each one representing a different stage of that person's life.

Mary was the first to get her tarot reading, and of course, she was ecstatic about the results. She gushed that Victoria truly had a gift and called her an incredibly sensitive soul, deeply connected to the universe. Look at that.

Then Victoria, seated next to Hayden in the circle, nudged him and proposed to do his cards.

His past, apparently, was filled with conflict. Whether in a single relationship or multiple ones, they had led to both internal and external turmoil.

Victoria said it had brought a lot of transformative energy, forcing him to rearrange his life, look inside, and figure out what he needed to let go of for good.

Oh come on, now- Marti thought to herself - this was all...surmisable. Guessable. Maybe he'd even told her himself on one of their many dates.

His past, Victoria concluded, had made him resourceful, as he could easily adapt and find alternative solutions in case things didn't work out.

That much was true, she thought. His "alternative" was right there, reading tarot cards for him. Absent-mindedly, she muttered under her breath, "Bet."

He must have heard it, because he shot her a glare.

Victoria moved on to the present, saying it was chaotic and shifting in real-time, but none of it was his fault.

"Someone's trying to hide their true feelings for you, giving you the silent treatment and acting cold. But they're close to cracking under pressure." Hayden shot her another glare, then silently mouthed, "Bet" back at her.

For fuck sake, the pressure of what? She started to physically tense up, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, which caught Sara's attention.

"Why are they acting like this?" Hayden asked Victoria.

Victoria smiled at him and gently explained that it wasn't quite how things worked, but she would do her best to interpret the energy. Shyly tucking her hair behind her ear, she took his hand in hers and closed her eyes.

Good Lord, she felt nauseous. She considered sneaking off to the bathroom to throw up. Not because of Victoria. She was her usual sweet self and she was — she blew air out in frustration — adorable. But the actual sight of this hand-holding was just messing up her bowels.

Sara kept one eye on Hayden and Victoria, carefully observing everything, and the other on her sister, like she was nervously watching a ticking time bomb.

Victoria spoke softly, "Something's holding them back—several things they don't want to talk about. That's why they're avoiding conversations; it's not clear to them either."

Marti struggled enough with believing in God, in herself, and sometimes even in things she could see, touch, and feel. It was just how she was wired.

But in that moment, it felt as if an invisible blanket, offering her retreat, disguise, and protection, had been suddenly ripped away, leaving her more exposed and vulnerable than she was comfortable with.

That was enough tarot reading for a lifetime, so she excused herself to get out of there.

She reached Ewan's guest bathroom and took a moment to splash some cold water on her face and pat it dry with his soft towels.

How long she needed to stay before leaving without offending anyone, she asked herself, making a mental note to limit her interactions with Ewan to one-on-ones for a while, just to avoid ever ending up in a situation like this again.

After a few deep breaths, she braced herself and closed the bathroom door behind her, reaching for the light switch before making her way back to the living room.

As she moved, two strong hands grabbed her and pulled her into a small, dimly lit closet, illuminated only by a few faint LED strips.

She heard the door close and immediately caught the familiar scent of pinewood as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Hayden was looming over her, once again far too close for comfort.

"What the fuck are you doing? You scared the shit out of me!" She hissed angrily.

"Mmh. Anger," he observed. "I'll take it. I was starting to think indifference and apathy was all I was getting from you, tonight."

An uppercut. He could get that too, if he pushed her just enough.

"Looks like you're getting plenty out of tonight anyway," she bitterly remarked.

"Yeah. That was quite the reading, wasn't it?" he recognized. "Never had one of those."

"Glad you enjoyed it. Sure she can give you many more," she said, reaching for the closet door handle.

She wasn't sure if he had been expecting it or if it really was the midichlorians, but his hand shot out, grabbing hers and blocking it inches from the handle.

Then, he let go.

"What's with this attitude of yours today?" he asked, way too amused with himself for her to be wanting to spend another second with him in this damn closet.

"What do you mean? I'm a fucking ray of sunshine, don't you see?" she retorted, with a sneer, reaching for the door handle for the second time.

"Keep your hands off the goddamn door," he warned her with an unyielding tone.

Oh, no. Not that voice. She felt that voice in her legs more than she could hear it with her ears.

But it was not the time to fold. Yet.

She tried to ignore the shivers running down her spine and the way her brain was hopelessly melting at his words, and pushed it all aside. "Why? I think we're done here, I have nothing more to tell you," she grabbed the handle.

With a fast movement, he grabbed her wrist, yanking it away from the door. Then, he firmly grasped the other, pulling them both up to either side of her head and pinning them to the wardrobe she leaned against.

Her wrist hurt from the impact and his tight grip and an involuntary whimper slipped out. Sparks of all kinds ignited inside her, but she refused to give in. She fought, trying to break free, as if she had any chance of overpowering him, then let out a frustrated grunt.

"What? What is it? What do you want from me?" she demanded, her voice edged with exasperation.

"I want you." He said, glaring at her. "But you said you didn't want this anymore, and walked away. So I'll ask you again. Why are you acting like this." He repeated slowly.

He wanted her? He wanted her. He wanted her.

She never thought she'd hear him say it so bluntly. Her mouth softly parted in disbelief.

Well, he might've wanted her. And she might have walked away on impulse, for reasons she couldn't explain to him.

But he'd bounced back so fast it made her blood boil. So, fuck him.

She tried to fight the grip on her wrists once more time, in vain. "I'm not acting any particular way. I'm just trying to get back outside. You should let me go and head back out yourself—I'm sure she misses you already."

He let out a low, gravelly, condescending laugh. "Oh, M," he said, his tone mocking her, clearly enjoying himself. "Are you jealous? Is that what this is about?"

"No! You can do whatever the hell you want, see if I care," she spat defiantly. She writhed under his grasp, but his hands were too strong. He tightened his grip harder and pressed his body even closer to hers.

"Oh but you do care," he whispered, leaning over her neck.

"I don't," she muttered, mustering all her control to keep her voice steady.

"Bullshit," he moved his knee in between her legs and started pressing it against her core. "And you know it."

A familiar wave of pleasure from the pressure of his leg on her hit her and she fought the urge to start rubbing herself against it. "I am unfazed," she whispered in a small voice, trying to convince herself more than him.

He snorted a little. "Are you sure, M.? 'Cause I'm dying to dip my hand in your panties to see just how unfazed you are right now." He said in a hypnotizing voice.

"I said I am," she tried to answer with no hesitation but it was vain, empty words and she knew that.

"Yeah?" He rasped before dipping to trail kisses under her ear and down her neck, settling at the crook, and biting down hard on her skin. A soft moan escaped her mouth—she couldn't have kept it in if she had tried.

He lifted his head, and the icy blue shards of his eyes cut straight through the pretense she was desperately clinging to. He had seemed amused by her defiance at first, but now he looked dead set on trying to crush it.

"Looks like you're fully committed to the feisty act tonight. Cute," His tone was unwavering, final and solid. "But don't lie to yourself, M. Or to me."

He moved his knee away from between her legs and let go of one of her wrists. "Don't pretend your heart hasn't picked up an entirely different pace since the moment I shoved you in here against this wardrobe."

His hand slowly slid her dress up over her knee. "Don't pretend you don't crave that rush you get from the sound of my voice telling you what to do." His fingers lightly grazed her all across her inner thigh, until they reached her panties.

"And don't pretend you wouldn't be opening your legs right now if I told you to, screaming my name in seconds, if I wanted you to," he said, hooking his finger along the lateral edge of her panties.

He briefly tore his gaze from her, savoring the moment as he deliberately slid her panties to the side, exposing her pussy. His fingers traced slowly along her wet folds before he glanced back at her with a smirk.

She could barely stay up, her legs were dangerously trembling. Everything was trembling. This was far from fair game, and she still wanted to give in so bad.

Because he was so damn right. That rush he talked about—she'd felt it. She always did. It was like adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, and pure heroin all rolled into one, shooting straight to her brain like a missile of ecstasy every time he spoke to her like that, every time he touched her like this.

"You wanna know how I know this?" He lightly stroked her clit, rubbing impossibly slow circles on it. She tried her best to keep her fluttering eyes on him. "Because you and I. We're two sides of the same damn thing. So be a good little girl now, and show me how unfazed you are."

He stopped touching her and she whimpered at the loss. Then, he grasped her cheeks in his hand and applied pressure. "Open your mouth," he commanded, towering over her.

She didn't know why she reacted the way she did.

It was in her deepest, most instinctive and raw nature. Every time a lightning strikes, the thunder doesn't think, it just follows. That's what they were. He was the lightning and she was the thunder, chasing each other in a very messy, twisted storm.

She opened her mouth, stuck her tongue out and watched him hypnotized as he gathered spit in his mouth and moved his face to be exactly over her mouth. He let his spit slowly drip onto her tongue.

She'd never done anything like this, not even dared to fantasize about this. Pretty sure she'd found it gross up until thirty seconds ago. Right now, feeling the heat of his saliva slide on her tongue, she'd never felt so turned on in her life. He was right. There was something sacred in their intoxicating dynamic that sent her straight to heaven.

Normally, her brain was a whirlwind of scrambled thoughts, plagued and worn with an insane amount of overthinking.

But he just cut through the noise, drowning out everything else, until all that remained was silence. All she could hear was him—his voice, his commands—and obeying him, the way he looked at her as she did, was beyond pure bliss.

"That's a perfectly unfazed, good girl." he said, tilting her chin up to close her mouth. "Don't swallow. Now, you're going to go back out there and you're gonna hold it there until I say so. Understood?"

She nodded, entranced, heat burning up her cheek and pooling between her legs. He released her wrist and opened the door for her.

Returning to the garden, they took their seats on opposite sides of the table, just as they had before.

"Are you okay?" Sara whispered, with a concerned frown on her face. "Where have you been?"

Marti simply turned her head and murmured, "Mhh mhh!" before pouring her sister some wine to keep her occupied. Nothing paired better with Pinot than her sister, after all.

Hayden continued laughing and chatting as if nothing had happened, occasionally shooting her quick, darting looks.

She remained obedient and hypnotized, every muscle in her body taut with tension, pulling her toward him, and every cell in her brain focused on following his command.

"You have to try this cake, it's the shit. Here, saved you some!" Rahul exclaimed, handing her the dessert plate. Marti looked at him, mustering a polite expression, and gently pushed the plate back toward him with the tip of her index finger.

"The hell?" Rahul's expression turned to confusion as he looked at her.

It didn't matter. She had kept her mouth closed and she hadn't swallowed since stepping out of the closet.

Her eyes were firm on Hayden. She couldn't lose sight of him, not even if she wanted to.

Everything was out of focus, except him. Everything was muted out, except him. Every atom in her body was suspended, waiting. Nothing else mattered. No one else existed.

If anyone else at the table had noticed the twisted but unbreakable thread tying them, there would have been some explaining to do. Yet, she was recklessly willing to risk it all—just because he had said so.

Mary's voice barely registered in the background, something about everyone sharing their intentions for the upcoming season.

Mary, Ewan, and a few others shared their own at turn, while she began to feel nervous. Only a few people hadn't spoken yet, and she was one of them.

How could she speak if he still hadn't given her permission to swallow?

She kept her eyes on Hayden as he calmly shared his intention to embrace the abundance coming his way, relishing every moment of her nervousness from a distance.

Sara followed, sharing her intention to start painting again and trying to set some time aside to do it.

"Splendid!" Victoria exclaimed. "You all shared such beautiful intentions, and here I am bringing it down to the nitty gritty— saying my intention is to buy a new damn car. Thank God Hayden lives nearby and spotted me stranded on the side of the road. Which, thanks for the ride, by the way!"

Oh. Oooh.

So that's why they'd showed up together? Martina felt like such a fool. A happy fool, though.

She had to look down to hide the crooked smile creeping onto her face and the warmth spreading through her.

"Marti, you're the last one. What's yours?" Mary cheerfully asked.

Martina looked at Hayden, waiting for his permission. Nothing. Come on, surely it was about to come.

It didn't.

Two, three, four, seconds passed.

"Marti?" Mary asked, "Did you hear me?"

Hayden's gaze bore into her, pinning her in place, dwelling in her submission.

He was testing her, pushing her to see just how far she would go for him. To please him, to make him proud.

She didn't waiver. She stayed calm. She kept her eyes on him, waiting.

"Marti? Are you ok?" Sara shook her arm.

"Hello?????" Said Ewan.

The tension at the table grew palpable, confusion and suspense filling the air as everyone started to look at the others, awaiting her response.

Her unnatural silence was keeping everyone on edge. Unrelenting, she maintained her gaze on him, refusing to blink, swallow, or even flinch.

It wasn't an inherently sexual thing.

Yet every fiber of her body felt aflame, alive, drizzling. Had it been 10 seconds already? She couldn't tell, she could go on forever. And he saw that.

Just as she noticed Sara stealing a few glances between her and Hayden, and began to suspect her sister might be catching on, he gave her a subtle nod.

It felt like a shot of heroin in her blood. She swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Oh... I'm sorry, I spaced out for a moment," Martina apologized, flashing a polite smile at everyone. "I just had a rush of inspiration for a song in my head, and I had to memorize it before it slipped away. Wouldn't want to risk my next Grammy over it, would I?"

Chapter Text

LA. April 4th - Martina's POV

Martina had been up since 5 AM, and it hadn't been the peaceful kind of wake-up with gentle stretches and birdsong, either. More like a heart-pounding, eyes-snapping-wide-open kind.

That night was going to be the night. Hollywood's night of nights. The peak of the film industry's award season: the Oscars.

Tonight, la crème de la crème of actors, directors, and industry elites would hold their breath, waiting to bask in the glory of recognition.

Her acting career was just at the beginning, and all of this was so clearly out of her league, but both the ceremony and the legendary Vanity Fair afterparty were about so much more than just the awards.

They were monumental platforms, excellent runways for stars to boost their profiles and stir up buzz for their next big projects.

It was the perfect opportunity to draw attention to her upcoming album release, build hype for her new show, Blackwood Manor, and open doors for potential future roles on the silver screen.

That's what Sara and Jessie had pitched to her anyway, when they told her she'd be presenting an award at the Oscars that year.

Naturally, she'd been thrilled.

After all, simply stepping onto the stage to announce the winner of Best Original Song and then gracefully exiting stage left didn't seem too overwhelming a task.

If she managed to stand upright on the world's most-watched runway and survive some of Sara's beloved "strategic mingling," she might even enjoy it.

That's what Marti thought eight months ago, when they first talked to her about it.

But as the event got closer, the anxiety had silently started to gnaw at her, and today, it was eating her alive.

She'd started the day with a 7-mile run on the treadmill, then squeezed in a relaxing yoga session, complete with soft music and the incense Mary had given out as party favors at her Ostara celebration.

After that, Sara had crashed into the preparations like a hurricane. An acupuncture session, a full-body wax, a facial, and a lymphatic drainage massage later, Martina found herself on the top floor of the Roosevelt Hotel, in a luxurious 830-square-foot suite.

Two very stressed hairstylists surrounded her, and they'd been obsessively brushing and fussing over her hair non stop for the last hour.

Her look was designed to pay homage to timeless elegance, with soft, brushed-out waves, white eyeshadow, '50s-style cat-eye eyeliner, and a classic, bold red lip.

When her hair and makeup was done, it was time for last-minute fittings.

Martina bit her tongue as the senior stylist from Prada, one of three bustling around her, kept remarking on how the dress looked tighter than at the last fitting, murmuring that someone must have gone crazy with carbs.

"Carbs are actually the only thing keeping me sane. You should see how crazy I get without them," she remarked, snapping her eyes wide open to look unhinged and hoping to startle them.

She caught Jessie's wary glance, as she slowly shook her head no, in a silent plea for caution, not wanting to risk offending anyone from the fashion house.

Sara stepped in, her face glowing with warmth and pride. "You look stunning. This is one of my all-time favorite looks on you. Absolutely gorgeous. You're definitely going to turn some heads tonight."

Martina smiled gratefully, leaning on Sara's arm for support as she lifted each foot, one at a time, to let the stylist slip on her 6-inch heels.

She didn't particularly care about turning heads, if she was being honest. The industry's finest men would be there, from the holy trinity of 'Ryan's', to the Jasons, the Jacobs, and so on. But none of them really mattered to her.

She was one-track-minded. Always been. And her mind was long lost, completely consumed by thoughts of Hayden. Day and night.

A week had quietly gone by after Mary's party. He hadn't reached out, and thank god for that, because she definitely needed a few days to process whatever had happened there.

To even understand this new version of herself.

There had always been a limit to her introspection. Over the years, she'd watched herself making too many impulsive decisions and changing her mind too often to feel like she truly knew herself on a deep level.

So the ease with which he seemed to know the darkest recesses of her mind, uncovering hidden corners she hadn't even discovered yet, was both captivating and ensnaring.

It was also worryingly addicting. Because after each unsettling encounter, the longer she went without a word from him, the more the withdrawal set in—leaving her craving more.

It felt like being on a roller coaster—soaring highs followed by painful, stagnant dullness. Was this healthy? She seriously doubted it. What would happen when the ride came crashing down? Would the lows be twice as crushing as the highs were exhilarating?

Could she really afford this level of emotional dependence, she wondered, staring at herself blankly in the mirror as they draped her in diamonds.

Sara snapped Marti back to reality. "Marti? Are you with me? Please don't zone out on me an hour before the Oscars red carpet, pretty please. I need you sharp and focused."

Marti nodded and straightened up, mimicking a dutiful soldier bolting to attention.

"Oh, I'm loving this," Sara chuckled, commenting on her posture. "Alright, quick rundown. Red carpet now. Once we're there, you'll follow Jessie to the press corner, the glam bot, and the photo op on the stairs."

Martina nodded, carefully following Sara and the rest of the team out the suite, taking small, cautious steps to avoid damaging her dress.

"The ceremony kicks off at 4 P.M., and it lasts about 3 hours. Jessie will come to you when it's time for you to get on stage. Just be yourself, and everything will go smoothly."

"I hope so," Marti replied nervously, struggling to keep pace with the group as they headed toward the elevator.

She tried to take big calming breaths. The show hadn't even started yet and she was already at a loss for air—whether because of her nerves or because she had indeed indulged on carbs and was now wearing a dress that was constricting her and cutting off her air supply, it was unclear.

As she took an even deeper breath, expanding her stomach to make room for more air, she could've sworn she heard the faint pop of a stitch just as the elevator doors slid shut in front of her.

She let out a silent chuckle. That was definitely the carbs.

The ceremony moved much slower than she'd anticipated. Though she'd only ever watched it from home, never attending in person, she'd expected it to be a quick series of exciting moments, one right after the other.

That night, however, she was struck by the almost religious solemnity of it all. The atmosphere was remarkably quiet—you could hear a pin drop, and everyone was on their toes. Herself included.

Not just because Jessie would appear any second now to take her backstage for the award presentation, but also because of what had happened on the red carpet a few hours earlier.

She had been focused, gliding gracefully down the runway, flashing her brightest smile and striking her best poses as what felt like a hundred flashbulbs went off in her face.

Then, she had waved and smiled at the cheering crowd, and nailed her glamBOT moment, which Cole had called an epic slay.

Then, she'd stopped for an interview with Amelia from Chicken Shop Date, and mid-conversation, The Rock had casually crashed it, singing and dancing to one of Marti's songs. Priceless.

She had hurried along with Sara and Jessie, navigating through a sea of photographers, staff members ushering people to keep moving, and interviewers vying their mics at passing celebrities.

It was then that she'd glanced up and, in a slow-motion-like sequence, spotted Hayden—dashing and handsome as ever, chest out and chin high—striding confidently in the opposite direction with his team.

Time had stopped for a millisecond as their eyes met in passing, a satisfied gleam in his, as if he was amused by the surprise flickering across hers.

What kind of pleasure did he find in constantly catching her off guard?

They had followed each other for a few seconds but neither spoke or greeted the other in front of so many people.

The tension between them lingered palpably in the air, a silent, crackling undercurrent as he moved past her.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, their brief encounter had ended, each pulled away by their respective entourages.

Time had resumed its normal pace, and the surrounding chaos had swallowed them up once more.

He had to have known she'd be there. So why hadn't he told her he'd be attending too? Maybe it was just another way for him to relish in the control he had over her. And, boy, did he have it.

She had been doing everything she could to keep it from messing with her head—at least until after she'd presented the award and made it safely off the stage.

Luckily, everything went smoothly. She presented the award and its nominees, only glancing briefly at the teleprompter, and the joke she made seemed to land well.

She announced Billie Eilish and Finneas as the winners and left the stage for their acceptance speech.

Now, finally backstage again, she took a look around, searching Jessie but couldn't find her.

So, she tucked herself into a small space between a wall and an equipment box, deciding to stay there until Jessie came to get her, sneaking a peek at the winners' performance.

She leaned softly against the wall, lulled by Billie's ethereal voice, when she suddenly sensed a presence behind her, then the scent of pinewood, then his voice.

Heart thud.

His hand rested lightly on her waist, while the other brushed her hair away from her neck. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

"You were amazing up there," he simply said.

"Hayden," she said, fighting every cell in her body that wanted to let go into his touch, "why are you even here?"

"Same reason as you," he murmured, his lips lightly grazing her neck. Her eyes fluttered as electric tingles coursed through her body.

"Publicity for your new album?" she said softly, knowing her ability to participate in the conversation was likely to abandon her any second.

A low, suppressed laugh rumbled from his throat. "Funny tonight. I like it."

"You didn't answer me, you could have told me you were—" she began again.

"Where was the fun in that," he cut her off as he pulled her closer to him and bit her earlobe. Her stomach dropped and her knees felt weak in an instant.

"Come with me," he said. It didn't even sound like a request.

"Where?" She asked.

"Afterparty. That's where you're headed anyway, right? Come with me, I'll wait for you outside and we can ride together," he said, trailing kisses on the back of her neck. "Sponsor gave me a Luxury Cadillac Escalade."

"I don't even know what that is," Marti whispered softly.

"You'll find out," he replied. "30 minutes. Meet me at the drop-off."

She slowly reopened her eyes and turned to look, but he was already gone, vanished down the backstage stairs.

And there it was.

That thrill, that fucking rush.

As if this night, and the days leading up to it, hadn't been packed with enough adrenaline and anticipation. It still paled compared to what she was feeling now. Every part of her was sparking up.

"Marti!" A voice called from the other side of the backstage area. "Sorry I didn't get here sooner, we had a bit of a hiccup," Jessie said, hurrying over to her.

As soon as they arrived at her dressing room, they quickly fixed her makeup and helped her into the second outfit for the night—a much looser, long, flowy dress with a high-thigh slit and tight corset hugging her chest.

Sara paced nervously around the room, phone pressed to her ear. Marti strained to catch the details of the conversation. Apparently, Nick was stuck outside the event's blocked-off area due to a minor fender bender.

Marti could hear his agitated voice through the phone as he was trying to explain the dynamics of the accident, stopping here and there to cast some mild, funny insult at the other driver.

He was fine and able to drive, but the car was still damaged. And of course, they couldn't roll up to the Vanity Fair After Party in a car held together by prayers and duct tape.

But this was...convenient.

Martina was fully dressed and ready to go, so as soon as Sara got off the phone, she took her and Jessie aside and shot her shot. "I have a ride I can use. Their car is already inside the red zone."

Sara's expression turned into a suspecting frown at Martina's suggestion, while Jessie's face lit up with joy as if the universe was providentially aligning in their favor. "Okay, then we'll come with you," Jessie proposed. "Whose car are we taking?"

No. Absolutely not. "Uhm, actually, there's only room for one passenger," Marti quickly blurted out. "You can go with the security car, and if you make it in time, I'll wait for you before the red carpet. Otherwise, I'll just walk it by myself."

Sara and Jessie exchanged a confused look before Jessie, resigned, gave a nod. She then turned to Sara, continuing the conversation as if Martina wasn't standing right there. "At least this way, she'll be on time. If she's not with us, we can move faster out of the red zone and have the other car meet us there. It'll buy us some time."

"Great!" Marti exclaimed. "Then it's settled!"

Jessie had already started gathering their things and slipping into a pair of sneakers when Sara approached Marti. "Whose car are you going with?" she asked, determined to get to the bottom of it.

Martina smiled politely and headed towards the door.

"Marti! Who are you riding with?" Sara asked again, raising her voice slightly over the sound of her phone ringing, but Marti already had one foot out the door. "You have my location. I'll see you there!" Marti said, blowing a kiss at her.

She hurried down to the rear drop-off sidewalk, where a small crowd had already gathered, waiting for their cars. Scanning the line of vehicles, she realized she had no clue which one was Hayden's.

What model did he say it was? A Cadillac... Esc...something. Esc...apade? Just as she was considering looking it up on Google, her phone vibrated in her hand and she quickly answered it.

"To your left, behind the white limo," he said.

She hurried toward the car Hayden had pointed out, and just as she got close, the back door swung open.

She jumped right in, quickly shutting the door behind her in one smooth move, and sinking into her seat, she took in the interior of the car.

Christ on a bike. Christ on four wheels.

It was like stepping into another world. It was dark inside, with the tinted windows shutting out all daylight. The only illumination came from the soft red glow of ambient lighting, which was a vibe in and of itself.

She couldn't even begin to fathom how much this thing cost, but from the leather upholstery to the polished wood veneer trim of the panels, she knew it had to be an ungodly amount.

The interior was huge. Instead of two rows of regular seats, it had oversized, plush—more like lounge chairs than typical car seats.

A marble-like partition wall separated the back from the driver's cabin. The only way to communicate was through a large, tinted roll-down window in the center.

When it was up, as it was now, it looked more like a mirror, reflecting the surroundings in slightly blurred outlines.

In front of their seats was a small tray holding an elegantly arranged charcuterie board—cold cuts, a variety of cheeses, grapes, and mother-of-pearl forks and knives, as if the setting wasn't already dripping with not-so-subtle opulence on its own.

She took the drink Hayden handed her—a scotch far too strong for her to handle on an empty stomach.

Plucking a grape from the tray, she eyed him skeptically. "Who's your sponsor, the Sheikh of Bahrain?"

"Disney," he replied, his eyes locked on hers over the rim of his glass as he sipped his scotch.

"Close." She nodded slowly, already feeling a bit under attack by his magnetic stare, and looked away, "We need to stop meeting like this, Hayden. You can't just lurk in the shadows and take me by surprise whenever you feel like it."

"You didn't leave me much of a choice though, did you?" He set his glass down and turned toward her, "You said you didn't want us seeing each other at all. Besides, don't you enjoy the thrill of it?"

"I do. I just..." she lost herself for one second following his fingers lightly trailing along her arm, in aimless, lazy patterns, but she quickly got back on track. "Why does it always have to be like this between us? Why can't it just be...normal?"

The comment slipped out before she had a chance to stop or second-guess it. She couldn't deny the rush she felt every time they met, but she wasn't thrilled about the fact that there was never an actual plan to see each other. He just kind of always 'showed up'—surprising her at best, creeping up on her at worst.

He said nothing for a few seconds, but let his eyes slowly prey on her lips, her chest and down to her left thigh, exposed by the side slit of her dress.

"Normal..." He took the glass from her hand and set it in the holder along with his, then shifted closer, wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her between his legs.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" His growl in her ear was enough to make her reconsider her initial question. Her name. Her existence.

"Does normal give you chills?" he brushed his lips against her shoulder, trailing his fingers down both her arms.

He swiped his tongue from the side of her neck to her earlobe. "Was normal ever good enough for you?"

She felt her nipples harden under the corset and silently prayed she'd make it through the car ride alive.

Looking down, she followed his fingers deliberately parting the slit of her dress, exposing even more of her thighs.

Then, his hands moved between her knees, lingering there for an endless moment before he yanked her legs apart.

She gasped, biting her lip in a desperate attempt to hold back everything she was feeling.

"Is it normal that keeps you up at night?" he rasped in her ear. "When you rub your needy little clit thinking of me?"

With one hand still resting on her thigh, holding it open, and his other hand sliding up to the back of her head, he grabbed a fistful of hair. A small, strangled sound escaped her lips as he gave it a slow but firm tug, pulling her head back.

Oh god. She wanted this ride to end right now and to last forever at the same time.

With her neck stretched taut, she was forced to look straight ahead at their reflection in the black-tinted window separating them from the driver's cabin.

It wasn't as clear as a mirror, but she could still make out the outline of him, and her—engulfed by him and nestled in between his legs—with her thighs spread wide for him.

He kept a firm grip on her hair as his fingertips traced lightly over her panties. She was aching for that touch so much that a desperate, unbidden sound broke free her throat. She looked at him and saw his smirk reflected in the windows.

"That's right. Tell me again what it is that you want," he teased her.

What did she want again? Something about normal. Those words might as well have been spoken by someone else. She didn't claim them as hers anymore.

He pressed on her clit, dragging two fingers up and down her covered slit. Tugging her hair even tighter, he leaned in and hissed, "Answer me."

"Normal," she breathed out, with little conviction.

Withdrawing his hand from her pussy, he reached for the knife on the tray in front of them. Her eyes darted to it, taking in every detail.

It was beautiful—sleek, sharp, with a polished blade and a mother-of-pearl handle framed by intricate wood detailing.

She tensed up, instinctively gripping his knees and holding onto him. He kissed her cheek softly and whispered, "Do you trust me?"

Her heart pounded in her chest. On the outside, she was frozen, but inside, everything was on fire.

It felt like cresting the lift hill—the brief moment of stillness, before the adrenaline rush of the drop. And there was no way she was getting off mid-ride.

"Yes," she breathed, her head nodding subtly.

"You see, normal... It's such a boring word," he remarked, placing the tip of the knife on her knee and lightly dragging it up her bare thigh, excruciatingly slowly.

Even with the blade facing outward, the tip was still pressing into her skin, and she followed it with her eyes, mesmerized by the faint white line it left behind.

She knew that too much pressure or a wrong move could still cut her, yet that knowledge did nothing to stop the heat and moisture pooling between her legs.

"Keep your eyes on the window," he said sharply. "I'll give you three other words you can have way more fun with."

In the blurred reflection, his large frame encased her. He lifted the knife from her leg and placed it beneath her ear.

He was gripping her hair with one hand and holding the blade to her throat with the other.

It was a work of art, and she wondered how many times that image would come back to haunt her.

The feeling was even better than the sight.

The tip of the knife felt like a match striking against her skin, leaving sparks in its wake and setting her on fire.

He released her hair and placed his hand on her stomach, pulling her closer to him.

"Green," he murmured, as she felt the cold, flat tip of the blade glide slowly down her jugular. "Means it's ok."

She held her breath, obediently keeping her eyes on the reflection in front of her, watching as he dragged the blade just beneath her collarbone, right above the edge of her corset.

"Yellow..." he continued, his voice controlled, the knife lightly scraping her chest, rising and falling with her shallow breaths. "Means you want to slow down."

The hand holding the knife trailed down her décolleté, gliding over her corset and down to the center of her spread thighs.

Oh god. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her throat from a pleasure that was overwhelming her every sense.

"What's the third one?" she asked with an airy voice.

"Red..." he whispered, making her scoot forward a bit. "Means...Stop."

He moved in closer too, his hard-on pressing against her ass through his pants. Realizing he was just as turned on as she was, she softly moaned.

He must have sensed her relaxing too much into him, because the moment she started to tilt her head back and ease her posture, he quickly straightened her up and firmly said, "I need you to stay very still for me. Can you do that?"

She instantly sat up tall, nodding as she tried to regain whatever control she could over her body.

He carefully slid the blade under the side band of her panties, with the cutting edge facing outward.

"Is it red?" He rasped in her ear. His voice was as controlled as his movements were. He had a confidence with all this that didn't look improvised. It seemed researched. Practiced. Owned. Earned.

She gripped his knees again, trying to release some of the tension building up inside her, and the ache forming between her legs. She whispered, "No," though it came out more like a moan than a word.

His cock twitched against her back at her response. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement of his wrist, he sliced through the side band. She heard the soft rip of the fabric, and caught half of her panties falling forward in the window reflection.

Moving to the other side band, he sliced it through with another fast and precise motion, reveling in the sight of her naked pussy.

He let out a deep, strained sigh, like he was using every bit of his breath to steady himself, trying to keep his movements controlled and safe.

She, on the other hand, was spiraling out of control—her head was dizzy, her breathing short and shallow.

It was too much. At this point she was sure she could come if he so much as brushed her clit with his fingertips.

He adjusted his grip on the knife, loosening it near the handle, then with agonizing slowness, he traced the tip along her folds. The touch was so delicate it felt like it was barely there at all.

"Is this normal enough for you, M?" he asked, his eyes deadly fixed on her.

"Oh God," she gasped, her voice trembling. She was losing control—of her mind, her breath, her body. Tremors ran through her, and she wanted to give in so bad.

"Don't fucking move," he commanded harshly. She stilled. "Don't even breathe."

She drew in a shaky breath and held it.

He brushed the blade over her swollen, aching clit. In that suspended moment, everything else disappeared. Her vision blurred slightly, and her heart pounded in her ears, pumping highs of pleasure through her veins she never thought possible.

He kept the blade there, like a silent challenge hanging in the air, gauging her ability to endure his command.

"Breathe," he finally relented.

She released the breath she had been holding, but before she could take another one, he hoisted her on his thigh, then forcefully guided her to lie down on the seat beside him.

He climbed over her and grabbed her cheeks, "Open your mouth," he ordered.

She complied and he placed his knife between her teeth. "Don't make a sound."

He moved down on her, and wrapped his arms under her thighs, as he hovered his face just over her pussy. Smirking, he looked up with a satisfied grin and said, "Would normal ever get you this wet, M?" Then dove his head right in between her legs.

He swiped his tongue up flat against her, nearly sending her over the edge on the spot. Her eyes rolled back as she stifled a moan, knowing she couldn't hold out much longer.

The way his mouth devoured her was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. There were no soft kisses or delicate, tiny little teasing licks. The way he was eating her wasn't different from the way he kissed her at all. Consuming. Demanding. Starved.

With the knife clenched between her teeth, she glanced down at him. God, the way he was pulling her closer to his mouth, the indentation of his fingers sinking deep into her thighs, it was almost as desperate as the way she was writhing shamelessly on his tongue.

In that moment, all barriers between them seemed gone, dissolved. Every shield keeping them apart shattered.

He wanted nothing but her—her taste, her pleasure, her tension and her release. He wanted all of her, and there was nothing more she wanted to give to him.

She closed her eyes as his mouth latched onto her swollen clit, the pressure and intensity of his sucking on it pushing her closer and closer.

Her legs were already shaking. She reached for his head, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tightly as the familiar waves of pleasure built inside her.

With every pulse, she pressed herself harder against him, and fully surrendered to the orgasm crashing through her.

She came on his tongue, hard. He knew she did, but he never stopped kissing and licking and savoring her through the ebbs and flows of it all.

She lay there for a few moments, trying to regain control. Before she could even open her eyes, she felt him gently cleaning her up with a tissue. He removed the knife from between her teeth and helped her sit back up in her seat.

A heavy silence filled the car and took up all the space between them, as all the shields and barriers from before seemed to materialize back into existence.

Somehow, it always happened. Only this time, it was different.

There had been a connection. Just a few moments ago. It was there, she was sure of it. But now, it was gone all of a sudden, leaving her more vulnerable than ever before.

He reached down for what remained of her panties on the car floor and tucked them into his pocket.

She pulled her dress down, doing her best to hide her newfound, unexpected nudity underneath it, hoping it would go unnoticed. Even under the glare of the camera flashes.

She pictured the stuck up stylists from Prada disapproving at her.

Their eyes met briefly. It was just a glimpse, but for an instant, there was something she'd never found in them before.

She couldn't quite put her finger on it—the intensity of his stare was still there, but the usual harshness that shielded him and his unreadable expression was gone. His eyes seemed softer, more open, and unexpectedly gentle.

Whatever it was, it completely caught her off guard, and she quickly broke eye contact.

She was already struggling with her own vulnerability and couldn't handle anything more. Not even his.

She attempted to break the silence. "Where are we?" she asked out loud, retrieving her phone from her purse to check the location. "Oh good, we're almost there."

"Do you want to step out of the car together?" he asked.

"What? Are you out of your mind?" she looked at him wide-eyed. "We can't be seen together!"

"I didn't say let's red carpet together. I can have the car drop us a block away or something, and we'll just walk there separately. No one will see us," he said, fixing his hair and his shirt collar.

A block away. No one will see us.

God. Sara was right. He had been left out the loop for too long to know how it worked now.

One does not casually walk into the Vanity Fair Afterparty red carpet any more easily than one simply walks into Mordor.

It wasn't a stroll in the park. She had meticulously gone over the logistics with her team over the past month at least four times.

A block away might have been far enough to avoid professional photographers, but he had to be a fool to believe it wasn't going to be packed with phone-wielding crowds.

"It's still a risk," she said. "And we've already taken enough today. If my publicist saw us stepping out of the same car, she'd tackle you for a signed NDA, and send me a six-part relationship rollout plan before I could even blink."

"Jesus," he sounded exhausted from just hearing about it. "Is that what you usually do?"

She swallowed, fully aware this wasn't exactly the picture of easy, breezy simplicity. It's not like she'd chosen this for herself either, but it was the reality of her life.

And she didn't like the judging tone.

"Well, yeah. I don't have the luxury of just winging it. Everything has to be discussed, vetted, and secured. Welcome to my world," she said, a bit more exasperated than she'd intended.

"Your life sounds like a nightmare," he said, shaking his head and almost laughing at her, his voice dry and distant.

She really didn't like his voice. His attitude. His comments. How each of the orgasms he had given her were going to screw her up forever and ruin her for anybody else.

But, she still chose diplomacy.

"Sometimes it is," she admitted. "But all these things are meant to make it easier. Like NDAs, for example—they protect everyone involved, because if—"

"I know what they're for," he cut in. "I just would never sign one."

Why had she even bothered to explain? She knew it would end like this. She knew it would just drive him away.

Whatever she thought she'd seen in him a few moments ago had to be a pure figment of her wishful thinking, because now all his fucking prick defenses were back up. And it was seriously getting on her nerves.

"I don't recall ever asking you to," she shot back, her voice tight and terse.

"Good, because the last thing I want is to be tangled up in this shit. It's all nonsense, and it's exactly why I decided to leave this circus behind in the first place," he said, absentmindedly adjusting his tailored suit's button.

What a fucking asshole. "I am sorry, what the fuck am I tangling you in, exactly?" she fumed, furiously fumbling for the button to call the driver's cabin.

She'd been in her share of limo rides, but never one like this—packed with a dozen more buttons to sort through. The anger she felt rushing up to her brain wasn't making her any more lucid in the search.

"For the record, you seem more than capable of disappearing and popping back up whenever the hell you feel like it. So don't worry—you look pretty untangled to me."

He looked taken aback by her reaction, but she ignored his surprise, focusing only on finding the speaker button.

TV controls, door locks, ambient lights—where the hell was it? She squinted in the dim light until she finally spotted the driver's symbol. Pressing it firmly, she ordered, "Stop the car. Now."

"Martina, what are you doing? You can't get off here, we're at least a mile away," he pointed out.

"Stop the car, now," she repeated stubbornly into the intercom.

"I don't care. Wouldn't want to burden you or tangle you in my shit any more than I've already done," she spat out bitterly.

"Oh, come on. Calm down now. Can we talk about this later?"

Good lord. When had telling an angry woman to calm down ever worked out for him? Or anyone. It was a good thing she was getting out of that car, because she'd rather walk a mile in 6-inch heels than listen to another word of this empty nonsense.

The car slowed down and pulled up. Opening the door, she threw herself out. "Look, I never asked you for anything. And I wasn't even going to. But if even the mere mention of what my dating life looks like sets you off, maybe you should consider dating someone else..." Her hands hurriedly adjusted her dress down in one frustrated move.

"But...we're not even dating..." he interjected.

Oh God, he was impossible. "I KNOW!!! UGH, TRUST ME, I KNOW!!!" She grunted back with frustration. "BUT IF YOU THINK YOU CAN PICK ME UP AND DROP ME AT YOUR FUCKING LIKING, YOU ARE SORELY MISTAKEN."

Chapter Text

Ontario. April 15th - Hayden's POV

Hayden's eardrums were about to burst under the noise of five raging kids shouting their heads off. At this rate, his ears would surely become civilian casualties of this family gathering.

He was at his sister's house, with his siblings, daughter, nieces, and nephews, all gathered there for Easter, and he could barely hear himself think.

Someone had the brilliant idea to gift the kids portable karaoke mics, and now they were playing "Chubby Bunny," giggling uncontrollably as they stuffed pink and blue bunny-shaped marshmallows into their mouths, shouting into the mics as loudly as they could.

Hayden took a deep sigh. As much as he sometimes couldn't wait for them to outgrow the yelling phase, he still remembered his childhood home being just as loud—filled with laughter, cries, and screams from all kinds of games, and sibling fights. And he wouldn't have had it any other way.

So there he was, stoically enduring it, finding some comfort in the delicious lunch his grandmother had prepared for the family: her renowned lasagna, roasted ham, and mashed potatoes. Thank God for her—always saving the day.

Grandma Rose, with her Italian roots, was a natural in the kitchen—a talent she had passed down to his mom. Unfortunately, that skill seemed to have skipped over the next generation entirely, completely dodging him or his siblings.

She was also fluent in Italian, but no one else in the family had picked up the language. Every now and then, she would still blurt out phrases that no one understood—suspected to be either insults or muttered frustrations that were probably better left untranslated.

Grandma Rose was like a second mother to him and his siblings. She'd always help them with their homework and read bedtime stories whenever their mom worked night shifts at the hospital.

She had never missed a single hockey game, and whenever they lost, she knew just how to cheer them up with her incredible lasagna—the same one they'd just enjoyed.

His siblings often joked that he was Grandma's favorite grandchild. He wasn't sure about that, but they definitely shared a special bond that had only strengthened after his parents' divorce.

He was just a teenager then, already dealing with the usual feelings of inadequacy, trying to fit into the world and not always managing to.

After the divorce, though, things had started to get worse. His resentment started to pile up, and he found himself struggling with even more pent-up anger.

His mother wasn't always home, and even when she was, she couldn't always provide the extra love and attention he needed. With four kids to care for and a demanding job with tough shifts, she couldn't do it all on her own. It was then that his grandma had moved in with them to help out.

Whenever he had angry outbursts—acting out, yelling at his sister, punching his brother, or throwing things—she'd ground him, sending him out for yard duty, regardless of the season, temperature, or weather.

He had spent more hours than he could count outside shoveling snow in the winter, tilling the soil in the spring, mowing the lawn in the summer, and raking leaves in the fall.

It was just an unwelcomed, annoying punishment at first, but soon he realized that the more physical effort he put into it, the more it helped him blow off steam, channel his anger and redirect his focus.

Grandma Rose knew what she was doing. She'd let him work on his own for a bit, giving him time to calm himself down, and then she'd always join him after a while.

She would help him in silence, gently correcting his hand when he over watered the plants, or bringing a bucket to collect the weeds he pulled. And often, she'd find a way to teach him something—whether it was about seeds, soil rotation, or life.

He didn't see it at the time, but by doing so, she was creating a safe space for him, and without even realizing it, he started to open up.

She would listen when he needed to vent, trying to offer him different perspectives or advice on things that could be changed, and simply held him when he needed to cry over what couldn't.

Gradually, he found himself working in the yard every day, even when he wasn't grounded. It became his personal sanctuary, a place of calm and purpose, that continued to teach him valuable lessons.

Tending seedlings with the right light and warmth until they were ready to be transplanted taught him patience.

Building shelters for hedgehogs and ensuring the birdhouses were stocked with food and water instead of ice during winter taught him care.

That was why he had later decided to buy a farm and settle there. It's what he knew best, what always brought him peace.

Which, again, thank God for Grandma Rose, saving his whole life.

Even now, at 95 years old, though her steps had grown slower and more uncertain, her icy blue eyes, framed by deep lines, still gleamed with a vitality that belied her age.

Despite the years, she was still quick-witted, always keeping pace with the conversations happening around her and perceptive to even the unspoken bits. Few things escaped her senses or her wisdom. It had always been that way.

Recently though, she kinda lost a little bit of tact and filter, wielding her wisdom like an unapologetic weapon that could either enlighten you and show you the way or call you out on your bullshit and humble you in three words or less.

"What's troubling you, Haddie?" He heard her quavering voice ask him.

Everyone had stopped calling him that since he had turned 13, at his explicit request. But not her, not even now that he was past 40.

Her eyes harbored a little bit of concern, as she served her signature Tiramisu to everyone at the table.

Grandma Rose's question immediately caught everyone's attention, and was followed by his sister Hayley's quick remark, "Yeah, you've been so quiet all day."

"Oh, it's nothing, just work stuff," he replied nonchalantly, attempting to deflect the sudden focus on him.

Grandma Rose raised an eyebrow as she served him a generous portion of dessert, admittedly bigger than everyone else's.

"They're calling him back to play Darth Vader in a new show, grandma. The one in the black suit. The heavy breather, you remember?" His brother interjected.

"I remember it quite well, thank you, Tom, darling," she replied, with just a faint hint of irritation in her voice to remind everyone that she wasn't stupid or forgetful just because she was old. "It's what he played last year, I seem to recall. Is it not?"

"Exactly!" His sister replied for him, "What are you even worried about, Hayden? You did great last year."

"And you're gonna smash it this year as well! Debra came all the way up here just to convince you to accept the role, I'm sure they wouldn't just do it for anyone. There must be a reason why they keep calling you, don't you think?" his brother continued, encouragingly.

"Besides, anything that gets you out of that farm for a change can't be all that bad," Hayley continued, her mouth full of Tiramisu. "You're starting to look like Old McDonald. And smell like him too."

He wasn't invested enough in the conversation to jump in or snap back. Honestly, he'd been tuning it out, like it wasn't even about him.

Funny how time moves on, but some things don't change at all. His siblings were always the louder ones—more outgoing, always ready to chat about their feelings and everyone else's too.

He'd learned early on to hang back, watching and listening, carefully thinking things over before opening his mouth.

"Can we go egg hunting now, pleeeease?" A chorus of pleading kids, barely containing themselves, interrupted them.

His sister stood up and tugged his brother to join her. "Tom, help me out please? Mom and I hid 50 eggs out there; this could take hours."

Hayden was about to stand up to help, but his grandma stopped him with a light touch on his arm.

"What troubles you, Haddie? The real reason this time, dear. I don't have all day," his grandma said.

He laughed. "You don't, Grandma?"

"No, dear. I have a game of Bridge with the ladies at Linda's house. And she's a rude one, she waits for nobody," she said, pursing her lips in unconcealed disdain.

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, "I told you, it's just work."

"A brooding man who could use my oxygen machine, that you have been playing since you were a bony teenager, isn't what's weighing on your mind," she said, plopping another piece of dessert onto his plate.

And there it went his go-to hiding place and favorite deflection.

"There's someone," he started, not really sure how to continue, "And I don't know how to handle it."

"Handle it? For Pete's sake, unless it's a lawn mower you don't need to be handling anything. And because you said 'someone' and not 'something', I assume we are talking about a proper person, are we not?"

"Yes," he agreed, feeling stupid. "What I meant is, I don't know how to act. I'm afraid I'll fucking screw it up. If I haven't already."

"Language Haddie," she said firmly, driven by old reflexes. "Why do you feel that way?"

"She's...it's..." he struggled for words, "it feels different from the other times."

"That's good, Haddie. Because with your track record of poor choices and bad luck, 'different from other times' is a good thing." She nodded, smiling with a warm inflection.

"It's just...I don't know if I should trust it," he managed to say out loud. "What if it turns out to be a big ball of nothing? What if I lose interest like I always do?"

"Dear, I think the reason you kept losing interest was because you never had any in the first place. You somehow always seem to pursue girls that aren't even a match for you."

He didn't like the sound of it. He liked even less where this conversation was headed.

"Maybe you felt it was safer that way? It's easy to find someone for reckless motorcycle rides, casual sex, dancing at concerts, and all that jazz. But life isn't just about those moments. Sooner or later, someone has to pay the bills, take out the trash, do the cleaning, or decide what's for dinner. And if that has to drive you apart, maybe you thought it was best if you didn't really care about them, because it would make it easier to part ways and move on?" Her eyes looked almost guilty of seeing right through him, but carried the intention of unconditional love.

He felt like a fool. Was he this transparent and pathetic?

"Well, I don't think it's like that this time. I think I like her," his fingers nervously tapped on the table. "And I don't know if I want that."

Her grandma chuckled, tilting her chin towards her neck. "Don't be silly, Haddie. That's not something you can choose. Do you think a master of playful banter and passionate conversations like myself would have chosen to fall in love with a verbal minimalist like your grandpa? That man made Clint Eastwood look like a chatterbox, for heaven's sake. But I loved him fiercely, up until the very end, and I had no choice."

He smiled, warmed by his grandmother's memories as the sound of the kids arguing over who had found the egg under the apple tree first drifted through the kitchen windows.

"I know that," he sighed, looking outside. "But I felt like I had finally found some peace in my life, something I've longed for a very long time. I've had my share of drama—first with acting, then with the divorce, and whatever nonsense dating I thought I was doing afterwards."

"Are you certain that's peace, Haddie?" Grandma Rose reached for his hand. "We were all delighted when you chose to return to live here, but while I don't necessarily agree with Hayley's colorful yet childish way to put it, she might have a point," she lowered her face, peering over the rim of her glasses, breaking down the last standing barrier between her, the truth and him. As if she hadn't already shattered enough today. "It seems you've simplified your life to a few safe variables, and while it may feel like peace to you, have you considered it might just be ...numbing juice?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, wishing he had just gone outside to help with the Easter egg hunt instead of having all his lame cop-outs laid bare.

"You've retreated from every chance of getting hurt. You take up a role once in a blue moon, you've stopped looking for a meaningful relationship. You pretty much only see your family..." she said, and all of a sudden he felt like he could finally see through his own bullshit as well.

"I was just trying to protect myself," he clenched his fist around the fork, feeling like a scared little kid all of a sudden. "I...don't want to be hurt again."

"I know, Haddie, dear. And you will always have your safe haven up here with your family, your animals and your crops. But you are far too young to stop living just because there is a chance you might get hurt," she said gently.

And for a moment, he was transported back to his childhood home's yard, where she would casually impart life lessons while also teaching him about dormant pruning.

"And for what it's worth, I think you should give life, and this young lady, the benefit of the doubt. Have an open heart, for once. You can't get into it thinking you'll end up hurt or it will be a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"What if I still end up hurt?" He asked, stubbornly.

"If you end up hurt, it means you're still alive Hayden. If you want to feel nothing at all, you might as well be dead. And you have all eternity for that. Take it from someone who won't be around for much longer." She squeezed his hand affectionately. "Now tell me about her. I have half an hour before the game starts, and as your daughter would say, I want the tea."

LA. April 20th - Martina's POV

Martina stepped into her trailer to enjoy her mid-day break of her last day on set.

They were in the middle of shooting the key art for Blackwood Manor, but with all the adjustments to lighting and backdrops, she had at least an hour before they'd call her back.

She had woken up very early, so if it had been up to her, she would have devoured her microwavable noodles real fast and then collapsed on her bed for a much-needed nap.

And that's exactly what she would have done if her sister hadn't left a note on her kitchen table that morning with the words "Call at noon. Mandatory."

It didn't say anything else, but judging by the way it was written—with thick Sharpie strokes and the two heavy underlines beneath the word "mandatory"—it looked pretty urgent.

Besides, Sara never scheduled meetings when she was on set, and their next roundtable was just a week away.

What could be so urgent that it couldn't wait until then, she wondered, while waiting for her lunch to heat up.

She tossed herself onto her bed, the soft hum of the air conditioning almost enough to lull her to sleep.

The sound of her iPad jolted her awake just before the microwave beeped, with the incoming video call from her sister.

Only she wasn't calling from her personal number, but from the meeting room of her office downtown.

She unlocked the screen, and the first thing that popped up was a close-up of Katy, the office manager, fumbling with wires.

All Martina could see was Katy's forehead dominating the screen, filling the entire webcam view.

"Katy, hi!!! How are you? How's Snoop?" Marti asked with a smile.

Snoop was the dog Katy had found one night and rescued from a trash bin. Someone had abandoned him inside a plastic bag all wrapped up in a Snoop Dogg t-shirt, hence the coolest name a dog has ever gotten.

"Hi Marti! I'm good, and Snoop's doing great. We won our agility race last weekend! Hold on, let me find the pictures." Katy said excitedly, pulling out her phone.

In between pictures on Katy's screen, Marti caught a glimpse out of the corner of the video of Sara and Thomas entering the room together, caught up in a heated conversation that had evidently begun before they arrived and hadn't ended yet.

Marti tried to gauge the mood between them but couldn't quite grasp it since most of her view was taken up by a triumphant Snoop, standing proudly on the podium in first place.

It wasn't until a minute later, after Katy had left the room, that Marti could fully sense the tension in the air and see it etched on both Sara and Thomas' faces.

"Jeez, who died? What's with the look on your faces?" Marti asked, slurping on her microwaved ramen. "Haven't seen your face so wrinkled since before you started getting Botox, Sara."

Sara scoffed, "Marti, this is not the time for jokes. Let's stay focused. We called this meeting for a serious reason." She quickly stopped Marti's untimely attempt at humor in its tracks.

Taking a deep breath, Sara continued, "Remember last year, when you and Trevor broke up—"

"Ah...How could I forget," Marti sighed ironically. "My prime. Didn't eat, go out, or engage in any civil socialization for about two weeks. What a time."

"Yes, you had better days," Sara conceded. "Anyway, maybe you don't recall, but it was around that time that we changed your phone number for the first time."

"Uhm, I remember hanging up on Trevor's sorry ass apology phone call, and throwing my phone against the wall. Then you came over a few days later with a new one. 'Fresh start,' you said."

"Yeah, well..." Sara adjusted a couple of flyaway hairs outrageously refusing to stick to her ponytail. "I got you the new one and forgot I even had your old phone in my purse but when I checked it, it had a lot of notifications. At first, I thought it was just Trevor, but it didn't make sense. He'd never been... He never was..."

"He never gave a shit, so it was impossible he had started to care that much all of a sudden?" Marti suggested with her mouth full of noodles.

Sara looked defeated at her own sister's abrasiveness, "It was out of character, yes. So I unlocked it and found this flood of messages from unknown numbers. Like an endless stream of consciousness, begging you to keep making music and get back on the scene. But the amount was...alarming. So I handed everything over to Security—it was a total of 2000 texts and emails."

Martina found herself chewing incredibly slowly, trying to swallow her food and the fact that they had been keeping this from her all this time. She carefully pushed her lunch away on the table and asked the obvious question, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were already struggling as it was! You were talking about quitting everything. You weren't eating, and we were all worried sick about you. We were just trying to get you back on track. I didn't want to make things worse. Besides, they weren't threatening or anything..." Sara pushed back her oversized glasses on her nose amidst the word salad.

"Excuse me? 2000 messages out of the blue and you thought it was no big deal? That it wasn't worth mentioning just because they weren't explicitly threatening my life?" Marti bitterly uttered out, raising her voice.

"We can discuss this privately. It's not the focus of the meeting. We called you for an update on it..." Sara hinted at Thomas, who appeared unusually uncertain, prompting him to jump in.

He covered a nervous cough with his hand and began, "Well, we found ourselves overwhelmed by data. There were thousands of fake IPs and untraceable VPNs, and we couldn't make sense of it all. So, we enlisted an expert who had dealt with a similar case in Virginia a few years ago, and he discovered something."

Martina braced herself, sensing the revelation couldn't be anything good.

"The top recurring unique IPs from the messages were traced back to a few specific locations," he continued. "One originated from a café near your apartment back in NYC. The second was from a parking lot down the street. The third... Well, we couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but it was within 300 feet of your apartment building."

She felt nauseous and dizzy, wondering how she could even continue the conversation without vomiting. "300 feet away," she repeated in a shaky breath. "I told you he was close, I've been trying to tell you all along..."

Sara and Thomas exchanged a mortified look, then her sister straightened up in her seat.

"Let's... let's try to keep our cool, Marti," Sara said, trying to manifest a calm that just wasn't in the room. "Let me remind you, there were a lot of very committed fans camping down the street for days. He could have easily been one of them."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? An unhinged, parasocially attached fan-turned-stalker who followed me here all the way from NYC?" Martina asked nervously, shaking her head. "What about now, Thomas? Did you find any patterns in the most recent messages?"

"No." If she didn't know him better, she'd swear those tiny glimmers on his bald head were beads of sweat, but the iPad resolution wasn't clear enough to tell. "We haven't spotted any clear patterns in the recent messages yet. He's very careful. The only reason he slipped up was probably because of the sheer quantity. But with these latest developments, we found..."

"I'm sorry, what recent developments?" There hadn't been, that she knew of. Why was she suddenly not entitled to know everything that was going on in this messed-up situation?

Sara nudged him with her elbow, as if trying to shut him up, and nervously flipped her ponytail, cutting in, "We think it would be best to enforce additional measures."

Marti's eyes widened, "I'm not following. First, you say it might've just been a fan camping outside my apartment, and now you're suggesting more security?" Something about this didn't add up.

"We're checking with the café and the parking lot, see if they still have security footage from back then. Until we clear that up, we can't rule anyone out or say he's not someone close to you for sure," Thomas stated, bringing back his usual stern tone.

Marti felt her heart racing in her ears, "And I have to be on lockdown until you do?"

Sara crossed her arms, her expression turning stiff. "It's not a lockdown, Marti. Thomas can walk you through every detail..." she nudged him again to take the lead.

He cleared his throat, "We'll enforce strict access controls and regular security sweeps to safeguard your living spaces, workplace, and immediate vicinity."

"Oh, so it won't be a lockdown, just straight-up Fort Knox," Marti protested. "My bad."

They both ignored her sarcastic remark, and Thomas continued, "No solo outings as a general rule. If you do go out, you'll need to inform security in advance so we can check the location and adjust accordingly to ensure your safety."

"But you already have my schedule, and I have Philip with me most of the time anyway!" Marti protested, feeling the already limited freedom she had being squeezed even tighter. "What if I make last minute plans?"

"For a while, it would be best to stick to the script and avoid anything improvised," Sara cautiously explained.

Thomas rubbed his chin before adding, "We'll need to install additional cameras in key areas—your house, Sara's place, this office, the recording studio, the set, and any other locations you hang out at."

Martina's frustration bubbled over as Thomas outlined the new security measures. "Aren't we surrounded by CCTV cameras anyway?" She was one second away from crying out of frustration.

"Not everywhere," Thomas clarified. "Not strategically positioned where we need them to be. Plus, if we don't own them, we can't access the footage as easily or decide how long it is stored for."

Sara fidgeted, intertwining her fingers as she tried a conciliatory approach, "I know what you might be thinking, Marti, but it's just until—"

Marti's emotions surged—a volatile mix of anger and confusion that was about to overflow any second now.

"You wanna know what I think? This whole thing reeks of overkill. Some random creep texts from a cafè down the street in NYC, and it lands me in a surveillance state six months later when I'm all the way across the country? It makes no fucking sense. What are the recent developments? There is something else you're not telling me. AGAIN!"

Martina's heart pounded in her chest as she awaited their response, her mind racing with questions and doubts. Thomas hesitantly side eyed Sara, who nervously started biting her nails.

"Thomas already explained. These are just extra measures so that we can investigate further, cover all our bases and do so in full serenity," Sara asserted, closing the notebook in front of her and, by the looks of it, the whole discussion.

"Full serenity? How's living under house arrest with Big Brother watching at all times serene, Sara?" Marti yelled, her voice breaking as tears welled up in her eyes.

"Marti, we're just trying to protect you," her sister attempted to explain.

And to keep things from her, apparently, Marti thought.

It was going nowhere. It was like slamming against a thick, unreasonable and stubborn rubber wall. Martina tried to push back her tears and find her composure again.

She didn't know since when they had decided she was not worthy of being in the know, given she was the victim here, experiencing all of this firsthand.

But she wasn't about to accept it all without at least putting up a bit of a fight for herself.

She took a deep breath.

"No cameras in my room or inside the studio. Reduce the notice for my plans to 2 hours. And if I need someone with me 24/7, Lex is taking Philip's place. These are my conditions, make it work. I have to go back on set now, which you probably already know by the chip you installed in my molar while I was asleep. Good day."

Chapter Text

LA. April 26th - Martina's POV

It had taken her some time to adjust to her new recording studio in LA, especially after making all of her previous albums at her former studio, the Black Swan, in NYC.

They were dramatically different in every aspect. The Black Swan was smaller, with recording booths much more confined—Sara would say claustrophobic—but Martina preferred the term cozy.

The design had that eccentric, whimsical vibe people usually either loved or hated. It was the kind of place where you'd walk into the bathroom and randomly find an entire toilet shaped like a giant golden pineapple, just because.

Sara, while not appreciating the square footage, did admire its style. As an avid art and design lover, she had tried to educate Marti on its unique appeal, but never quite succeeded.

Martina just couldn't wrap her head around the need for two marble gorillas as sink faucets—and probably never would.

The Sunset Studio in LA had a different, less artistic, kind of vibe: massive rooms, polished hardwood floors, sleek geometric lines, cutting-edge technology, and expensive but understated furnishings.

It was owned by the record label she was signed to, so they had offered her the master recording room, prioritizing her over any other artist and giving her unlimited studio time.

Compared to her booth at the Black Swan, this one was huge. It came with a table constantly stocked with all sorts of refreshments, snacks, and candy—the kind she always grabbed a handful of to bring to Nick—plus a big, ridiculously comfortable yellow velvet sofa.

That probably explained why Sara had camped out there all day, stayed for takeout dinner, and was still lounging around at 11 PM.

"You really shouldn't drink that, you know?" Marti said, strumming chords on her guitar and giving her sister a sideways glance as she chugged a RedBull on the sofa.

"I know. But you said you were 'almost done' about two hours ago, so..." she replied, briefly taking off her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose.

It wasn't that Martina didn't appreciate her sister's presence, but she was still kind of pissed at her for whatever she was hiding about the stalker situation.

Deep down, Marti knew Sara was only trying to protect her. She also guessed Sara felt guilty about keeping things from her and enforcing the new security measures.

If she had to bet, she'd say the reason Sara hadn't left her side for the past two days was to share the burden. But she was still a little bit pissed anyway.

"I think I'll stay another hour or so. I need to fix this bridge. It's just lacking edge. Go ahead and go home, have a shower, meditate, and... relax! Masturbate if you need to," she said, hoping Sara would really take up her advice.

Martina knew Sara's general mood was always tense, but Jesus, the last few days with her had been enough to give her anxiety by osmosis.

She didn't want to be that explicit with her sister, but she really thought she could use some kind of release.

She hadn't dated anyone in... oh god, she couldn't even recall the last time Sara had gone on more than two consecutive dates with someone.

She said she didn't have time and that her priorities lay elsewhere, which usually gave Martina the chance to quip that at least her priorities were getting laid somewhere—unlike her.

"Jeez, do you need to be this crass all the time?" Sara closed her laptop on her legs.

"No, but I enjoy the faces you made when I am," Marti flashed a self-satisfied grin to her sister. "Go home, I mean it. I have Lex here with me. I'll come back home with her."

Lex was the only thing making this ridiculous level of security bearable—thank God she had insisted on having her as her main bodyguard instead of Philip.

Nothing wrong with Philip. He was great at his job. Well, except for the time he couldn't save her from a flying paint bucket, but that was just a mishap.

Oh, and there was that one night when they sort of made out. A little. But it was the last night of her first world tour, everyone was drunk, and they were both really young.

Besides, nobody had found out, they hadn't talked about it since, and he'd been completely professional ever since.

Yeah, Philip was fine. It was just that most of the time, he looked, walked, and acted like a machine. If she was going to spend all her time with a guard attached at her hip, she was going to need a little more empathy. More interaction. More warmth.

Lex had been part of her larger security team for the past six years, but she was usually brought in when Martina needed the full unit—like during world tours or big events—beyond her regular, smaller crew.

Her full name was Alexandra Knight. Born in Greece to a Greek mother and an English father, she'd spent most of her childhood there until her mother passed away, after which she moved to the UK with her father.

Now likely in her forties, she had already lived all sorts of lives. After becoming the UK Wrestling national champion at just 18, she had followed in her father's footsteps and joined the British Army.

While serving in Afghanistan, her convoy was blown up, killing her entire squad on impact.

She somehow survived, but with severe fractures and a traumatic brain injury that left her in a coma for two months. It took multiple surgeries and long-term rehab to recover.

Eventually, she woke up, but after everything she'd been through, she decided to leave the military. That's when she made the switch to a career in personal security.

She was built like someone whose workout routine included bench-pressing cars, and looked like she could toss anyone over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry them with ease.

Which, to be fair, she actually did a few New Year's Eves ago in Rio, after Martina blacked out from one too many caipirinhas.

Despite her tough past and intimidating appearance, she had the kindest soul and a surprisingly sharp sense of humor, which made her great to have around. Even if it was 24/7, thanks to Sara and Thomas' plan.

"I won't leave unless I'm with you," Sara declared, crossing her arms stubbornly.

Martina scoffed internally and surrendered, "Alright, let's call it a night. I'll be back early tomorrow, anyway. Could you tell Lex and Nick while I gather my things?"

Sara's eyes gleamed at the idea of finally going home. She nodded and trotted out the studio booth.

Martina was picking up the music sheets sprawled across the desk, still intensely studying the unfinished bridge that she was sure would haunt her all night, when she felt her right ass cheek vibrate.

Hayden's name flashed on the screen.

He had called and texted her a few times since the Oscars, saying he wanted to talk, but she didn't know what there was to discuss or how to do it without insulting him. Prick.

It was surprising enough she hadn't blocked his number, and that effort alone had consumed all her mercy and sweet disposition.

Except, as time went by, her anger had started to slowly and traitorously subside. And now, with three weeks gone since they last spoke—not that she was counting—she found herself picking up the phone quicker than she'd like to admit. Loser.

"Hello," she still kept her tone as hostile as she could.

"Wow. I've been through winters in Ontario way warmer than that 'hello,'" he snorted.

"Yeah? You should hear my goodbye. Wonder if I can make it just as freezing. Goodbye—" She was ready to hang up on him.

"Wait," his voice was firm. More a command than a request.

"Why are you calling this late, Hayden?" she sighed.

"I was wondering if you were free. Now." again, really didn't seem like a polite, explorative question.

"Now?" she let out a laugh, filled with bitterly amazed disbelief. Apparently, he didn't get her point about not being his little fuck toy to call whenever he had needs.

Although, those needs...weren't really just his. Her mind suddenly flooded with hot, racy, and inconvenient images.

No. She needed to stop this. Immediately. She had a point to make, and it clearly needed to be reinforced. She summoned all her resolve, "Hayden. I am still at the studio, I am exhausted and I'm on my period. You picked the absolute worst fucking time for a booty call."

"It's not a booty call. I flew in earlier from Florida, which you'd know if you'd bothered to answer any of my calls or texts in the last few days. I landed an hour ago, and I wanted to see you."

Oh. She squinted her eyes, trying to sense the intention behind the words. The tone seemed genuine. But then again, he was an actor, so...

"Now, do I have to beg for you to march your pretty little ass out that studio and meet me?"

A smile slipped across her lips without her meaning to, melting her resistance and the tension in her eyes all at once.

What a softy loser she was. Oh, fucking, well. She quickly stuffed all her things into her bag and slung it over her arm.

"Where?" she asked.

"I can come pick you up wherever you are right now," he replied.

"That would be per—", she halted mid-sentence. No, that wouldn't be perfect at all. In fact, it was exactly the kind of last-minute change of plans she was supposed to avoid, for the time being. She ended the call, asking for a few moments to figure out the logistics.

She tried to reason with her sister. After all, wasn't she safer improvising her moves rather than sticking to a predictable schedule that everyone, including her supposed stalker, could anticipate?

Martina wasn't sure if her argument was truly convincing, or if Sara was just feeling guilty or perhaps too tired to argue further.

Eventually, she gave in, insisting that Nick drive her whenever she needed to go and that Lex remain nearby. It was a take-it-or-leave-it deal. And Martina took it.

They drove north for about half an hour, leaving behind Hollywood's neon lights and endless regurgitation of concrete. She gazed out the car window as they ventured up the hills, through narrower streets and winding curves.

When she arrived at the destination he'd sent, she stepped out of the car and waited for the gate to open. Her heart jumped when it finally did—and for two reasons.

The first reason was that she was staring at the most picturesque mountain-top wood cabin she'd ever seen, nestled in the most surprising oasis of palms, olive trees, and giant cacti.

A stoned pathway connected the gate to the cabin door, where Hayden stood. He was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, with a smug smile on his face.

Even with sweatpants and a hoodie he was so beekeepingly hot, and that was the second fucking reason her heart was leaping right now.

She walked over to him and stopped herself just a millisecond from giggling. Don't fold now, you sucker, get a grip, she silently told herself.

"So, a late-night booty call AND you casually drop the lo for me to pull up?" she shook her head in theatrical disapproval as he held the door for her. "Tsk tsk tsk. The Police should have you under immediate arrest."

She stepped inside and paused. WOW. Man had taste.

The house was the perfect blend of rustic and modern. The walls and ceilings were made of light colored wood, and that alone made the space really cozy and warm.

Was this all his own work, or did he just splash out on some fancy interior designer? And what was with all these plants? Did he actually keep them alive? Most importantly, since the only method known to her was the old 'spraying and praying', could he teach her how?

"I know, right?" he closed the door behind him, laughing to himself. "But I figured that the mall or the movies were much more riskier dating locations."

She stood there with her back on him and her nose up, feigning her fakest nonchalance as she observed the tangle of wooden beams crossing the ceiling. But the fact he'd just said the word 'dating', did sink in.

Thankfully, he mentioned he had something to finish up in the kitchen right after, told her to make herself at home in the meantime, and then disappeared into it.

As she wandered around the living room, her eyes landed on some bookshelves, and she walked over.

In her opinion, they were always the most interesting part of anyone's home—they revealed more about the owner than they ever would about themselves.

One night, while at dinner at the house of a guy Sara was dating, Marti found in his bookcase a troubling mix of Nabokov's Lolita, an excessive amount of Bukowski, and numerous self-help books geared toward dubious success schemes.

Sara brushed her off, arguing that you can't judge someone just by the books they read any more than you can judge a book by its cover.

She also gave a big speech, saying it was about the messages people took from the books, not the books themselves.

Grasping at thin air, Sara had also insisted that Lolita was still studied in English Lit courses because of Nabokov's unparalleled, masterful prose. That it was only problematic if someone read it and not only enjoyed but also glorified it—or worse, defended it. But, luckily, she had ended her desperate attempt at justifying him with a nervous laugh, most people didn't end up scribbling 'Note to self: do this!!!' on the inside cover.

Still, Martina hadn't been sold. Because this guy Sara was dating wasn't a Lit major at all—he was a finance bro drowning in Profit & Loss statements and risk assessment decks.

And, of course, it didn't help his case that just a few months after that dinner, he ditched Sara for an eighteen-year-old girl.

With that in mind, she warily approached Hayden's shelves, starting with those at her eye level, which seemed to contain a lot of thrillers and a few cinematography books. So far, so good.

Her eyes then wandered to the higher shelves, and she couldn't help but smile when she spotted several parenting books, including guides on the father-daughter relationship, from raising empowered little girls to practical guides on how to communicate with them. Ok, this was actually nice.

The real gems, though, were hidden on the lower shelves, dedicated to house and gardening, featuring masterpieces like 'Outwitting Squirrels,' 'Ultimate Guide to Impeccable Bird Feeding,' and 'Secrets They Don't Tell You About Tractors.' She shook her head, chuckling. This man was truly something else.

She heard him call her to join him in the kitchen and began making her way toward the sound of his voice.

A few steps into the hallway, a door, slightly ajar, with colorful letters spelling 'LENA' caught her eye.

Slowing her pace as she walked by, she caught a glimpse of the inside: a vanity table ringed with little bulb lights, a pink neon sign that said 'Fabulous', and a few pictures on the walls, with wild horses, Ariana Grande, Billie Eilish, and a larger, blown up poster of —oh gosh—she thought, looking at the familiar glittering silhouette under stage lights—herself.

She closed the door and slowly moved past it. It was fine. Totally fine. Her face was plastered on the walls of plenty of young girls' bedrooms these days.

It was nothing new, Hayden had mentioned his daughter was a fan. Ewan's kids had similar posters, and that hadn't bothered her.

It was no big deal, she told herself, trying to process the fact that she was wall decor at the house of the man she was seeing. No big deal at all, she repeated as she joined Hayden in the kitchen.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee immediately filled her senses. He was pouring it from a proper Italian moka, which felt like home on one hand—but also a little weird, considering it was night time.

"Coffee?" He asked, with an inviting expression. "I made it the Italian way."

"I can see that," she smiled, "Do you usually do coffee at midnight?"

"Well, no. But you said you were tired earlier on the phone," he pointed out.

Something inside her giggled. Thankfully not her face. She appealed to her own inner bitch to pull it together, because whatever this impress-fest was about, she surely wasn't going to fall for it.

She walked over to the kitchen table, as he opened the fridge and returned with a baking dish full of Tiramisu.

"I wanted you to try this," he said, with a warm, proud smile. Even the deep blue in his eyes felt uncharacteristically, unchromatically warm.

"Did you make it?" Marti asked, taking a seat in front of him.

"Yes," he tilted his head looking at his creation. "I hope what little Italian blood I have in me did the magic and didn't let me screw this up."

"Well, let's see!" she chimed. "Uhm, not too much though. Comments have been made about me 'rounding out' at my last dress fitting, and I have a fitting coming up with Gucci for a custom dress. They wouldn't be too thrilled if they had to adjust it."

"Tsk, fuck them!" he furrowed his brows and maneuvered the spatula to scoop out an even bigger portion than the one he'd initially intended. "They're Gucci, right? I'm sure they must have some extra fabric scraps stashed away in case it's needed."

She must have looked a little hesitant on her plate, because he followed up with "Eat. It's an order."

It wasn't. He'd said it like it was a lighthearted joke. She felt lightheaded for a second anyway.

"So. What was it you said earlier about there being riskier places for dating than your house?" she probed, sinking her spoon in the Tiramisu.

"It's true," he shrugged.

"I am aware of that. But why are we talking about dating all of a sudden," she took another spoon.

It was to die for, but she kept it to herself.

"Because I was stupid about it," he said. "So this can be a date, if you still want it to be."

Her heart fluttered, as she held onto her spoon tighter.

"And dare I say, a normal one at that," her lips twisted into a coy smile.

"I guess so. I know you're a fan," he said, keeping his eyes on the plate he was scraping. "As long as it doesn't cross over into boring territory."

"Well, I'm not the native English speaker here, but 'normal' and 'boring' are not synonyms, by any means. You got to know that," she looked everywhere in his eyes for hints that that knowledge existed in him.

"Boring is just normal, repeated over and over again," he said, like a kid distancing himself from concepts too soft or sophisticated for him to bother grasping.

"Hayden, no," she replied in a soft voice. "Why do you believe that?"

"Because if you repeat something long enough, you'll eventually grow tired of it. You should know—didn't you tell me your last relationship ended because it fizzled out and he ended up taking you for granted?" He furrowed his eyebrows.

"It ended because he was a dick. And because he didn't love me, probably never did. You don't take for granted people you love that easily. But normality is never the problem," she said, realizing in that moment it had never been clearer to her.

"What is, then?" he asked, looking at her like she was the key to cracking a mystery he hadn't been able to solve himself.

"The way I see it, if something is right for you, it'll be beautiful when it's shiny and new, and just as beautiful when it becomes a steady part of your life. It'll feel like certainty, stability, and calm bliss. Like, I don't know, breathing," she paused, finishing the last of her tiramisu. "Do you ever think, 'how boring' when you breathe?"

He looked at her for a moment, his pensive eyes softening and relaxing. "I think Grandma Rose would like you," he finally said, standing up to clear their plates and carry them to the sink.

They talked for what seemed like an hour, about different things. The more he talked about his life, about himself, the more she wanted to know.

The only reason she was holding back on all the questions she wanted to ask, was because one in particular had been gnawing at her since their last encounter. So, she patiently waited until it felt like the right moment and then finally went in.

"May I ask you something now?" she tiptoed around it.

"Yes, you may," he answered with a smile. "Shoot."

She lowered her eyes, feeling her cheeks growing slightly warmer. "What you did to me in the car. Uhm...is that something that you've always...I mean...were you always like...Is it, like, your thing?" For someone who had even shamelessly enjoyed it, she sure as hell was struggling talking about it now. "With the knife, I mean...you looked like you knew what you were doing, so I wanna know...are you...like—?

He stepped in, trying to rescue her from her struggle. "I believe what you are asking is whether I've always had specific inclinations and how much those define my sexual tastes. Correct?"

She nodded, gripping the chair with her sweaty palms.

"Yes. I've always been like this. Never been much into vanilla stuff. There are certain things I like to have." His eyes were fixed on hers, and the eye contact became almost unsustainable in a split second.

She didn't know what she was expecting him to say, but it was still bugging her that it wasn't as special to him as it was to her, that god knows how many women got to experience that.

She'd never had anything like this before. The occasional ass slapping, yes. Maybe even a hand on her throat here and there, but this? There was a totally different tension and intentionality behind it with him.

He'd pushed her further than anyone else ever had, and no matter how far it seemed in the moment, it only made her come back for more. Too see how much farther he could make her go.

"So you've done that often? Like with every woman you've ever been with?"

"No," he said.

"But, you said—"

"I said I'm wired a certain way and that I like to have certain things. Doesn't mean I always get them or that I even want them," he clarified. "Not everyone is into it. I imagine some women in your place in that car would have reached for the door handle right away."

She nodded, and he continued.

"But even if that's not the case, even if they're genuinely open to it or they thoroughly enjoy it doesn't mean it's always a match."

"Why not?" she asked, and now she was the one looking at him as if he held the key to questions she couldn't answer on her own.

"What I mean is, for me it's never just about the act itself. It's more about the alchemy of two minds wired up the same way coming together. It's about how deep it runs, how natural it feels," he said.

Oh, it felt deep. To her, at least. No doubt about that.

"And the knife thing...you've done that before?" she could go on asking questions all night about this. "It looked like—"

"I knew what I was doing," he cut it short. "And what you need to know is I'll never do anything that can cause you harm. That's why you have your safe word."

"So I don't jump out of a moving car or call the kink police on you if I get scared?"

He grinned, "More like you'll always have a way out if you need one. And now you know how to call it."

"Ok...But I am not," she said, her voice inadvertently dropping low. "Scared."

"You should be," he leaned towards her, tilting her chin up. "Because I swear to God, there's some pretty terrible things I want to do to you. So bad, I almost want you to leave and save yourself."

Christ on a bike. She silently thanked the heavens for the well-timed blessing of her period, giving her a reason not to fold and beg him to fuck her on that very table.

He let his words linger, along with a stare that was about to melt her insides, then he withdrew himself and straightened up on his seat.

"What are you doing next weekend?" he asked.

"Um, not much, except a meeting or two," she answered as she tried to let her voice and breathing go back to normal.

"On the weekend?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Usually not, but between recording the album and the time on set, there's not much time left. So yes, on the weekend. Why?"

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to London with me."

"London?" She repeated, surprised.

What the fuck was happening? A few weeks ago, he couldn't even say the word 'date,' and now he was planning one overseas.

"Star Wars Celebration. It'd be nice if you came," he said.

"Oh right! The celebration... Wow... I'd love to! But..." She pictured Sara and Thomas losing their minds over this last-minute international trip.

"I mean, I understand if you can't make it, with the meetings and everything."

But God, she really wanted to go. If she could, she would have boarded a plane that second.

Maybe they could talk it out. They were all reasonable adults, after all. They would surely see they had overreacted about this whole security thing and agree to this.

They had to.

***

As soon as she arrived home, she stepped out of the car, thanked Nick and Lex for staying late with her, and said her goodbyes. Once inside, she quietly closed the door behind her.

"Alexa, lights on," she said, slipping off her shoes.

She rearranged a few items in the fridge to make space for the small box of Tiramisu that Hayden had insisted she take home. "For tomorrow's breakfast," he had said.

She poured herself a glass of water and pulled out her phone to text Sara. It seemed she hadn't gone to bed yet—the light from her bedroom in the house next door was still on. She must have been waiting for her to get home.

"I'm alive. I'm home. See? Nobody got hurt. Go to bed now," she texted.

She noticed the light in Sara's bedroom going off. The text Sara sent back was just a string of garbled words, a clear sign she had fallen asleep while waiting up for her.

Marti made her way to her own bedroom, changed out of her clothes, and took a quick shower, washing away the day but not the smile that kept coming back as she replayed the last moments of tonight.

When she turned off the hairdryer, she was startled by the sound of music playing from her phone. It sounded like an old-timey tune, one she didn't recall being in any of her usual playlists, and she was certain she hadn't turned it on herself.

She stepped outside her bathroom, as cold chills caught her spine, the more she listened to the song playing.

'If he asks,

If you're all alone,

Can he take you home,

You must tell him, no...

'Cause don't forget who's taking you home,

And in whose arm's you're gonna be,

So darlin 'Save the last dance for me'

Her heart raced in her chest.

Shaking, she reached for her phone and frantically tapped every button on the screen, trying to stop the music, but no app was open.

How was it even playing? From where? She definitely hadn't done any of this.

"Stop it! Goddamn it," she barked at her phone, suddenly fearful of an everyday device.

Like it started, the music stopped.

Her head was still spinning as she was trying to figure out how her phone seemed to have a life of its own now, when a text popped up.

'Back in his arms already? Don't forget I'll be the one taking you home at the end, little bird.'

Chapter Text

LA. April 27th - Martina's POV

"What do you mean, 'skippable'?" Sara snapped, with a brusque tone while sautéing onions in Martina's kitchen, facing the stove.

Marti couldn't see her face, but she could imagine just how deep was the frown creasing her forehead right now.

Sara was making their mom's signature Pasta al Sugo, which they both knew how to make by heart. The tomato sauce and onions needed to be cooked separately. Once the onions were translucent, they were to be mixed with extra virgin oil into the sauce and blended until emulsified with a few leaves of basil.

It was one of the simplest dishes, yet it had become a family staple—the ultimate comfort food.

"It's just a merchandising meeting, not a life or death situation. Can't we postpone it," Martina protested.

"Well, it might not be life or death, but considering the fact that there's much better stuff on Etsy, I'd say it's pretty important," her sister replied, flipping the pan with more vehemence than necessary.

Sara walked over to the front door, where Lex stood on her 24/7 shift, flung it open, and in a sing-song tone completely different from the one she'd just used with Martina, cheerfully said, "Lex, want to join us for dinner? I made pasta!"

Lex thanked her and came in, complimenting Sara for the delicious smell coming from the stove.

"Where do you need to be, anyway?" Sara asked, resuming her discussion with Martina while plating the pasta.

"London. For the weekend. It's for an event..." Martina said hesitantly, testing Sara's reaction. "A Star War event."

There was a brief moment of silence before the ladle slipped out of Sara's hands, landing with a thud on the counter. Martina and Lex, seated next to each other at the table, exchanged slightly alarmed glances.

"Which event?" Sara asked, her back still turned.

Before Martina could go into details, an enthusiastic Lex jumped in. "Star Wars Celebration?! May the 4th! I've always wanted to go," she exclaimed, her typical childlike starry eyes lighting up—a rather amusing sight given she was a six-foot-tall woman who could probably knock everyone unconscious without even breaking a sweat.

Sara smiled at Lex. "I'm sure it's lovely."

Then she snapped her attention back to her sister, her expression shifting like an angry, inquisitive owl, with no trace of the previous smile.

"So, we're talking about an intercontinental flight and attending a massive public event? What's next? Do you want to backpack across Europe, hitchhiking to your death, while you're at it? Midnight strolls through the woods? A Sunday brunch on Skid Row?"

Lex laughed. Martina would have laughed too if she hadn't anticipated her sister's reaction to her request multiple times in her head. It matched every scenario she had imagined.

"Lex can come and stay by my side at all times. Philip and Michael, even Thomas, can join too. Hayden has his own bodyguards, you know. That'll be at least ten bodyguards moving with us. Think that's enough? Or do you want a whole legion?"

Sara finished her ridiculously small portion of pasta, shaking her head. "Marti, it's too great a risk. The event is too big, and it's happening too soon. Thomas won't have enough time to organize this trip and make sure it's safe. He's already swamped trying to identify the stalker."

Martina traced the rim of her glass, raising her eyebrows as she imagined how much worse this conversation would be if she had mentioned the song playing in her room or the text she received the other night.

Which she had kept to herself.

She knew it was childish and reckless, but things had just started to brighten up, and she hadn't felt this way in a long time. She just wanted the chance to live it.

What would happen if she told anyway? More checks? Another number change? More investigating? Nothing more than what they were already doing.

The only thing that would change is that she would end up with even more security glued to her ass. She was already practically under house arrest and didn't want to make it any worse.

Plus, if they were keeping things from her, she could do the same.

"Then let's not bother him at all. I can fly there privately with Hayden, and once we arrive, I can use his bodyguards. I will keep a low profile. Wear a wig or something. Nobody will know it's me," Martina proposed.

Lex, who had been following the discussion between the sisters and shifting her gaze as each one spoke, suggested, "You could go disguised as a Stormtrooper."

"You're a genius, Lex!" Marti exclaimed.

"I don't think Thomas would allow this. And frankly, I don't approve either. We're not the bad guys, Marti. It's for your safety," Sara ended the discussion. "If you two decide to plan a few dates, we can sit down with Thomas and see what can be arranged. But this is just too much right now. I'm sorry, Marti."

"Ok, fine," she said nonchalantly.

Then, she reached for her phone. She opened the Amazon app and silently started typing the words 'woman stormtrooper suit.'

LA. May 2nd - Hayden's POV

Hayden was waiting to take off on the private jet Disney had arranged for him and Ewan to fly to London for the Celebration.

Ewan, however, had to leave a few days earlier due to a work commitment, so he ended up having the jet all to himself.

Which was honestly a godsend, since he'd just flown back from Australia on a commercial flight, jet-lagged as hell, and if he didn't catch up on sleep during the flight to London, he'd end up looking like Palpatine's rotten corpse in The Rise of Skywalker.

He hung his Vader outfit up high on the cabinet door knob and set the helmet and lightsaber beside it.

Ewan always teased him for bringing his own suit, but if he knew how sweaty it got in there, he'd think twice.

After wearing enough uncomfortable suits and helmets, he knew his own was the only comfortable one. So, whenever he could, he brought it with him.

The love he had for that character was unparalleled, but so was the daunting feeling it stirred in him.

It had improved in recent years, at least while playing the role. However, the fans' reception had always been, and still was, a three-headed roaring beast that never ceased to terrify him.

Executives at Lucasfilm had pushed so hard for his presence this year, insisting that they needed him, that the fans were eager to see him—especially after the success of the Obi-Wan series and with the upcoming Ahsoka feature, which was still under wraps. Just like his surprise attendance at the Celebration.

The plan was for him to walk on stage dressed as Darth Vader, with everyone assuming he was just another actor in costume.

Then at the right moment, he'd remove the helmet, and there was the surprise. It was stupid. But according to the executives, the crowd would go wild. According to Ewan as well, who had been his biggest cheerleader for this.

So he had accepted, but was still nervous about it.

Hopefully, jet lag would knock him out for the entire flight so he wouldn't have time to worry about it too much.

"Mr. Christensen, just to keep you informed, we'll be holding for about another 30 minutes before takeoff," came the calm voice of the pilot from the cabin.

It was the second delay in a row. God, how much he hated this city—and not just the regular traffic, which was hell on earth, but the air traffic as well, which was just as equally a nightmare.

He sank into the armchair by the window, using the extra time for a call with his daughter. A quick one, just enough for her to wish him good luck before telling him she had to get back to the pajama party with her friends.

They were making slime, and it would dry out if she stayed on the phone too long. It was nice to know she was growing up with her priorities straight.

He told her he loved her and to go have fun, and ended the call, glancing out the window.

It was one of those rare rainy skies that weren't dark or gloomy. It was scattered with thin clouds, letting a few rays of pinkish sunset break through, with brighter, almost clear patches. He had to admit, as much as he hated it, LA looked pretty tonight.

He was idly gazing at the glowing pavement when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a car speeding toward the terminal, just beyond the fence separating the apron from the outside roads.

The car stopped at the security control building, hastily dropping off someone who was clearly late for their flight. He wondered if this had something to do with the delays they were experiencing, but he doubted it.

For a brief, pathetic moment, his mind went there. A small, foolish part of him entertained the thought that it might be her—that it would be great if it were.

But she'd told him she couldn't make it, that her meeting was unmovable, so it couldn't be.

And he needed to get a grip for even wishing it was and—he suddenly narrowed his eyes like his life depended on it—who the fuck was that, sprinting out of the terminal and running through the rain toward his jet?

His heart leaped into his throat, pounding uncontrollably as he recognized her—dark, curly hair bouncing with every hop of her desperate run, heavy and drenched from the rain.

"What. A. Fucking. Maniac," he muttered to himself, bursting out laughing. What was she doing there? Was she crazy?

Whatever she was, he loved it.

Well, no. Not loved. Words mattered.

He... appreciated it.

He definitely appreciated it, that was for sure.

Without a second thought, anticipation racing through his veins, he sprang from his seat and hurried down the aisle, quickly telling the crew to hold off for one more passenger.

The jet door swung open, and the stairs were set in place. He leaned out to see her standing there, a large weekender bag in hand, cheeks flushed from the run.

Her hair and face were soaked from the rain, and she looked absolutely stunning.

She looked up at him and flashed him an exhilarated, full-mouth grin. "I MADE IT! I THOUGHT I'D MISSED IT, BUT I MADE IT!"

"Yeah, you did!" he laughed, watching her climb the stairs to the jet. "But as much as I enjoyed seeing you sprint over here like the kid from Home Alone—'cause let me tell you, there was some undeniable cinematic value in that—you could've just called me, you know?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I could have, but my phone died," she said, fishing it out of her pocket. "And I need to charge it."

As she stepped onto the jet, they ended up chest to chest in the narrow doorway. God, he wanted to hug her, kiss her, pick her up and spin her around. But he did nothing—just stood still as her body brushed against his, sending an uninvited thud in his chest.

The air between them suddenly charged with tension, and he couldn't tell what was igniting him more—the copper flecks flickering like flames in her maple eyes or the unrestrained look of childlike excitement she was giving him.

The pilot's voice interrupted the sparks of electricity flying between them. "Are we expecting anyone else to join?" he asked.

He left her briefly to step into the pilot cabin and personally thank the crew for allowing the unexpected boarding. "There will be no more passengers, thank you. We can take off as soon as we're cleared," he said. "I'll probably be knocked out the whole time."

When he came out, she was nowhere to be seen, but there weren't many other places she could've gone besides the bedroom cabin.

He walked over and noticed her big bag tossed in the corner. He locked the door behind him.

He moved toward the bathroom to knock, but before he could, she swung the door open and stepped out with enough momentum to bump right into him.

Instinctively, her hand landed on his chest to steady herself, and she looked up at him with those beautiful, wide doe eyes.

She had taken off her jacket and wiped her face dry, but her hair was still wet. Her curls, weighed down by the rain, were dripping onto her neck and collarbone. He swallowed hard as his eyes followed the rivulets tracing down to the hem of her already damp cotton t-shirt.

It wasn't soaked, but it was wet enough to make her shiver and for him to trip over the sight of it clinging to her bra, molding around her breasts and her peaked nipples.

There was nothing in his head—no small talk, no pleasantries—just a raw, sheer desire to pull her closer and feel her flushed, pink, wet face against his.

To taste her tongue on his and swallow each and every breathy whimper escaping her lips. He wanted to devour her. To touch, to grab, to possess every inch of her until she was screaming his name.

He stepped closer, pulverizing the few inches that still separated them, along with his resolution to get some much-needed sleep during this damn flight.

She looked up at him, entranced by his slow movements, her pupils dilated and her plump pink lips slightly parted.

Swallowing a tiny gasp, she breathed out with a small voice, "I wanted to take a shower."

He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her in closer, his palm resting firmly at the small of her back. His other hand cupped her cheek, fingers threading through her hair as it found its way over her ear.

"No," he said.

"But I'm wet, I wanted to—" she weakly protested, her lips just a breath away from his.

His hand dug deeper into her hair, forcefully yanking her head back and drawing a soft whine. "I believe you heard me the first time."

His tongue traced a path along her long exposed neck up to her ear. "And you know," he bit her earlobe, "how I feel," he sucked on it "about repeating myself."

"Yes..." She breathed out loudly, "...sir."

He saw white. His cock jumped violently at her words, pressed against her lower stomach. He had never asked her to call him that. This was coming out of nowhere. This was all her. Fuck, this woman was going to be the death of him.

He grasped her jaw, boring into her eyes, and whispered, "Don't do that again unless I tell you to. Or it won't be pretty what happens next. Understood?" She nodded.

His lips crashed violently onto hers, his tongue invading her mouth with a hungry want and desperate need. He swirled his tongue over hers, savoring the sensation of their hot, labored breaths melting together.

Pulling back slightly, he took in the sight of her.

She was a mess. Her makeup smudged under her bottom eyelashes, her cheeks and lips a brighter red than before.

In her eyes, the same wild abandon he was feeling, mirrored right back at him. He dove back on her lips, kissing her even deeper, her little whimpers coaxing him right to the edge of insanity.

This was going too fast too hard, he needed to stop for a second. He withdrew with a loud smack of their lips. "Take off your t-shirt and pants," he commanded, "slowly."

She looked up at him with her sweet maple-colored eyes, as if she'd been dying for him to take the lead all this time, and now she was finally getting what she wanted.

Slowly, she rolled her shirt up her waist, pulling it over her head. Then, with a few slow, deliberate sways of her hips, she slid her pants down.

His eyes lingered, then devoured the violent contrast of the black lace against her pale, buttery skin.

He gazed down at her supple breasts, the delicate dips of her waist, and the round curve of her hips leading to her full thighs.

It hit him that he'd never seen her fully naked until now, and the sight alone nearly blinded him with the need to sink his teeth and fingers into her, marking her deep and long enough that she'd never forget who she belonged to.

She hung on his every move, waiting for his next hint, his next order to follow. The sweeter, more yielding she looked, the more he wanted to shatter that, bend her as far as she'd let him, until she broke whatever she thought was true about herself.

He forced her back against the wall. Grabbing her cheeks, he pulled her face close to his. "Do you want to be a good girl for me, M.?" he asked in a gravelly voice. "Do you want to make me proud?"

She bit her lip and swallowed a moaning whisper, then nodded a few times. "Good," he said, a wicked, grin twisted his lips. "On your knees."

He caught a subtle flutter of her eyelids, and the moment after, she dropped to her knees. Her eyes were fixed on the bulge growing in his pants, never leaving the sight of it as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants to pull out his hard cock.

"Take it in your hands," he instructed her, "nice and slow." As soon as he felt her delicate, slender hands grazing along his length and softly stroking it, an unbidden growl boiled down his throat.

She kept on jerking him with both hands, stroking him slowly, until one hand reached down to caress his balls. The sudden touch made him brace himself, pressing his hand firmly against the wall in front of him for support.

"Good girl," he said, stressing out every syllable and watching as her pupils seemed to grow bigger at the drawn-out sound of the words.

The way she reacted to him, to his orders, to his words was like a drug, spreading through his veins, corrupting every drop of his blood. And it would never, ever be enough.

"Now you're going to open up that pretty little mouth of yours and take me in, can you do that, M?" He watched as she obediently aligned her mouth and parted her lips. Then, he slowly pushed himself inside, relishing the sight of his cock disappearing inch by inch between her soft, sweet lips.

He felt the friction of her tongue pressing on the underside of his tip a few times, before she started to suck the tip with more force.

He pushed himself a little bit further into her mouth, and when he heard her moan, it took all of himself to fight the instinct to plunge all his length down her throat.

Oh fuck. He was going insane.

"Look at me, when I fuck your mouth." She moaned again, louder this time. A set of two big smudged up, pleading eyes looked up at him. What-a-fucking-sight.

He thrust his cock in and out of her mouth, keeping a slow but steady pace.

At some point she made a faint gagging noise, and the sound made his cock twitch, but he still pulled back out. As soon as he did that, she took him back in her hands, and started sucking on him even more avidly than before.

He watched her cheeks hollow as she swallowed his length. The filthy sounds of her sucking his cock were filling his ears and the sight of her saliva pooling at the sides of her mouth was driving him so dangerously close to the point of no return.

Never breaking eye contact, she pulled his whole cock out her mouth and lifted it up. He couldn't look away, completely entranced as she sucked on his balls, then flattened her tongue and slowly licked every inch from the base of his cock up.

When she got to the tip, she gathered all the saliva she'd licked off him and deliberately withdrew her face just enough to loudly spit it on his cock.

She subtly smiled up at him, giving him only a second to notice the wetness glistening on it before eagerly taking him into her mouth again.

"Oh fuck," he groaned deeply and loud. He hadn't really plan on fucking her throat with a vengeance, but Jesus Christ, was that about to change.

"Can you take more of me, M.?" he asked. She gave a desperate, humming nod in response.

"Of course you can. 'Cause you're such a good fucking girl." He gently dipped his hand into her hair, caressing it softly. "In fact, I think you want to. Am I right?"

Using the same hand, he guided her head to rest against the wall. She nodded again.

"Yeah? You me to fuck your face?" He pulled his cock out her mouth to force her chin up even more, "Say it. I want to hear it."

She looked up, and said in one breath. "Yes, fuck my face against the wall."

He thought he couldn't get any harder. And yet. He could probably come in a few thrusts now, but he was enjoying this far too much to pass up any opportunity to draw it out just a little bit longer. And unfortunately, he was a greedy bastard.

"That was close, sweetheart." he said, tightening his grip on her hair. "Now, try again. Be polite this time and call me what you did before."

"Please, I want to feel your cock in my throat, sir." She whined out in one breathy moan.

Jesus fucking Christ. He tugged her head back and drove himself into the back of her mouth, giving her time to adjust and figure out the angle.

"Relax your tongue now, and breathe through your nose." He started to build a steady pace, pushing further into her mouth each time. "Tap my thigh if it gets too much."

He started thrusting deeper and faster, watching as the smallest teardrops started to well at the corners of her eyes. She still hadn't tapped his thigh.

"Fuck," he groaned, a shameless moan escaping from deep in his chest. She responded with a moan of her own, making her throat hum and vibrate against the most sensitive part of his cock and his vision blurred for a moment. "I swear to God it's like your mouth was fucking made for me."

He kept going, hitting the back of her throat again and again, feeling himself getting closer at any thrust as she dutifully swallowed his cock.

He knew he was about to explode any second now, by the twitching of his cock and the waves of pleasure radiating from it.

"God, I want to cum down your throat so bad," he said, out of breath.

She gave another stifled moan, her hands gripping his ass, urging him deeper. Oh shit. That was fucking it. He pushed himself deep enough for another one, two and "OH FFFFFFUCK," he groaned out, violently exploding his load of cum down her throat.

He slowly pulled his cock out her mouth and took her hand to help her stand up. "You made me so proud, such a perfect good little girl," he said smoothly.

How many times had he called her that by now? Two? Three? He could still distinctly see how those words affected her in the conditioned response of her eyes closing or fluttering each time he did. Each fucking time.

He looked at her shiny, wet lips, and ran a thumb over them to wipe them dry before leaning in to kiss her deeply, tasting himself on her tongue.

He expected to be overwhelmed by lack of sleep catching up to him, but he wasn't. In the wake of clarity, the only thing he could see—and the only thing he wanted to see—was her.

Her, writhing and whimpering under his touch. He wanted to give her pleasure, he wanted to give her pain. And he wanted to be the reason she knew how exquisitely they could blend to lock her in utter, absolute ecstasy.

The roar of the engine filled the cabin, as it geared up for takeoff, prompting her to instinctively turn her head to look out the window behind her, "Look, we're about to—"

He grabbed her cheeks and forced her face forward. "Eyes on me, M. We're so," he paused, hovering on her mouth, "fucking far", he slowly licked her heart-shaped upper lip, "from done."

She gave a little whimper, then he felt her hands slip under his t-shirt, brushing over his chest, tracing the contours of his abs, and lingering at his waist. With an impatient sigh, she pulled his t-shirt over his head to take it off.

Her eyes gleamed and she bit her lip as she slowly took in the sight of his naked chest. When she looked up at him, her eyes brimming with liquid lust, he kissed her again, their mouths crashing together with raw passion that consumed his mind like wildfire.

As her lips parted and she let out the softest, fleeting sigh against his tongue, he deepened their kiss. She raised her arms, encircling them around his neck, her fingers entwining in the hair at the back of his head.

He sucked on her lower lip, gently nibbling on it.

Then, he took it between his teeth and tugged, gradually increasing the pressure.

As the intensity of his bite built up, he could feel her lip swelling against his tongue. He sensed from the soft whimpers escaping her mouth that it was starting to hurt.

Which meant it was the right moment to teach her something.

He kept her lip locked between his teeth while his hand grazed her lower belly and slipped into her panties. He reveled in how fucking drenched she was, from just sucking him off on her knees.

He ran his fingertips along her folds, then dragged her wetness up to coat her swollen clit, tracing the slowest circles over it.

Increasing the pressure on her clit as he sank his teeth deeper into her lower lip, he listened to a high-pitched moan escape from deep within her.

She was starting to get it. Fast learner.

He released her lip, before he could draw any blood. He was pretty sure it was going to be sore all the same.

He pushed two fingers in her impossibly wet pussy, and started thrusting them inside and out, swallowing each one of her labored breaths.

Leaning closer to her ear, he whispered, "Do you remember your safeword, M.? I want to hurt you, but I don't want to harm you, and I need you to know the difference."

She kept moaning as he rhythmically hooked his fingers inside her. His lips trailed down her neck before he latched onto the crook, sucking hard.

He continued sucking even more violently, to the point he knew it would leave an ugly mark, then sank his teeth on the same, tender and bruised spot of her neck. She dug her nails on his bare back, in response. "I remember," she whispered.

He kept fingering her relentlessly, sliding his other hand upward to lower the lace fabric of her bra and uncover her breasts.

Taking her nipple between the back of his index and middle finger, he rolled it gently, before pinching it hard and pulling it forward.

She winced, her head falling back, and for a second, he couldn't tell if it hurt more than it felt good. He looked at her, checking in. "Did that hurt?"

"Yes... " She panted out, with half-lid eyes and parted lips, "Hurt me again. Please."

God fucking damn it. He was rock hard again.

His face descended to hover over her nipple, his tongue lightly circling it before enveloping it in his mouth. He sucked gently, then bit her just enough to draw the sweetest, pained moan from her throat.

God, he needed to have her. Now.

Scooping her up, he made his way to the bed against the jet pull and threw her on the mattress, tearing away the thin underwear still standing between his mouth and her.

The jet was still climbing, somewhere between the clouds. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught glimpses of lines and shapes of light dancing across the small bedroom cabin.

It was a beautiful sight, but it still paled in comparison to seeing her with her legs spread open, squirming in his hands as he pressed his lips to her inner thigh, biting and sucking while inching closer to the spot he craved the most.

The moment he latched onto her very swollen clit and his tongue flicked against it, she threw her head back on the pillow, rolling her eyes. "Oh Cristo Santissimo," she moaned loudly. He never knew languages could turn him on so much.

He would have laughed if he hadn't been busy sucking and releasing her clit into his mouth at a pace it didn't sound like she could take for long. He could already feel her thighs trembling against the sides of his face.

He slid two fingers inside her, and kept switching between quick licks, hard sucks, and slow circles around her clit. She was close—he could feel it.

Then, he decided to do something that could either take her there even faster, or send her back to the beginning, making him build her up all over again.

He was perfectly happy with either.

He withdrew his mouth but kept fingering her, bringing his other hand over her pussy. He raised it just so and then, with deliberate aim, he brought it down in a sharp slap onto her aching, overstimulated clit.

"Oh God," she cried, instinctively closing her legs together, trapping his face in between.

He did it a second time, and a third time, while still thrusting his fingers in and out faster and harder. A few slaps after, she was a moaning, pathetic mess in his hands and the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen at the same time.

Diving back onto her clit, he sucked it hard and let his tongue vibrate against it inside his mouth. Her breath quickened, her moans grew louder. Then, her body broke out in violent spasms as her pussy pulsated on his tongue.

He was rock hard, ready to go and nowhere near done with her, but didn't want to come a second time unless she did too.

A minute to regain her breath was all he could give her.

He sat next to her, taking her hands to pull her on top of him.

"Come here. Come on top of me. I want you to grind on my fucking cock until you make yourself come again."

She looked at him confused, "But I just, I don't think I can..."

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

"No," she gasped. She straddled him and slowly slid his full length inside her, rolling her eyes back as she did. It was a fucking vision.

The way her thighs gripped his sides, her hips slowly swayed as she searched for the perfect rhythm to ride him, and the way her head fell back when she finally found it, was hauntingly beautiful.

His hands reached to unhook her bra and cup her round breasts. His thumb traced, then pinched her hardened nipple, until he was sure it hurt just enough.

She moaned in response and he drank in the way she began rocking her hips faster, her pussy tightening around his cock.

He was completely drunk, intoxicated by her and the road to recovery was nowhere in sight.

"Wanna tell me again how you can't come one more time, M?" he teased, his voice thick as he felt himself edging closer with her every move. "Mmh?"

He slapped her breast, and she cursed, throwing her head back as she rode him even harder.

"Do you want to come again?" he growled, bringing his hand down on her breast with more force, feeling her walls tighten around him with every strike.

She let out a soft, subdued "Yes."

Wasn't enough for him.

"Yes...What?" He sank his fingers in her soft, luscious hips pulling her closer and harder on his cock.

"Oh God, YES SIR" she cried out. That's it. There she was, his beautiful, fucking girl. "I'll come as many times as you let me."

He'd never seen her so unrestrained, so wild. So, out of it, in the best way. Her eyes looked like she was transcending into another reality.

He picked up on the tremors in her legs growing stronger again and basked in the sight of her rubbing her clit against him, desperately trying to find release.

"Yeah? Then come all over this fucking cock. Come for me now."

She yelped as her walls clenched so tight around him, over and over again, until he felt like exploding as well.

It took every ounce of strength to hold back just a little longer, as she rode out her wave of pleasure.

When he couldn't hold back any longer, he pulled out with her still on top of him. Grabbing his cock, he pumped himself just a few times before exploding with a loud "OH FUCK, FUCK!" He watched as thick, white ropes covered her stomach and breasts.

What a stunning mess—she looked like the finest piece of art.

She collapsed on her back next to him, and he took a moment to catch his breath and recover the consciousness he'd somehow lost along the way.

They lay there in comfortable silence for a few minutes, with nothing but the sound of their breaths and the steady hum of the jet engine.

The light in the cabin was steady now, no longer dancing on the walls, which likely meant they had reached cruising altitude.

He slowly turned his head toward her, but her face was hidden behind her arms, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

Oh fuck, was she crying? Great job, he thought bitterly. Congratulations, asshole—you really did manage to hurt her.

Approaching her as gently as he could, he said softly, "Marti, hey, are you okay?" He reached for her arms, trying to pull them away from her face. "Did I do something wr—"

But she wasn't crying—she was... laughing. "Yeah, I'm fine," she giggled uncontrollably, her words broken up by breathless bursts of laughter. "Thank you for granting me access to the Mile High Club. I feel like I've reached the platinum tier already."

He flicked her forehead and shook his head at her joke, nonchalantly masking the immense wave of relief flooding through him, and how guilty he would have felt if he really had hurt her.

She called dibs on the shower, saying that he owed her that since no one had ever denied her one—until today.

He patiently waited his turn, but when he returned, towel-drying his hair, he found her already asleep on one side of the bed.

She had changed into a long, baggy LA Lakers t-shirt that hung to her mid-thigh. Her breathing was deep and steady, not quite snoring but definitely the kind that said she'd knocked out and hit REM sleep in under ten minutes.

He gently lifted her, adjusting the sheets to cover her, causing her to stir slightly at the movement and babbling some nonsense like, "They be mad..."

He chuckled, "Who?"

"Flying private again. So mad..." she muttered, turning away and burying her face into the pillow.

Chapter Text

Flying to London. May 2nd - Martina's POV

A sudden turbulence startled her awake, interrupting her peaceful nap.

Her eyes flew open wide, heart racing—not from the turbulence itself, but from that brief, disorienting moment after waking up when reality hasn't fully sunk in and you have no idea where you are.

In her case, it took her a second to remember why she was wrapped in the softest sheets of a jet's bed, thousands of feet above the ground, as she slowly pieced together the events that had brought her there.

Ah, yes. Sara's new and improved security regime—no last-minute outings, cameras everywhere always watching her.

Sprinkle it with yet another scary message from her stalker, a particular aggravating panic attack and the resulting need to run away from it all—to just stop thinking about it for a while.

Just to feel like she could still decide something for herself. Yes, she remembered now.

She rolled out of bed and turned her phone back on. She'd left a note for Sara on the kitchen counter, explaining where she was headed.

But she'd switched off her phone getting to the jet, so Sara couldn't track her down before she even made it onboard.

That would've ended with her and Nick being chased down by Sara and the security team, like one of those high-speed car chases—fugitive on the run, cops everywhere, livestream on TV type of thing.

She waited for it to come back to life, wondering how much had they slept? Four hours? Five?

As soon as her phone connected to the jet's Wi-Fi, it buzzed nonstop with a flood of texts from Sara.

She stifled a chuckle as she skimmed the message previews, seeing the full range of her sister's emotions—disbelief, anger, worry, and finally, begrudging acceptance.

Which, of course, came with a caveat that she—and likely Lex—would join her right away. She wouldn't have expected anything less.

A very guilty smile sprang on her face, visualizing her sister forced to hastily pack for an overseas trip that was improvised, haphazard and hazardous, all of her sister's least favorite things.

She quietly tiptoed out of the bedroom and into the main cabin. Hayden stood there, fork and knife in hand, carefully focused on dividing a dish of lasagna into two.

As he tilted his head, scrutinizing the plates to ensure they were identical, he said, "Well...as you probably know, I didn't expect you to come. So I only got lasagna for one. But I think I managed to split it pretty fairly," he looked at her satisfied.

"You didn't have to," she smiled at him. "I'm not hungry anyway."

"Eat," he insisted, "and stop refusing my food offerings," with a jokingly stern face.

She took her seat at the small table where he'd arranged plates and two glasses of wine. He had also set up background music—a country playlist, it seemed. Impress-fest was apparently still alive and kicking.

She briefly allowed herself to wonder if—and when—the rug would be pulled out from under her, which at this point she imagined would feel like a trapdoor being opened beneath her on that very plane. But she quickly pushed the thought aside as soon as he sat down in front of her.

Her attention shifted to a small, stapled pile of papers nearby, the top page filled with an endless string of red letters spelling the word 'confidential'.

Her eyes darted back on him, as she started eating her half of lasagna. "Pretty sure I'm not supposed to ask, but what is that?"

"Definitely sure I am not supposed to answer that but..." amusement lingered in his voice. "It's a Disney NDA. I'm reprising Anakin Skywalker in the Ashoka series. Coming up next on Disney+. Make sure to tune in," he winked.

She dropped her fork, open-mouthed and speechless and the bombshell he'd just casually unloaded. "Oh my God! Why on earth did you tell me that? Are you insane? I thought it was something irrelevant, like, I don't know? An American Express commercial? What the fuck, Hayden! You've just breached thousands of dollars of NDA! What if the pilot hears you and snitches it off to his kids?"

"I've been relying on the sound proof doors of this plane since we've taken off, to be honest," he said with a smug grin. "Heavily at some point, if I remember correctly."

She felt a hot rush in her cheeks, and cleared her throat with a nervous cough.

"So, Ahsoka, huh?" she whispered the name. "I think my sister mentioned a minor role for me to audition for."

"Really?" He furrowed his eyebrows in curiosity. "Did you?"

She burst into laughter, "Are you kidding me? I'd never. Too intimidating. Tough fandom as well. No one ever seems worthy enough. It's like they don't even take you seriously unless you're a walking encyclopedia of the expanded universe with strong opinions on the prequels."

"Oh you're telling me that?", he fought back a laugh and took a sip of his wine, "The only person who might know more about how harsh the fandom can be is... well, probably my therapist."

Oh shit. Probably shouldn't have mentioned that, she mentally cursed herself. Way to go, tiger, she chided herself silently.

"Uh, I'm sorry for bringing it up," she said, her voice tinged with guilt. "For what it's worth, I don't think you deserved any of it."

"Thank you," a gleam of vulnerable gratitude danced in the bottomless blue of his eyes. "But it's ok now, mostly. I think the prequels just needed time to age, like fine wine. And, honestly, a lot of the backlash back then came from people the films weren't really made for. Plenty of fans enjoyed them, but they didn't have a platform to speak up—social media wasn't around yet."

"GOD, you're old," she said in a quick attempt to lighten up the mood. "They had to call you from their landline to tell you they enjoyed it." She could tell from the upward curve of his lips it had worked.

"Anyway, it's in the past," he said, shrugging. "I'd be lying if I said it doesn't still stir up some self-doubt, even now, no matter how much I act like it's gone. But..." he sighed, "we like to say it's in the past. My therapist and I, that is."

She listened in silence, unsure of what to say, caught off guard by how much of his inner world he was revealing, by how openly vulnerable he was being.

This had to be the most intimate, visceral side of this impress-fest, almost like the acoustic session at her concerts.

She scraped up the last bit of her lasagna and licked her fork, realizing she was hungrier than she thought.

He nonchalantly slid his plate over for her to finish, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and kept talking, "Anyway, you seem pretty in the know of the Star Wars universe. You should have auditioned."

"Me? Oh, no. They'd never want me. I've got all these weird thoughts about it, too. Once I shared one with Rahul, my co-star from Blackwood Manor, because he's British and I thought he'd get it. But, uhm, nope. He just said he was going to pretend that conversation never happened and walked away."

He shook his head, pouring them both a glass of wine, "Oh, man. I wanna hear it."

After some convincing, she finally caved. "Alright, fine. So, we were at a party at Lady Gaga's, right? Might've had some edibles, but that's besides the point. Anyway, the cast of The Crown was there, and everyone was talking about the show. And that's when it hit me."

"What?" His eyes twinkled in a glimmer of entertained curiosity as he leaned forward. He seemed to know utter bullshit was coming, but he still looked thrilled to hear it.

Her heart grew warmer for a few seconds. Maybe this interest was normal, she guessed. After all, when you're with someone, aren't you supposed to genuinely care about what they have to say? Just a little bit. Enough not to endure it like a chore or tolerate it like annoying background noise.

Maybe it was a given in most relationships, something small and easily overlooked. But not for her, not in her last one. She had almost forgotten it could be like this.

She broke into a full grin, and began. "Ok, so. Hear me out. The royals and Star Wars: it's the same story, same characters, same dynamics. Anakin is Diana. Yoda is the Queen. The Jedis are like the institution of the Crown." She was gesturing for dear life, so he moved the glasses out of her way, giving her space to illustrate the virtual links and connections with sweeping hand movements on the table.

"Anakin and Diana are the prototype of the problematic figures. Everyone damn well knew they'd be trouble, they could all smell it from a mile away. And from the start, they begrudgingly tolerated every attempt they made to fit in, instead of celebrating them for it. They kept treating them with contempt and never missed a chance to show them how little they thought of them. Black and blue each time, never a kind word. No one ever stopped to consider meeting them halfway, recognizing their talent and the good things they had to give. Nothing. Outcasts, rejected by inflexible systems run by people with stiff sticks up their asses, lacking empathy, wisdom and foresight to realize their own attitude toward the problem was only making the problem itself bigger. Making the inevitable, impending tragedy even more monumentally catastrophic."

"I've never heard anything like this," he said, slamming his hand on the table and bursting into loud laughter. "It's brilliant!"

"It's true! And then everyone was crying. The Queen was bowing after Diana's casket, a woman no one ever bothered to appreciate or understand. Same as that little bitch Yoda, cowardly running off to atone on Dagobah, bouncing his guilt away on Luke's shoulder. Being just exactly the affectionate father figure he should have stuck his head out his ass to figure out he needed to be for Anakin in the first. Fucking. Place!!!"

He laughed until tears formed in his eyes, struggling to catch his breath. "You definitely can't say those kinds of things. The fandom would eat you alive." He got up and started cleaning the table. "And the whole United Kingdom, too, probably."

"Told ya," she shrugged, taking another sip from her glass and then following his lead away from the table.

After what might have been the first genuine laugh she'd seen from him, he pulled himself together, a sudden softness settling behind his still-smiling eyes. "You make dates fun."

She barely had two seconds to register that he'd said 'date' again—and to internally giggle about it—before the jet gave a mild jolt from turbulence. She instinctively grabbed the edge of the table.

Then a second one, bringing them even closer as they stumbled over their own feet. This time, she held onto him, but the vertigo from being 30,000 feet in the air was nothing compared to the dizziness she was feeling from his eyes piercing through hers.

The plane shook again, and his hand instinctively gripped her waist, pulling her closer. The lights flickered before going out, and she felt something wet splash across her face and chest.

After several more bumps, the lights flickered back on, and the plane finally stabilized. She glanced down at her t-shirt, now splattered with wine that had spilled from his glass during the turbulence.

"I'm sorry," he said, his eyes fixed on the burgundy stains spreading across her chest, soaking into the yellow fabric.

She could still feel the wetness on her cheek, but before she could wipe it away, he gently caught her wrist, leaned in, and softly pressed his lips to where the wine had splashed.

Sparks of heat surged through her as she looked away, trying to quietly restore the fragile equilibrium of their alchemical balance. You'd think the fact they'd spent half the flight doing all sorts of lewd things would have made her a little less flustered by now. But somehow, it hadn't.

She looked out the window. Below them stretched a sea of lights, twinkling like stars arranged in a grid of streets and avenues, interspersed with streams of traffic lights and towering skyscrapers. "Oh my god, look at that! It's so pretty!" she exclaimed in awe, pointing at the scene. "We're flying over New York, aren't we?"

He leaned in, nestling his head near hers to take in the sprawling, illuminated city below. "It's gotta be. I mean, it's blinding."

The music changed in the background—a warm, smooth guitar riff giving way to Chris Stapleton's soulful voice as Tennessee Whiskey began to play.

'Used to spend my night out in a bar room, liquor was the only love I've known...'

Out of nowhere, he took her hand and pulled her closer, guiding her into a slow dance to the music.

At one point, he spun her around, lifting her hand over her head, just like he had the first time they met—when he'd saved her from stumbling at the Emmys. She shook her head with a half-smile as she followed his lead.

"Hayden?" she asked hesitantly "What are you doing?"

"Brought you out dancing... in New York," he replied, hands on her hips. "Well, over New York, to be exact."

She slowed down until she stopped their dance. "No, I mean," she took a step back and narrowed her eyes. "What is this? This trip, these dates, this dance. Are you love bombing me?"

"Not really, no," he said, his expression turning pensive. "Does it feel like I am?"

"I mean, it feels like...things have changed," she admitted. "From before."

"For the better?" he asked, seriously.

"Yes," she gave a little smile. "As long as I don't have to wait for the other shoe to drop."

She searched his eyes for ulterior motives or any hint of bullshit, but aside from a little discomfort, all she found was warmth and sincerity.

"I just figured...there's no use in running if something keeps pulling you back," he explained. His eyes were terse, clear, and again, they seemed sincere. "So no, not love bombing."

She waited for the flutters in her heart to subside. "Good. Because if you do love bomb me, and the other shoe does drop, I'll feel justified in...hate bombing you back tenfold. Bombs of sheer, pure hatred, like boom," she mimicked with her hands.

He grinned and chuckled, stepping closer to her wrapping his arm around her back, "That's such a wrong thing to say on a plane," and kissed her, before whispering in her ear. "Wanna go back to bed?"

She nodded, to avoid speaking and revealing the subtle changes in her voice alterations caused by his gravelly voice in her ears.

As she stepped into the cabin, her eyes were immediately drawn to the imposing black Vader suit draped over the cabinet doorknob.

She tiptoed closer, wondering how she could have missed it earlier. Tracing her fingers over the fabric, her mind conjured images she doubted she would ever admit out loud.

"You like?" he asked, leaning across the wall.

She suffocated an embarrassed laugh. "LOL," she spelled out and sighed, "You have no idea. But I like the other one better. The one from The Revenge of the Sith."

She needed to play it cool now. First of all, she felt like she was coming across as a pathetic fangirl.

Secondly, but no less importantly, a little voice inside her told her it wasn't the right time yet to reveal her masked-man fantasy. One day, she thought to herself. One day.

He picked up the lightsaber next to the suit, and started casually twirling it in his hand. He swung it around in a few moves that, really, couldn't be safe to do inside a metal tube flying through the sky.

"Come here, I'll teach you," he told her.

"Me? Oh no," she took a step back. "I'll rip the plane ceiling, it's best not to, trust me."

"I won't let you," he reassured her, "come on."

He patiently explained what he called his signature move, teaching her the flick of the wrist and how to swing it behind her back. After many lousy attempts, she accidentally hit the cabinet and her own head in the same move, so she declared the training over.

"Ok, that's it. Lightsabers and I don't get along," she said, flopping onto the bed in defeat.

He put down the saber and joined her, crawling on top of her. The moment his warm lips met hers and his tongue slipped into her mouth, she felt a pull deep in her lower stomach.

"Maybe so," he conceded. His lips traveled down her jawline, leaving a trail of wet, hot, kisses and nibbles along her neck. When he sank his teeth into the painfully sensitive spot he'd bitten and bruised before, she closed her eyes and squirmed, craving more.

"Maybe," he continued, moving down over her body. His chin grazed her chest, his eyes fixed on her with a mischievous grin. "Or maybe," he added, lifting her t-shirt over her stomach and biting the skin on the side of her belly button before releasing it, "it just wasn't the right approach."

His hands glided along the inward curve of her waist, then outward curve of her hips.

She felt the heat of his mouth as he pressed a kiss against her pussy through the fabric of her panties, followed by his teeth softly engulfing her clit. She had no idea what he was talking about and sure as hell she did not care now.

His fingers hooked onto the sides of her underwear, slowly pulling it down past her knees and then over her ankles.

He dove back between her legs, his tongue alternating between long, slow strokes over her slit and faster, more intense flicks over her sensitive clit. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure, her back arching as if she was quite literally flying.

She was pretty sure she was about to pass out—whether from the heavenly friction of his tongue building slow, growing waves of pleasure inside her, or from the exquisite moans and heavy breaths he let out against her pussy.

And if that wasn't enough already, she felt herself bordering sensory overload as he spat on her spread pussy, the sloppy sounds of his wet mouth and lips sucking and licking her, his spit mixing with her juices, pushing her even further.

She felt his hands gripping her hips, fingers digging into the crease where her thighs met her body. As he sucked hard on her clit, stroking it mercilessly with his tongue, he delivered a sharp, stinging slap to the side of her ass. She was feeling so close already, goodness fucking gracious.

"Oh god," she shrieked, her voice breaking. Another slap landed, then another, each one harder than the last, his groans growing more intense with every strike against her skin. She loved the way his eyes darkened with every spank—almost as much as the sharp pleasure it brought.

When he stuck his fingers inside her and started to lick and finger her at the same time, she couldn't hold back the orgasm that had been ready to explode just beneath the surface. She cried out, convulsing on his tongue.

Suddenly, without warning, as she was still riding her wave, the sharp sound of the lightsaber igniting snapped her back to reality. What the fuck?

She rapidly propped herself up on her elbows, and looked at his devilish grin, lit up by the red glow of the weapon in his hand. Its humming noise filled the air as he withdrew from her, his lips still gleaming with her wetness.

He pulled back from her just enough to easily trace the tip of the saber down her chest and over her stomach. Licking and sucking his wet lips, he followed its path with his eyes as it grazed her pussy. His lips curved with satisfaction as he pressed it against her over stimulated clit, making her whimper.

She was long gone, unable to think clearly. Any hint of lucidity was drowned out by the overwhelming pleasure consuming her body and mind.

In another context, she might have found this situation funny. In this, however, with him reveling in the sight of her spread legs before him, looking at her like she was the sexiest woman he'd ever seen, she didn't.

He positioned it at her entrance, his eyes widening. She gave the smallest nod and as soon as she did, he pushed it inside. "Fuck," a loud moan escaped her throat as she pushed her head deep into the pillow.

"See?" He kept thrusting in and out of her, adjusting the angle to hit just the right spot. "Looks like you do get along after all."

A faint smile played on his lips, through her heavy breaths. She could feel a familiar tension starting to build again inside her, but this wasn't how she wanted to finish. "Oh please," she panted, "Hayden, please!"

"Please what, sweetheart? What do you want?" He kept fucking her with the saber in his hand, at an unyielding, steady pace.

"I want you inside me, please." She cried out. "I want to come on your cock, and if you keep going, I won't be able to hold it."

"You can do both," he said firmly, picking up speed and repeatedly hitting the most sensitive spot inside her. "I know you can." She watched as he kept thrusting the saber in and out of her, his other hand moving down to pull out his hard cock from his pants and start stroking it.

He moaned as his head fell back for a moment, leaving his veiny, muscular neck stretched taut, but he quickly refocused his eyes on her, like he did not want to miss a second of it. "God, you're so fucking beautiful," he rasped between panted breaths.

The sight of him pumping his cock, his groans, and the unrelenting rhythm of his hand fucking her were too much. She felt herself clenching around the saber, and in moments, she melted into release, crying out as a second orgasm crashed over her.

He tossed the lightsaber aside and quickly took off his pants and boxers, then climbed back onto her. His lips crashed into hers, devouring her with a passionate hunger.

He leaned in, whispering in her ear, "I could make you come a million times in this life and it still wouldn't be enough, you hear me?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She slipped her hands under his t-shirt, dragging her nails over his skin before yanking it over his head. Her hands found his already hard cock, stroking it as she swallowed each ragged breath that escaped his mouth and flowed into hers.

His eyes darkened as he growled, "Turn around for me", his hands guiding her. "On all fours."

Jesus Christ. Holy Mary of Feminism, please forgive me, she thought to herself and she rapidly followed his orders and got into position. He rubbed his cock against her clit and slid it up and down her slick slit, coating himself in her wetness.

His rough hands slid under her t-shirt to caress her breast, the curve of her ribs and the small of her waist before gripping her hips and driving himself into her in one, firm, deep thrust.

She closed her eyes and saw stars for a moment or two. His pace was strong, demanding, his cock stretching her pussy and filling her up to a new dimension of pleasure. She could feel her legs weakening one fast and deep thrust after the other. His fingers reached her overly sensitive clit and he started rubbing it.

"Oh no, please don't," she pleaded, "I'm too sensitive, I can't come again, it's too much. Please."

"You have your safe word, M. Use it, if you want me to stop," he growled, deepening his thrusts. Silence followed. Of course it did. "Nothing?" He teased. "You can come again," he spanked her ass cheeks, "And you will," he spanked her again harder.

He maintained his steady rhythm, circling her clit slowly but with perfect pressure, easing the overstimulation just enough until she felt herself building again.

He pulled his fingers from her clit and lifted her up onto her knees, his hand resting firmly on her stomach. Leaning in, he bit her earlobe and growled, "Hold yourself."

She placed her hands against the wall in front of her and arched back into him. Then, she felt a subtle shift in his position. Before she could react, the length of the lightsaber was against her throat, forcing her head up as he kept slamming into her.

The bar pressed ever so slightly against her throat, just enough to constrict her breathing in the oh-so-fucking-sweetest, most maddening way, forcing her to arch her back even more.

"Jesus Christ," she moaned out, "I'm going to cum again."

"Damn right you are," his thrusts getting even more forceful, filling up her insides until the very last inch, "Come one, give me one more. Like a good. Little. Girl."

She quickly realized that the less she leaned on her hands against the wall, the more her weight shifted onto her knees—and onto the saber pressing against her throat.

Gradually, she pulled one hand from the wall, then the other, finger by finger. By the time the last finger left the surface, the pressure of the saber was much stronger than when they'd started, and her breathing and blood flow began to slow down.

"Are you ready, M? Do you want to come?" Hayden's strained voice murmured in her ear.

She shrieked out a very suffocated "Yes, please."

"Yeah, you do," he pushed the saber even more into him and kept thrusting into her fast and hard, "Then come. Come all over my cock."

Everything seemed to slow as her vision blurred slightly, until a violent shock exploded from deep inside her, radiating through her head, down her spine, and out to her arms and legs.

She reached for his hands gripping the saber over her neck, and he immediately released his hold on it, allowing her to breathe freely again.

He came all over her ass, his loud, deep groans filling the cabin—which she seriously doubted weren't making it to the pilot's. They both collapsed onto the bed, breathless, lying side by side.

"What the fuck was that?" she gasped, turning to face him before bursting into laughter. "I can't tell if that was the craziest, most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to me, or the most exhilarating."

He laughed, still catching his breath. "That was a first for me too. I just caught a gleam in your eyes when you were looking at the suit and everything else, I thought...maybe..."

"You thought it was nice to make sure I'd never look at a lightsaber or at those movies the same way again," she laughed. "Sounds about right."

"I didn't hear you complaining," he pointed out, kissing her on her lips.

"Good lord, I sure wasn't," she shook her head. "But that wasn't very Jedi-like of you. I'm pretty sure the fandom at large would hate you for desecrating a sacred weapon like this."

"They would have done the same, trust me," he grinned at her. "But just in case, don't tell them. Wouldn't want for them to hate me again now that they've sort of stopped."

"I won't," she replied with a smile

Chapter Text

London. May 4th - Martina's POV

A few hours after Marti and Hayden had landed, Sara, Lex, Philip and a few other bodyguards arrived in London, and Sara insisted they all went together to the Celebration.

It made sense—it would draw less attention, that way. Besides, there was no way she could casually stroll into the convention hand-in-hand with Hayden.

So, there she was, slipping out the back exit of the Savoy Hotel, where Hayden was staying, and waiting for the car in the driveway, dressed like a legit Stormtrooper.

And a really clumsy one, at that, as it turned out when her sister opened the car door for her and she awkwardly climbed inside, fighting against the restricted movement the bodysuit allowed.

As soon as the door shut behind her, she pulled off the helmet and met Lex's eyes, gleaming with excitement and pride at her own costume idea. Marti winked and gave her a grin.

Sara, on the other hand, gave her a searing gaze, like she wanted to burn her alive, but then seemed to abandon the idea of arson in favor of battery, slamming her purse against Marti's arm repeatedly.

Good thing she had her new plastic body armor to protect her.

"Ouch, Sara, calm down!" Marti protested.

"WHAT. ON. EARTH. DID. YOU. THINK. YOU. WERE. DOING." Sara punctuated each word with a smack of her purse. She paused for a second to catch her breath, still gripping the purse but no longer using it as a weapon.

Lex came to the rescue, gently taking the purse from Sara's lap and placing it across from her, out of her reach.

"Do you have any idea how worried I was? You stopped sharing your location, I had no clue where you were—you had me worried sick!" Sara ranted, venting her frustration. But as she went on, her expression slowly softened with relief.

She flung her arms around Marti's neck, pulling her into a tight hug that Marti returned.

"I'm sorry, Sara. I just... I felt suffocated, like I couldn't even make my own choices, and I—" she got so worked up she ended up tongue tied halfway.

"I know. I'm sorry too," Sara said, pulling back from her and tucking her sister's hair behind her ear. "Just don't do it again unless you want to give me a full-blown heart attack, alright?"

As the car headed to the conference center, Lex knocked on the partition to ask the driver about their arrival time and traffic.

Seeing Lex tapping the control button on her earpiece, busy coordinating with the bodyguards, Sara nudged Marti, leaning in with excited, curious eyes. "So, you and the Dark Lord... you're dating now? Is it official?"

"Jeez," Marti snorted, laughing. "Maybe don't call him that." She lowered her eyes, trying to rein in the joy creeping into her smile. "Yeah. Well, official for us, I guess. Just not for the whole world."

It came out almost like a whisper, because somewhere along the lines of growing up, she'd developed the habit of protecting every little thing that started going right in her life.

She thought of them as fragile candles in a raging storm or delicate newborn chicks that needed protection above all else, and speaking it aloud alone felt like exposing them to terrible danger.

"I'm happy for you," Sara squeezed her sister's hand and released it. "I hope he's worth it." She said, retrieving her own purse and fishing out her mirror.

"I hope so too," Marti sighed, smiling.

"Bitch, he better be," Sara said, dipping her fingers into a small container of hair gel and smoothing down every stubborn flyaway in her slick ponytail. "Running-away-on-a-jet-plane-over-the-Atlantic kind of worth it."

She went on, "You know, I looked him up before coming here. I found some articles where his ex-wife said she didn't have her first orgasm from sex until she was around 40, and that would mean she spent a whole decade with him without ever getting there. So, yeah, I really hope he's worth it."

"Well I wouldn't know about that," Martina shrugged. "It feels like a little TMI, but just to reassure you, I came 5 times on the flight alone. So there's that."

Sara shut her pocket mirror with a little extra force, exclaiming, "Ew, gross! Don't tell me!"

"It's your fault, you brought it up!" Marti protested, and they both burst into laughter.

Lex, who had finished communicating with the other bodyguards in the meantime, interjected, "The streets are clear. We'll be there in 15 minutes."

"Yay!" Marti exclaimed, clapping her hands. "I can't wait!"

Sara tried to muster the same enthusiasm but only managed a half-hearted smile. "Yay," she repeated, deadpan. "Can't wait to spend the whole day crammed in with grown ass adults in Chewbacca costumes, who smell funky and take Star Wars trivia more seriously than their actual jobs."

Martina's disapproving expression searched for Lex's eyes, "Please don't mind me and make sure to protect her if she comes out with the brilliant idea of saying something like this out loud when we're there."

"Will do," Lex nodded, biting back a laugh.

Marti and Lex spent the rest of the ride excitedly sharing what they were looking forward to, with Sara chiming in now and then with her cynical remarks.

Sara just didn't get it, so Marti chose to tune her out, while Lex, with her endless patience, explained to her the ins and outs of their excitement for every little detail.

Marti had no idea what kind of superpower Lex possessed, but it clearly worked, because by the time they arrived at the center, Sara's skeptical frown had disappeared. And when they entered the main hall, Marti thought she was hallucinating when she saw her sister smile at a life-size R2-D2 that bumped into her—and even reach out to boop its head.

Inside the pavilion, streams of people moved from one booth to another, scanning the displays, checking out cosplayers, looking at the program flier, but most importantly—and what made Martina most ecstatic—nobody was looking at her.

She was fucking invisible. She couldn't recall the last time she'd felt this free—free to roam whenever she wanted, like a regular person.

Admittedly, it wasn't the rawest deal in the world, having to vacation on a private island in Barbados because blending in wasn't an option, or having people handle all your groceries and your day-to-day errands because public places were mostly inaccessible anymore.

She was aware of her privilege and that she'd been the one making all the choices that had led her there. Still, sometimes she missed the simplicity of taking a stroll, just because.

Despite the impaired vision caused by the Stormtrooper helmet she was wearing, this was the closest she had come to the sense of freedom she had before fame, and she was determined to enjoy it to the fullest.

She took many photos with incredible cosplayers, stood in line at a shop selling vintage merchandise that Sara called 'outrageously overpriced,' joined a random Stormtrooper flash mob dancing to Gangnam Style because, why the hell not, and attended the Lucasfilm showcase with John Williams—which managed to get even Sara a little bit emotional.

Around lunchtime, they all gathered backstage just before Hayden was scheduled to go on stage for the guests segment.

The first thing she did once she was out of sight from the crowd was rip off her helmet. You win some, you lose some, she thought, fanning her face. She'd gained top-tier freedom today, but apparently lost the ability to breathe in the process.

Still trying to cool her flushed cheeks, she eagerly showed Lex the lightsaber she'd just bought, pointing out the little chromed details on the guard and just then, a cute, wonder-filled voice rang out, "That's Martina Moreschino!"

Marti whipped her head toward the voice, only to see the wide-eyed 10-year-old actress who played Leia in Obi-Wan Kenobi, excitedly pointing at her.

For a tiny girl, her voice was surprisingly loud—so loud, it had caught not only Marti's attention but also that of a few other actors from the cast, all waiting to go on stage, Ewan included.

He had the curious, amused face of someone who was probably wondering what the hell she was doing there, and the smile of someone who had come up with his own wise conclusion.

Ewan knelt beside little Leia and pointed in Marti's direction, as if asking if she wanted him to introduce her. Little Leia nodded eagerly, and they walked over to Martina.

"He told me he's friends with you," little Leia launched herself into conversation with a big smile on her face, skipping any formalities.

Ewan grinned and confirmed, "She is my friend indeed," then in a lower tone so that only Martina could hear, "but apparently not enough of a friend to tell me she's coming to the Celebration."

Martina laughed and crouched to introduce herself to little Leia, whose real name was Vivien. The little girl told her all about that time that her parents brought her to her concert in Florida for her birthday. She said it was fun, but noted she preferred the choreographies from the previous tour better, remarking that the latest one 'lacked spark'.

They chatted a bit more, until Vivien noticed the lightsaber Martina still held in her hand and asked if she knew how to use it.

"Uhm...you know I'm not as skilled as my friend Ewan over here. I only know how to do...this...one...thing", Martina hesitated for a moment, quickly running through the moves Hayden had taught her on the flight, then did her best to replicate them.

"WOW," Vivien was impressed, standing there with her mouth wide open in awe. "See, that's fire! You should totally add this to your choreos on the next tour!"

Marti laughed, catching Ewan's raised eyebrows immediately after. "That's a neat little trick you did there," he said, crossing his arms with an amused smile. "Impressive. Oddly familiar, might I add."

She shook her head, trying to hide her smile, and glanced at the lineup of guests behind the scenes, each dressed as their character.

At that moment, Hayden's tall, imposing figure ascended the stairs to join them, clad in his Vader suit, with his helmet under his arm. He looked even more intimidating—and all in all the right ways.

Their eyes met, and he lifted two gloved fingers to discreetly say hi to her from a distance. She gave a subtle nod and smiled like an idiot, which Ewan didn't miss.

He didn't say anything at first, just stood there with his arms crossed, grinning as his eyes darted between her and Hayden. Then finally, he muttered, "Told you two would hit it off," before heading back to join Vivien in the lineup.

"HAYDEN ON STAGE IN FIVE! Next up, the Kenobi cast in 15!" The stage manager called.

Martina joined Lex and Sara, who had found seats on some scaffolding backstage with a perfect view of the screens broadcasting the event in real time.

Sara was neurotically wrestling with the foil on her burrito, grumbling about how they could've just had lunch at a proper restaurant as Lex calmly took the burrito, unwrapped it effortlessly, and handed it back to her.

As soon as the Imperial March started playing, Hayden placed his helmet on and strode onto the stage, flanked by a squad of Stormtroopers. They played along for a while, the crowd still unaware of who was hiding beneath the mask.

Her head was buzzing with anticipation, eyes locked on the screen as she awaited the reveal. The instant he removed his helmet and they recognized him, the crowd went absolutely insane.

The camera panned over the sea of fans wielding their sabers in the air, shouting and cheering wildly. In no time, they were chanting his name, drowning out the interviewer who was trying to start with her questions.

"Fucking. Finally." Lex firmly nodded, clapping her hands, with a hint of emotion in her voice. "The man's a legend."

The screen kept alternating between images of the adoring crowd and close-ups of his teary eyes and tense face, trying to keep it together.

"Man, you really know how to make a guy feel good," he responded, full of gratitude.

"Let me tell you Hayden, there isn't a single bit of it that isn't deserved," the interviewer said.

They thought they were ready to start the segment, but the crowd wouldn't let them, they just continued yelling his name and waving their lightsabers in the air.

She glanced at the cast of Obi-Wan behind the scenes, applauding wildly. Ewan more than anyone else. As for her, well, what an embarrassingly emotional Stormtrooper she was.

The reaction from the crowd was deafening, so much it brought Sara to cover her ears in annoyance, complaining about the noise, but she ignored her.

It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Witnessing it live and knowing the man on the screen, made it all the way more precious. She was so happy for him, so proud.

He'd spent most of his life secluded in another country, convinced everyone hated him for the very thing he loved doing. He had enough money to never make a comeback or expose himself again.

Every role he took on after that must have required immense courage and strength, to willingly put himself back in the spotlight where he could face harsh criticism all over again.

But returning to and the very role he was once hated for, for a notoriously unforgiving fandom—and to absolutely nail it? Lex was right. He was a legend.

It was clear in the faces of so many fans captured by the camera. Most of them had probably been kids when the movies first came out, just like she had.

For them, those films had been a constant through their childhood—a fun, comforting escape growing up and a never-ending passion to this day.

She had often heard and read similar words about her own art—how it was woven into the lives of so many young girls. But no matter how glowing the praise or how bright her fans' eyes were, she could never fully wrap her mind around the idea that her music could be so pivotal to someone's life. It didn't seem real.

But this? This energy was tangible, you could feel it coursing through everyone in the room, filling the entire space.

She was just so proud. And she couldn't wait to tell him.

After the celebration, Hayden, Ewan, and the rest of the group went out to dinner. It felt like a Star Wars thing, so she sat it out, letting them celebrate on their own.

When Hayden finally texted her, it was late, and the jet lag was weighing on her heavy eyelids, but she still wanted to see him, so she begged Lex to take her to the Savoy without waking Sara, who had been completely knocked out—face down in her pillow—since they'd gotten back from the con.

Twenty minutes later, she was knocking on his suite's door, tapping her foot on the ground in the few moments it took for him to open it. As soon as he did, she didn't even wait for him to say 'hi', she just flung to his arms.

"Oh my god Hayden, that was incredible!" She whispered-shrieked. "You should have seen their faces—people got so emotional when you walked onstage! And they were all chanting your name! And they were all generations, you know? Even the younger ones!"

"I know," he replied, sounding both humble and a little surprised. His eyes grew even warmer at her genuine excitement as he lifted her up and kissed her mid-air. "I've never seen anything like this. I never even pictured it in my wildest dreams."

He set her back on her feet, and she instinctively wanted to reach for his cheeks, to hold his face in her hands, but for some reason, she stopped herself. Could she? Was that allowed? She wasn't sure.

Instead, she took a step back, cleared her throat, and smoothed her hands over the sides of her dress to regain control over this big sudden wave of shared joy. "It's like the interviewer said. It's all deserved."

His eyes briefly sparkled, but then the same self-restraint she'd seen on screen—whether driven by humility or emotional suppression—took over.

They sat together on his bed as he told her about his day, his conversations with executives, other cast members, and how Ian McDiarmid never broke character and continued to call him "Young Skywalker" the entire day.

In return, she told him about the incredible costumes she'd seen, the epic concert she'd attended, and the Baby Yoda-shaped waffle she'd had for lunch.

They lay close on the bed, sharing stories about their day, as he absentmindedly twirled her hair between his fingers, listening quietly.

It felt natural, intimate, and easy—like neither of them was about to run away from the other for once.

"You know," he said, his hand trailing slowly down her arm. His eyes had a warm, happy glow, something that still seemed unfamiliar on his face. "This was the best day I've had in a long time. And you were there. So, I guess that makes you my lucky charm."

She giggled like the silliest of schoolgirls and silently prayed for her senses to return, to pull her down from this stupid high she was on. "What are you talking about? This was all you, nothing to do with me!"

His hand traced the curve where her dress dipped in the back, gliding down to her thigh as he hooked his hand behind her knee and pulled her leg over his.

"You might be right," he whispered, leaning to leave a trail of hot, soft kisses on her neck. She shivered as his teeth dug into her skin, enveloping her nerves with a delicious grip. "Could have been a coincidence. I think it needs a bit more testing."

His hand bunched up the fabric of her dress, and lifted it above her hip. He swallowed hard when his eye caught the see-through white lace of her panties.

He looked back up at her with lust-filled eyes blinded by desire, and then his mouth was on hers.

The sound of his breath growing shorter and shallower, was already sending her to an unraveling place inside her mind. Knowing the effect she had on him was intoxicating. Even if she could record it and play it on repeat for hours, it probably still wouldn't be enough.

"And how do you plan to test that?" she asked, just to hear more of his voice through his ragged breaths. Her fingers traced the edge of his belt, brushing over the ridge and the small metal buckle.

"I'd put you in my pocket, take you everywhere I go. Just for good luck," he replied, his hand sliding between her legs, cupping her pussy and rubbing against her clit. Whatever he'd been saying, she'd already forgotten, lost in his touch.

Taking advantage of her position, she rolled on top of him. "Everywhere?" she teased, placing her hands on his chest and straddling him as he ran his fingers over her thighs spread on either side of him.

She felt his cock twitching through his pants and started rocking her hips to create more friction. "At all times?" she teased, her breath growing more shallow. "Do you have any idea how much an hour of my time costs, Mister?"

His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her closer on his cock. "I can pay," he said, his voice strained.

A moment passed before the words sank in, and she burst out laughing, "That makes me sound like an expensive escort."

"Not what I meant," he laughed, scrunching his eyes. "I'm tired; I don't know what I'm saying."

"So, forget 'all times.' What are you doing after this?" she asked.

"After this, it's touchdown in L.A., then Canada for a couple of weeks," he replied, looking like he was mentally calculating the time he'd be gone.

"Nice... maybe I can come with you one day." She threw it out there, without much thought.

He stiffened and propped himself up on his elbows. "Canada?"

She noticed his change in posture.

"Yeah! I remember the picture you showed me of your house by the lake looking like freaking Snow White's cabin. I'd love to go!"

"But not this time," he hurried to say.

"No, uh... I mean, one day." She forced out a nervous smile, feeling like she was inviting herself. "You said you wanted to take me there once, remember?" she added quickly, unsure of where the conversation was going.

"It's just... I can't now. My whole family's gonna be there," he said, looking away.

"Oh! The Italian grandma you said would love me?" she asked with a chipper tone, trying to steer the conversation back to a positive vibe while wondering if she should just drop it instead.

"Uh, yes. But, I mean my whole family," he explained. "My siblings, their kids, my daughter, and my ex."

"Oh," she replied, realizing she definitely should have let this one go. "Yeah, maybe another time, then."

"I'm sorry, Marti. It's not that I don't want you there. It's something we decided with my ex a long time ago—"

"No, no it's fine. Don't mention it," she cut in, talking over him. "It's no problem—"

"It's just an old rule we always had—" He continued, and now they were talking over each other.

"No, of course, I understand—" she rushed, just to get out of this conversation.

"No casual dates get to meet her," he ended it.

It felt like a slap in her face.

A cold, thick, loaded silence fell on them.

"Casual..." she repeated in a mortified whisper, more to herself than to him, as if it hadn't hurt enough the first time he said it.

And then she heard it—the other shoe finally dropping. She knew she would. But it felt deafening, like a million shoes crashing down all at once, burying her and all of her stupidity.

Casual. A lump formed in her throat, making it hard to swallow, speak, or breathe. She felt out of place, out of air. She needed to get out of this bed and out of this hotel room as soon as possible—to go feel stupid somewhere else, mainly.

She got off him and rolled out of the bed. "Uhm, right. I think I'll get back to my hotel now... yeah."

"Marti, come on, it's not..." he began, noticing the sharp change in her mood. "None of my exes ever met my daughter."

"Well, considering one was selling pictures of you to the press and the other was fucking your director behind your back, that's a really fucked up benchmark, don't you think?" she replied, her voice rising slightly as hurt and bitterness slowly brewed into anger.

And it wasn't even the point.

"It's not what I meant. I'm not the only person involved in the decision. And kids don't get the concept of temporary, so it's—"

Temporary. Somewhere deep inside her, the most vulnerable, uncertain, and wounded part of herself was gathering every careless word he tossed out, collecting them like shiny, unique, heavy pearls of pain.

Who knows for what purpose. Maybe to pull out and give a long, hard look the next time her heart made the reckless, foolish choice to open up again. To trust again. To fall again.

"Yeah, don't worry. I heard you the first time," she said, slipping her shoes back on and walking toward the door.

"Oh, come on, don't be like this. What do you want me to do? Expose her to any random relationship I get into? You don't have children, you don't get it."

Random. She felt another crack in her heart, then a surge of hot, wild rage exploded in her mind as she registered the words.

"No, YOU don't get it!" She shouted, "YOU DON'T GET ANYTHING AT ALL! I DIDN'T EVEN WANT TO MEET YOUR DAUGHTER, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, OR YOUR WHOLE FAMILY TO BEGIN WITH!"

"THEN WHY ARE YOU RUNNING AWAY?" he shouted back, raising his voice over hers.

"BECAUSE I WANTED TO BE HERE AND NOW I DON'T ANYMORE. THAT RANDOM ENOUGH FOR YOU?" She roughly pulled the door handle and exited. "See you around, Hayden!"

She shut the door behind her and strode toward the elevator.

The anger was already turning into something much more insidious, that was making her eyes sting.

Casual. Temporary. Random. Ran-dom.

That's what it was to him. That's what she was. And she should have expected it.

What was she doing, expecting a man who had just mustered the courage to call what they were doing 'dating', not to hurt her with his semantic choices?

A hot flush rose to her cheeks, and tears welled up in her eyes as her heart pounded in her chest.

She saw this coming, from a mile away. Like a freight train about to hit her.

And she still let it. 

Chapter Text

Liguria, Italy. May 10th - Martina's POV

Martina reclined comfortably in her deck chair, her face shaded by a wide straw hat.

She lounged poolside in a full-body black and white striped swimsuit, enjoying the light Mediterranean breeze caressing her skin and the sun tinting her olive skin a darker shade.

A glass of Pigato wine in her hand, she took a deep breath and soaked in the breathtaking view of the Ligurian Riviera—the deep blue sea shimmering on the horizon, the scent of maritime pines filling the air, and the bright pink bougainvillea adorning the terrace of her Italian summer house.

The attempt to sync her breathing with the soothing, distant sound of the waves gently brushing against the rocks, failed miserably.

Before she could stop, she found herself nervously chewing the inside of her mouth, biting a little too hard and accidentally drawing blood.

The sharp tang of iron filled her mouth, tasting like the stark awareness that you can run from someone or run somewhere, but fuck if you're ever escaping yourself.

The morning after leaving Hayden's hotel, Sara mentioned she was considering a little detour to their hometown in Italy.

It was less than a two-hour flight from London, and not nearly as far away from him as she wanted to be.

But, it was still a nice change of scenery, and since she hadn't been back home in a while, she decided to join her.

Originally, Sara had planned to stay just a week, to catch up with some old friends. However, their parents were about to return from a trip to China and insisted—sprinkling in a bit of guilt and emotional blackmail—that their daughters waited a little longer for a big family reunion dinner.

Marti had just wrapped up Blackwood Manor, and since she didn't have any big events coming up, she saw it as an opportunity to unwind, relax, and see her parents whom she hadn't seen in a few months.

Convincing Sara was a little harder, though. She had stared at her, hyperventilating in panic at the suggestion of staying a few more days, especially to meet their parents, overwhelmed by the thought of not getting back to LA as soon as she'd planned.

Her eyes had started trembling as they darted anxiously at the calendar on her phone, frantically trying to Tetris away the meetings scheduled for the next two weeks, either postponing or canceling them.

But she finally eased into the idea. Especially after Lex set up a remote working station for her, and she realized she could conduct business from halfway across the globe, just as most of the corporate world had been doing for the past few years.

Not that she ever got the relaxation part of this plan anyway, since she was attending meetings at 1 AM, pretending she wasn't in fact in a different time zone than LA.

So, instead of enjoying her Saturday afternoon by the pool at their villa in the Riviera dei Fiori, Sara was trapped in an endless work call that had dragged on so long it was now bordering on a hostage situation.

Martina turned her head to check on her sister, who was fumbling with the cables of her laptop at the desk they'd convinced her to move into the garden and grunting in frustration.

"Lex! How did you get this to work before? It's doing that thing again—I can only hear a word out of ten!" Sara yelled.

Lex, lounging by the pool next to Martina, sprang up like an athlete. "Coming!" she called, already on her feet before the word was fully out of her mouth.

Marti finished her glass of wine and shook her head. Sara could not relax to save her own life, that was conclusive.

She stretched and scooted over in her lounger to catch the last warm, golden rays of the day, running her fingers on her burning skin.

Her attention was suddenly caught by a small mark on the inside of her right thigh.

Flash back to Hayden's fingers grasping and squeezing it, his face buried between her legs, his lust-filled eyes locking onto hers as he bit—No. Absolutely fucking not.

She wouldn't go there. She stopped at the first hint of shivers down her spine, shoving these memories somewhere in her mind, back where they belonged, in some airtight compartment where they were meant to stay until further notice.

That was the point of this whole escape—not thinking about him. She refused to pine over him or the incredible orgasms he gave her, especially if they came at the cost of making her feel as replaceable and casual as he just had.

She pressed the purple mark on her thigh and felt a twinge of pain. The color had already started to fade, as well as the pain caused by the bruise. She wondered if she had already started to fade from his memory just as quickly.

He was somewhere up in Canada, she was in Italy. They were on different continents, on different sides of the world.

Too many things separated them: the Atlantic Ocean, about four thousand miles, nine hours of time difference, over fifty Fahrenheit degrees in temperatures. And a tragically different idea of what they meant to each other.

She rose from the deck chair, setting aside her straw hat and removing her sunglasses. Slipping off her shoes, she plunged into the pool, hoping to refresh both her body and mind.

The silence underwater enveloped her senses as she held her breath, momentarily shielding her from Sara's ongoing meeting in the background.

She slowly came out of the water, only to realize her train of thought hadn't left the station yet.

Was she overreacting? She asked herself, leaning with her elbows on the edge of the pool. They had known each other for what, a few months? Was she asking too much? Going too fast? What was she expecting him to call this—a committed relationship? Dating to marry?

No, she concluded. She wasn't fucking overreacting. It wasn't like she was imagining wedding bells or picking out baby names, either.

It was just that, short as it was, with its ups and downs, its hides and seeks, the last thing it felt to her was casual.

And was 'casual' or 'random' all she was ever gonna get from him? All he had to give? He had made it clear from the start that he usually got bored of the women he dated quickly, swapping them out without much thought. What made her think she would be different?

Evidently, she wasn't. And she had no intention of staying to prove him wrong, going above and beyond to play her cards right, hoping that someday she might win a coveted shot at something more than random.

This wasn't random. She wasn't random. He was. A stupid, random man. And it was a good thing he had returned to Canada, so she could get back to Italy and, hopefully to her senses as well.

She was floating idly in the water when she noticed a presence looming over the pool. She rotated upright, bringing her feet down, and squinting against the sun and the person now blocking it.

Sara was looking over her sister with a broad, satisfied smile on her face—the kind only good business moves could give her.

"Are you done being a starfish?" Sara asked gleefully.

"Are you done being a workaholic slave to capitalism?" Martina retorted.

"It's not slavery; it's dedication. It's what you pay me for," Sara corrected with a theatrical smile.

"Oh, do I pay you? I thought you were doing it for free, out of sisterly love. So disappointing to hear that," Martina said, pouting just as theatrically.

"Yeah, well, I'd do the work for free. But putting up with that lovely personality of yours requires compensation—like a damage fee," Sara shot back, as Lex stifled a laugh.

Martina rolled her eyes and made a face at her sister.

"Anyway, my dedication got you a sweet deal!" Sara announced triumphantly.

"Nice! Which we can talk about when this mini vacation is over and we're back in LA, right?" Martina replied.

"Actually, it can't wait. It's in..." Sara counted on her fingers, "four nights exactly."

"Can't do it, sorry. It's Festival di Sanremo week, and if you think there's anything that can pull me out of the house when the biggest, most relevant—no, the only—Italian music competition airs, you must be delusional. Plus, Lex and I spent all day strategizing for our Fanta Sanremo teams. I'm not going anywhere," Martina said firmly, pushing off the pool walls to give herself some momentum.

"But why watch it from home when you can be there in person?" Sara asked, her eyes popping open with an excitement she could hardly contain. "They found out you were here and reached out—they want you to be the guest of honor on finale night."

"Oh, wow!" Marti exclaimed in surprise. "But wait...are you sure they really want me there? We moved to the US ages ago, and we've been living there for 10 years. We haven't been targeting the Italian audience for so long. I'm not sure how much of Italy they still see in me."

"What are you talking about? You represent Italy all over the world. You've made it big internationally," Sara reassured her. "You have no idea how much they wanted to pay...Which, I wanted to talk to you first, but if you agree—"

"I mean I'd do it for free, but can we have everything go to charity?" Martina asked.

"Thought so." Sara smiled warmly. "I'll call them to confirm. Let me make a few more calls before you and Lex can fill me in on the Fanta Saremo lore and explain how the game works."

Sara spun on her feet and merrily throttled back to her desk.

Marti chuckled and looked over at Lex, who was following Sara with her eyes, furrowing her brows in an expression she couldn't quite pinpoint.

She looked almost impatient, but that couldn't be right. There was nothing to be impatient about. They had a whole night ahead of them trying to explain a silly game to her sister, who typically nodded and said 'got it,' only to reveal at the first chance that she, in fact, had not gotten any of it. Impatience didn't seem likely.

Maybe Lex was just feeling down, and the 24/7 shifts were taking a toll on her as much as they were on Martina. So, she tried to lift Lex's spirits.

"We'll take turns, Lex, don't worry," Marti reassured her. "But brace yourself. I'm not even sure she has all of Monopoly figured out yet, and we've been playing since we were five."

"Consider myself braced," Lex laughed. Marti couldn't tell if it was from the day under the sun, but she could have sworn she saw a faint hint of blush on Lex's cheeks.

***

Sanremo, Italy. May 15th - Martina's POV

Every time she tried to explain what the Festival di Sanremo meant to her American friends, they just didn't get it. They were used to flashy, headline-grabbing events that made global waves.

So a seemingly low-key, strictly national TV event couldn't possibly hold such importance to them. But it did—for Italians in general, and for her as well.

The best way she could explain it was that the Festival di Sanremo was to music in Italy what the Super Bowl was to sports in the U.S.

Five days, over 30 singers competing across all genres, with each wild night airing for five straight hours on TV, from 9 PM to 2 AM. Yeah. Crazy.

First, the new original songs were introduced and performed, followed by duet and cover nights. In between, numerous national and international guests and co-hosts did their bits.

On the final night, the winner was chosen, and they got to represent Italy at the Eurovision Song Contest.

It was a major cultural event that influenced not only Italian music but also the country's pop culture and traditions, bringing together generations in front of the TV.

Martina still remembered how, as a child, she and her sisters would watch it with their parents, cheering for their favorite singers and dancing in their small living room to songs that would become the soundtrack of that summer—and, in some cases, of their lives.

It used to be a dusty, rather conservative show, closely aligned with traditional Italian ballads. But in recent years, it had evolved into something more modern, with an international edge in terms of guests, musical styles, messages, and pace of the competition. It had also become a goldmine of memes and humor that lingered for months afterward.

Friends, relatives, roommates, and coworkers organized dinners to enjoy the show together, laughing at the spectacularly trashy moments. Some people even took the week off work to be able to follow the whole thing.

And, of course, a big part of the experience was Fanta Sanremo, which was like fantasy football, but players bet on funny, or disastrous moments happening on stage to win or lose points.

She once won thanks to the wildly outrageous stunt of a middle-aged former Italian rockstar, who snatched an old lady's purse from the front row and ran off with it during a live performance on national television. It was pure chaos—classic, chaotic Italian folklore, and she was absolutely living for it.

Since her participation was decided at the last minute and there wasn't time for a rehearsal, she wouldn't be performing. Instead, she would be presented as the honorary guest of the final night.

All she had to do was descend the prestigious, iconic staircase for a theatrical entrance and exchange customary pleasantries with the host. Curtain calls. That was it. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

The night flew by in an instant, filled with incredible songs, super groovy beats, and show-stopping vocals and funny moments.

She was having the time of her life, shooting the shit and comparing scores on Fanta Sanremo with Lex, seated next to her, whenever the cameras weren't on her.

Which was damn hard, given the number of cameras and how often they panned over to her—despite the President of the Italian Republic also being in attendance.

When she stepped onstage, she greeted the audience and played along with the lighthearted banter the host had planned for the occasion, and before she knew it, she was offstage.

She smiled to herself, surprised and so, so grateful for the love the crowd and the host had just shown her, and entered the waiting lounge where singers hung around before their performance.

"Ah, bellaaaaa!*" She heard a friendly, raspy female voice call out with an unmistakable Roman accent. Grinning, she recognized who it belonged to before even seeing her.

*Roman expression meaning "Hey beautiful".

"Vic?" she called out, finally spotting her amid the crowd of singers filling the room. "Oh my God! I haven't seen you in forever!"

Victoria was the bass player for Måneskin, an Italian band that had won Sanremo a few years back.

Like her, they had since made the switch, writing all their songs in English and moving to the US to launch their global career and they were now killing it in both Italy and the US.

Martina had known them since before they won Sanremo because they had been contestants on XFactor the year she was a judge on the show.

She hugged Victoria and the rest of the band, except for Damiano, the front man, who was apparently out for a smoke. She wished them good luck, and they talked for a sec, with the promise to catch up soon, at the end of the show.

Making her way through the room, Marti stopped here and there to greet and congratulate the artists she knew and loved.

Just a step outside, she looked up and found herself face to face with Damiano.

Leather pants, a shirtless torso carved out of marble and covered in tattoos, slicked-back hair, and the most classic Italian features you could ever hope for—what was not to like?

"Guarda qui chi si rivede..." he said smoothly, going in for a kiss on her cheek and a hug.

*Translation: "Look who we have here".

She hugged him back, enveloped in the smell of cigarette smoke that surrounded him. As they broke the hug, she noticed his eyes lingering on her plunging neckline, looking her up and down, before a provocative smile curled across his lips.

She felt...well, something, pulling at her stomach. And although she wished it were butterflies, she feared it was just a slight discomfort caused by the way he was ogling her.

He was undoubtedly bold. Forward. Always had been, ever since the XFactor days. It was what drove him to shamelessly flirt with her all season long, even though she was a judge and he was competing.

It wasn't exactly appropriate, but that never stopped him. That was just who he was.

Whatever he wanted, he went out and got it. He was decisive. Headstrong. And she liked that. It explained why they had ended up in a bathroom at the wrap party for a steamy few minutes—until she'd sobered up, asked herself what the hell she was doing, and walked away.

They hadn't spoken much since then, only crossing paths at various events. Both had started committed relationships in the meantime, so whatever connection they had back then just never went anywhere.

"Long time no see," he said with a smile, "I should say 'in person,' though. Not seeing you has become virtually impossible, especially in LA. You're everywhere."

"Me?" she asked. "What are you talking about! When I lived in New York, I saw your faces plastered on the billboards in Times Square like every day, especially after your surprise concert!"

She went on to congratulate his band for opening on the Rolling Stones' U.S. tour, and he threw a compliment back, praising her latest single and saying he couldn't wait to hear the full album.

He then mentioned his recent breakup, and she told him she was sorry, but he shrugged it off, saying it was for the best. They kept chatting for a while until the conversation naturally faded into silence.

"So, uhm, I'm going to let you prepare for your performance! It was nice seeing you!" she said quickly, hinting at leaving.

"So nice, Marti," he said, his eyes roaming all over her body, "So nice, in fact, we could do it again tomorrow. At the after party. We could catch up and party like old times. What do you say?"

What did she say? Everyone here was probably going to the after party anyway, so she might as well go.

Loud music, catching up with old friends, letting loose and not thinking about anything for a while. What did she have to lose?

"Yeah, why not!" she replied, without thinking about it too much.

"Good. Text me the location, and I'll come pick you up," he said, leaning for a goodbye kiss on her cheek.

Then with his hand still on her waist, he whispered before moving past her, "And don't dress as sexy, or partying won't be the only thing from old times I'll want to do."

Yep. Just like she remembered. Bold. Always been.

***

Later that night, after the taxi dropped them off at their house, Marti, Sara, and Lex were climbing their way up the hill to the entrance gate.

Well, Sara wasn't so much climbing as stumbling diagonally, barefoot, and Marti was carrying her high heels.

Apparently, she had spent a considerate amount of time in the press area, networking away with fellow managers and agents.

Problem was, after all those years in the US, she had grown more accustomed to their professional networking style. Not that all those suits in LA didn't indulge in alcohol and, occasionally, even worse.

But taking Grappa shots every time an artist thanked the live orchestra, their mom, or flashed a nipple onstage? That was definitely the kind of Italian extravagance she'd lost touch with.

And it was far more than she could handle, given that she was a total lightweight when it came to booze. Also, the fact that her definition of a dinner was a light salad, maybe with crackers—if she was feeling frisky—did not help with all the alcohol intake of that night.

Lex and Martina exchanged an embarrassed, slightly worried look as they watched her loosely dance up the short walkway to the song that had just won the Festival.

"And then they said," Sara continued her rowdy retelling of the night, "that because all the guys from the band were showing their nipples, we had to take a shot for each one!"

"Nipple or man?" Marti asked, not sure why she was even carrying on with the conversation.

"Nipples!!!" Sara shrieked like a drunken banshee. "They wanted to take 6 shots of Grappa!"

Sara started laughing as if it were the funniest joke in the world and she was the only one getting it, then proceeded to trip over her own feet, thankfully landing in Lex's arms, who was ready to catch her.

"Oh," Sara said, gripping Lex's arms. "Wow, Lex. Have you been working out a lot? So solid. Rock hard." '

Lex fought back a laugh, "No more than usual. Must be the army training," she said, then added with a shy grin, "or maybe it's the wrestling years."

Martina pinched the bridge of her nose at her sister's state, but since it happened so rarely, she had to admit it was actually funny to enjoy this little comet of embarrassment before it passed.

Lex draped Sara's arm around her neck and supported her from behind, helping her walk the last few steps to the house.

"Oh and you know what he suggested?" Sara continued, several notches higher than her normal, perfectly audible volume.

"Who? Who are you talking about, Sara? It's already difficult to understand you tonight. Leaving out subjects in your sentences brings it to a level of dedicated effort I do not have in me right now," Marti replied, walking ahead of her.

"Fabio! Måneskin's manager!" Sara exclaimed, as if it were obvious and everyone else was just out of sync with her logic. "A publicity stunt! You and Damiano!"

Martina stopped in her tracks just before stepping onto the stairs leading to their front door and turned to look at Sara. "What?"

"You know... just a few pics of you two hanging out one night. Nothing crazy. Just to hint at a possible..." She wiggled her body and squeezed her eyes in the most horrifyingly cringe-worthy way, "fling."

She had never done anything like that. Faking relationships or dates just to stir up buzz? Sara always said it reeked of a desperate grab for media attention—something she, for better or worse, was never short of.

"He swore it was a genius move," Sara added. "It would boost Damiano, since they're all about to launch their solo projects, and help you too, with your album coming out—and the fact that you've been single for a while. He said there's nothing worse than dropping new music with no one to link it to! That ass."

Yeah. That ass. God forbid anyone acknowledged her music was good on its own. Relatable. Well-written, even. What a concept.

No, it always had to be about the men she'd supposedly written it for. Nice to see the patriarchy was still thriving at all latitudes.

"But don't worry. I told them no. As always, we don't need it," Sara said, arduously reaching the stairway to the front door.

Lex and Marti brought Sara into her room, where Marti helped her out of her dress, into the shower, and then back into her pajamas.

All of which could have been much quicker if Lex hadn't decided to be utterly respectful tonight and not even look in Sara's direction when she wasn't dressed.

Which was weird, because Lex had been on her security team for years, and had always toured with them, so Marti assumed she'd already seen Sara in all sorts of situations. But then again, she couldn't recall for sure—she'd probably never even noticed before.

After telling Lex goodnight, Marti retreated to her own room. She sank into the comfort of her puffy bed and gazed out the window at the wide shape of the moon casting its soft light on the sea's surface.

She sighed. The Atlantic Ocean, four thousand miles, nine hours of time difference, and over fifty Fahrenheit degrees in temperatures still separated them, along with the block button she had pressed on him many days ago.

Who knew if he had even tried to contact her. Who was she kidding? She pictured him immersed in wonderful family dinners, outdoor activities, laughter, and sweet memory-making.

She was pining after him, like a tortured lover, staring at the moon while he was thinking about—she tossed and turned in the sheets—she didn't know about what, exactly.

Reinforcing the banks of his third backyard pond at best, another woman's thighs to hold on to at worst, she thought. And it made her want to vomit.

There it was, another thing separating them: the amount of time spent thinking about each other.

But perhaps, she realized, her eyes suddenly snapping wide open, that could be changed.

Chapter Text

Sanremo, Italy. May 16th - Martina's POV

This was fun, she thought.

No, really, it was.

This place was amazing. The location of the afterparty was a famous club called Scrigno, perched on a terrace by the sea—a sophisticated beachside venue surrounded by palm trees.

The decor was sleek and modern, with white chairs and tables, but there was no actual floor under their feet, just decking boards or the beach sand.

Martina threw her head back, one hand holding her drink and the other raised in the air, letting herself get lost in the pounding music.

It was so loud she couldn't even hear her own thoughts, and it was a godsend. Honestly, exactly what she needed.

Damiano was dancing next to her near the DJ booth, and the place was buzzing with most of the Sanremo singers.

Mamhood, this year's winner, was the absolute, undeniable star of the whole night. He had climbed on top of the DJ set table at the beginning of the night and started raw dogging it ever since, without a drop of alcohol in his body. He was hypnotizing everyone, like the stage beast that he was.

A new round of drinks on him was served every time the DJ played his hit song, and that had happened five times in the last hour alone.

At some point, Marti's song came on, and moments later, Mahmood pulled her up onto the table with him. She let him lead her into an improvised dance so impressive she seriously considered hiring him to choreograph her tour.

Little Leia would approve of his dance moves, she thought.

When the song ended, he sent her back down to the dance floor, draped in a hot pink boa and his golden jacket.

See? This was a really fun night!

Wasn't it?

Damiano reached out to help her down, steadying her by the waist as she hopped off the table with a small leap.

He had been gravitating closer and closer to her all evening. She had noticed the slow but progressive erosion of the space between them and did nothing to stop it.

As the drinks kept coming and the night kept going, with his arms around her waist, that distance had now become practically non-existent.

"Want to have another drink?" he whispered in her ear.

Before she could finish nodding, he took her hand and guided her to the bar. He ordered a Negroni for himself and 'anything with Cointreau in it' for her, as per her request.

"You know, you reminded me of myself when you were dancing up there," he said.

"Oh yeah? How so?" She took the bait and a generous sip of her drink, closing her eyes and hoping to God this wasn't an overstretched, unsolicited attempt at personality reading.

"When you're on stage, performing at your concerts, you transform," he said, his eyes fixed on her lips. "You move, dance, and sing like there's a roaring beast striving to break free—a magnetic force radiating through you. But when you were on that table earlier, you looked like an entirely different person. You looked... shy. Like a kitten."

Figuratively speaking, she had planted her stance wide, hand on the metaphorical rack of her smart mouth, ready to send back any ridiculously cheap attempt to gauge her soul he might throw her way. But that was a fair point. Fifteen-love.

It wasn't the hardest nor the most cryptic, hidden trait of her, but still. It was there and he noticed it.

See? Hayden wasn't the only one capable of reading her.

Damiano could too—spot on. And if he kept it up, maybe by the end of the night, she might even feel a spark for him.

"Magnetic, huh?" she teased, playing off his words. "Must be the Scorpio in me."

"Must be because you're a goddamn force of nature. And also a kitten," he said, lighting his cigarette and staring into her eyes. "I wonder how many more sides of you you keep hidden."

Come on now. This was good flirting. Wasn't it? Had to be podium, at least.

It was sexy and enticing, not too bland, but not too aggressive either. And it wasn't cringe. He'd said the right thing.

Come on now. Where was her move-on goddamn spark?

With another sip of her drink, her third of the night, she was starting to feel her head go dizzy. She dipped her feet into the sand, wiggling her toes to ground herself as her head spun and the smoke from his cigarette invaded her lungs.

She fanned her face—it was hot as hell and it wasn't working. Maybe she needed to freshen up a bit.

She dusted the sand off her feet, slipped her shoes back on, and excused herself to sneak into the restroom. Once inside, she closed the door behind her and looked at herself in the mirror.

Metallic gold jacket, hot pink boa, and 80% humidity getting the best of her hair. Not exactly a vision.

It wasn't much different from when she and her sister used to play dress-up and put on shows at family gatherings when they were little.

After taking off each item one by one and placing them next to the sink, she splashed her face with cool water.

She could have stayed home, sulking and pining. But no. She was out here instead, having fun. The funniest fun.

Mostly though, the reason why she was really here was being a downright cunt.

The night before, she had come up with this idea to give the universe just a little push in restoring an unfair balance—for all the time she'd spent thinking about him while he was likely off and unbothered, tending to early crops on his farm. Or something like that.

If this whole thing was going to fizzle out or pop like a soap bubble anyway, God help her if she was going to fade away in silence and grace, outshone by baby asparagus and fiddleheads.

No. She'd go out with a bang—and do it in style, too.

That was what brought her to reconsider Damiano's manager's idea to go for a publicity stunt.

It bothered her to play a part in his sexist little excuse of a PR strategy—Jessie would have eaten him alive if he'd had the guts to pitch it to her.

But she was Jessie's girl, after all. She'd spent the past year watching and learning from her, mastering the art of maneuvering the media and spinning every curveball to her advantage.

She knew she didn't need this stunt for her career, but she also knew how much noise it would make.

All of Italy's media attention was focused on Sanremo. It didn't even need to be arranged or sold to the paparazzi. And it was a small step for it to blow up all over the world.

Which was why she had nonchalantly—and very intentionally—avoided reminding Damiano's driver to drop them at the back of the Scrigno instead of at the front.

All it took was stepping out of the car and stalling for a second longer than usual instead of rushing straight into the club.

And there it was, like clockwork: Damiano's getting out of the car after her, wrapping his hand on her waist and chivalrously guiding her inside. Cameras flashed. She smiled. Et voilà!

Tomorrow morning, she'd find out just how fast a couple of well-timed shots could cross the Atlantic Ocean, bridge the nine-hour time difference, and shatter how many miles were between her and Hayden.

She came out of the bathroom a precarious mess, held together by the momentary coolness of the water on her cheeks, and a fierce sense of spite.

Damiano was waiting for her, lighting up another cigarette. Jeez, she didn't remember him being such a chain smoker.

"You alright?" he asked, a slight look of apprehension on his face.

She nodded, blaming it on one drink too many. He insisted they leave the main dance floor and head out to the terrace overlooking the sea. It was more ventilated there—he said—the space was open, fewer people were around, and the music wasn't as loud.

She followed him as they made their way through the crowd of people jumping and dancing.

Her feral, ever-overstimulated brain was finally quieting down, her body becoming languid and surrendering to inebriated sensations.

She was moving, but it didn't feel like she was the one walking.

People bumped into her, but it felt like they were hitting someone else. Her body was on the verge of an abandon she was dying to concede, but something about this didn't feel right.

As they were almost out of the club and onto the terrace, her last few active brain cells picked up a familiar melody blaring through the speakers.

It didn't click immediately, given it had been horrendously warped by an ungodly, unnecessary remix, but that was the Star Wars Imperial March they were playing.

Great. The icing on the cake of this unforgettable, exhilarating merry night.

In today's episode of "This Delusional Bitch": woman goes out in a sad attempt to make her lover jealous and ends up butthurt in public, with even background music mocking her.

They both leaned on the rail of the terrace. Well, he leaned, propping himself up with his arms, and she tried to mimic his pose, but her elbow slipped, making her lose her balance for a moment.

She threw her head back laughing: at herself, at the remixed Imperial March, at this whole situation.

What a grotesque painting, she thought, imagining herself seen from an outsider's perspective.

She brought her head back up, still laughing, as the sea breeze ruffled her hair around her face.

Damiano gripped the rail with one hand and spun himself around until he was framing her with his arms on either side of her.

Oh. He was really close now. Her features slowly shifted back into a more serious expression.

He took a deep drag from his cigarette, letting some of the smoke slowly escape from his nose and blowing the rest over her body.

A vivid flashback of Hayden deliberately blowing smoke in her face on their very first date elbowed its way into her mind, both beautifully and forcefully.

She distinctly remembered liking the smell of smoke and the feeling of Hayden's breath drifting over her skin.

Maybe what Damiano smoked was different, because now her lungs were burning and she wanted to cough it all out.

"You look so carefree," he said, taking a step forward.

Wrong. She wasn't. God knows she wasn't. He wasn't reading her right, now. Maybe he had just gotten it right the first time by chance.

It didn't make much of a difference.

"And so fucking hot," he said, tossing his cigarette and closing the gap between them. She glanced down to their touching bodies, wondering why she didn't seem able to feel this either. His hands landed on her waist, and she looked up at him.

A mere inch separated their lips, and it seemed to grow thinner by the moment. She swallowed.

Come on now, spark? Spark! Spark, goddamn it!

She tried to concentrate, to feel something, but all she could feel was heat. His fingertips, perched along her cheeks and neck, were burning.

Even his body, pressing into hers, was radiating warmth. Temperature-wise, everything was blazing, apparently.

Except her.

Maybe she needed to relax and not overthink it. This was so much different than what they had years ago, and she couldn't figure out why. What they had shared had been brief, and purely physical. But she remembered it as hot. Steamy, even.

There had been passion, she was sure of it.

And now, there just wasn't. It wasn't that she didn't like him. He was handsome, and she was attracted to him. There just was something that wasn't working that night.

Perhaps, she just needed more? She didn't even know what of. And she chose to ignore the tiny voice at the back of her mind whispering that someone else would know exactly what she needed.

She raised her hand to meet his, guiding it around her throat as a subtle suggestion. His lips curled into a smile as he looked into her eyes with a self-satisfied expression.

"Hungry, are we?" He said, almost gloating.

She hated that he said we. She hated the rhetorical question. She didn't like the words, or the tone he used, or his look saying it.

His hand was where she had guided it, pressing over her throat. He was doing it wrong, though. He was pushing right on her windpipe, and it was messing up her breathing. It made her stiffen up even more.

It was clear the spark wasn't coming. This wasn't working, and she needed to get out of it.

She opened her mouth to tell him just that, but he dove in to kiss her and her reflexes weren't quick enough to stop him.

She gently pushed him back, breaking the kiss immediately.

"Damiano..." she began, turning her head to the side and brushing her hair out of her face. As she did, her eyes caught a glimpse of something moving in the distance on the elevated boardwalk nearby.

She squinted her eyes and leaned forward, to get a clearer view. Damiano, noticing her distraction, turned to look in the same direction.

He might have been more sober or focused than she was, his senses not as dulled by alcohol, because he quickly brought his face back and angled himself in front of her to cover her.

He took off his jacket and used it to shield them both, then said, "Hate to tell you this, Marti, but I think the paps got us."

"Oh God. How many?" she asked, "Did your manager send them?"

"I saw two. With long lens cameras. And what?" He asked, completely caught off guard. "No! Not that I know of."

Fuck. The paps outside at the entrance must have alerted them when they saw them arrive together.

They probably called for backup, thinking there would be more juicy scoops waiting inside. And they were right.

Because, being the dumb bitch that she was, the one thing she thought she could spin to her advantage was now spectacularly backfiring.

She just wanted a pic or two of them holding hands or cozying up to leak. Not this. This wasn't even planned in her head, let alone something she wanted the whole world to see. Especially him.

She held on to Damiano to make sure they stayed covered to walk back inside. They agreed to leave the club separately to avoid feeding the paparazzi outside even more, and he said goodbye to her with a kiss on her cheek.

As soon as she stepped onto the sidewalk, she saw her car approaching. Oddly enough, neither a driver nor Lex was behind the wheel, Sara was.

What the hell was she doing, Marti thought. She hadn't been driving manual in forever. Rusty was a euphemism.

Marti hopped in and looked at the rear view mirror from the backseat, meeting her sister's welcoming and excited eyes.

"There she is, our party girl. How was it?" Sara asked enthusiastically.

She started the car and struggled with the manual gear shift. Lex, seated in the front seat next to her, didn't say anything. She simply gestured with her hand to push the clutch pedal all the way down. Sara did so and managed to engage first gear, and Lex gave a small, proud nod.

"So, uhm, you know how I've been trying to get you to stop working and enjoy this time off?" Marti asked hesitantly, glancing up at her nodding sister in the rearview mirror. "Yeah... about that... I think you'll definitely find some work waiting for you tomorrow morning."

She quickly filled her sister in on what had just happened, and when she mentioned Damiano kissing her on the terrace, she noticed Lex's mouth drop open in a dramatic gasp.

A loaded silence came from the front seat, Sara's agitation audible in the strange noises the car made as she struggled to get it into gear properly.

After making a right turn leaving the busiest roads behind, Sara finally managed to shift into third gear, and took a full sigh.

"While I do have questions—and lots of them—about this unexpected and sudden 'changing of the guard,' let's call it that—"

"Let's not," Marti interrupted, cringing to the bone.

"I guess it's a good thing Jessie's flying in tomorrow. And boy, she better beat that jet lag fast," Sara snorted, seeming much calmer now as she peacefully cruised down the seaside road.

Marti scrunched her face in confusion. What was this uncharacteristically chill mood coming from?

"What is Jessie coming for?" Marti investigated.

"Well, an opportunity has come up. Cannes Film Festival. I got you an invite to the Opening Gala Dinner," Sara said, her proud eyes darting to the mirror.

"Is that what you've been working on all these days?" Marti smiled.

"Can't really blame me, can you? It's literally right around the corner. Just an hour car ride. Tons of filmmakers, actors, directors, production companies. You don't wanna miss that."

Sara turned the steering wheel, accidentally activating the windshield wipers. Lex promptly and nonchalantly reached for the lever and flicked it down.

"Who's going to be there? That I know?" Marti asked.

"Damiano's going to be there. The whole band, actually. Didn't find time to tell you between one smooch and the other?" Sara spat out sarcastically, "I believe it's the premiere of a movie they wrote a song for."

Oh, right. He had mentioned something about it last night when they were backstage. Apparently, it wasn't information her brain deemed important enough to retain for more than 24 hours.

She wasn't even sure she wanted to see him again before clearing the air about that kiss. Which she needed to do as soon as possible.

"Anyway," Sara continued, "Jessie is coming tomorrow to help us plan the whole thing. We only have a few days to organize everything, from dress and makeup to logistics and media coverage. We'll need to..."

Sara's voice faded into the background like white noise as Marti gazed out the car window, watching the moonlit coastline move past.

She took a deep breath. How fast can a couple of stupid, meaningless pictures—capturing a rash, questionable and regrettable thing that should have never happened in the first place—travel to Canada?

Stupid girl. What had she done?

Chapter Text

Cannes, France. May 20th - Martina's POV

The breeze was warm at the Château Lumière, where the grand Opening Gala Dinner of the Cannes Film Festival was taking place.

This majestic multi-story hotel, with its iconic facade of historic architecture, was located in the coastal area of Antibes, near Cannes.

An immense, lush, and well-curated garden, nestled among dense trees, engulfed the exclusive location.

Tonight, it hosted the famous amfAR Gala, a collateral event of the Cannes Film Festival, featuring celebrities, influencers, and big names from the film, music, and fashion industries coming together from around the world to raise funds for AIDS research.

Soft music played in the background, only slightly overpowered by the sound of crystal glasses clinking in polite toasts and half-mouthed laughter in the garden.

"Marti, honey, control your face, pretty please?" Jessie sang in her usual pleading tone, one she used whenever Martina's inability to seamlessly blend into social environments was showing. Which, admittedly, was often.

She didn't do it on purpose. Social interactions with strangers made her anxious enough as it was.

Having to entertain them in contexts filled with such shallowness, and imposed social norms where you were immediately judged for either following or ignoring them, really wrecked her nerves.

Sometimes, she felt a twinge of guilt when she saw Jessie's defeated expression after explaining why it was crucial to attend a particular event and the attitude she needed to bring, often having to repeat herself.

Jessie was the best at her job—dedicated, passionate, honest, and warm. She deserved a brilliant client, someone who could shine, thrive under her wise counsel, and make her proud.

Instead, she got her—sporting a mildly repulsed, and entirely unconcealed grimace for a good part of the night. At a prestigious, high-profile event like this. Held for charity. God, she was terrible at this.

She relaxed her frown, trying to let her sweetest disposition show on her face. In her better judgment, she knew—or hoped—that everyone here was trying their best to fit in and that most of them were well-intentioned.

Even though the transactionality of it all, the endless name-dropping, and ego-boosting were hard to ignore.

Maybe most people were able to enjoy this. They probably viewed this event as a stunning, harmonious mosaic of attendees in a splendid location, all for a beautiful cause, feeling like they were part of it.

But she couldn't help but feel distracted and disconnected by all the fake smiles, air kisses, and hunger for the cameras, as well as the calculating eyes, scanning the room for the best person to approach for a valuable connection.

But, seeing Jessie's imploring yet encouraging expression, she decided to make an attempt at being the social butterfly Jessie always dreamed her to be.

At the very least, she'd try to stop grinding her teeth as if she was chewing nails in a corner like a sociopath. She owed her that much.

"You're right, Jessie. I'm sorry. Okay, so where am I seated?" she asked anxiously.

"Over there, honey," Jessie said, pointing to a few tables away, "with Timothée Chalamet, Kylie Jenner, that girl from Riverdale and the entire Måneskin ensemble."

She focused on the designated table and noticed a cluster of sequined suits and dresses, realizing that the guys from the band were already seated.

"I'll see you later, Marti. Lex is always around if you need her. You might not see her, but she can see you." Jessie gave her a reassuring squeeze and made one last adjustment to the sparkly black dress, ensuring the high slit at the back was not showing too much.

As Marti approached the table, Damiano noticed her and stood up, walking towards her with a greeting kiss on the cheek.

She probably should have said something to stop whatever he thought this was turning into.

Instead, she had just politely declined his invitation to come here together and casually mentioned that they would see each other around.

She thought it was enough to convey her mood and intentions, but judging by the way his lips lingered on her cheek and his whispered "Sei bellissima stasera," it hadn't been enough at all.

*Translation: "You look beautiful tonight."

She took her seat next to him and the other members of the band. They told her about the screening of the Elvis movie and how their live performance of the song they had written for it in the theater was different from any other performance they had ever done.

They were full blown rockstars after all, with stage presence for days. Marti couldn't recall a single concert where Victoria hadn't worn only fancy nipple covers as the top part of her outfit, or that hadn't ended with Damiano stage diving.

So she could see how this experience might strike them as exceptionally elegant, to the point of regal and stuck up.

A mischievous glint danced in Damiano's eyes as he glanced at the small stage in front of the tables, where a polite and polished swing quartet entertained the distinguished guests, matching the glamorous and sophisticated vibe of the night with equally refined music.

Victoria looked at him, sort of reading his mind, with a sidelong look and asked, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Her eyes were already symptomatic with the exhilaration of whatever they were about to plan.

"I mean, they've been playing for two hours. They must be coming down at some point before dinner," Damiano laughed, "We can crash the stage, play one song and then get down. What do you guys say?"

The others silently agreed, trying to keep their excitement under control. Marti laughed and shook her head.

They had been on tour with The Rolling Stones for over a year now, spending a lot of quality time with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards and boy, it was showing.

They waited a few more minutes until the swing band finally put down their instruments, passing the torch to the next band, likely hired to cover dinner time.

It was their cue.

"I'm telling you, I've seen quite a few dentures and canes around here, so choose your music carefully. If you play 'I Wanna Be Your Slave,' you'll make some hearing aid and some heart explode," she teased, leaning back in her seat and taking a sip of her wine as she watched them get up for their surprise stage takeover.

Damiano took her hand, his deep eyes trying to capture hers, "Come up on the stage with us."

"What? Are you out of your mind?" she yell-whispered, incredulous outrage overflowing in her voice. "You are rock stars, you can do whatever you want, but I need to stay here...I'm pretty sure my publicist would kill me. You go, guys!" She urged them toward the stage.

As soon as they took the stage and Thomas started riffing on a sweet and smooth set of chords, Damiano took command of the mic.

Their improvised stage invasion instantly captured the interest of every guest still having cocktails and mingling. All eyes turned toward them, giving them their undivided attention.

Jessie, who wasn't far from where she had left her, was clutching her purse with one hand and cradling her chest with the other, reacting to the band's wildly unplanned, and uncoordinated move.

Well, Marti might be terrible in social settings, but hey, at least she hadn't invaded the stage tonight. Kudos to her, she mentally patted herself on the back.

The band had completely ignored her advice and played exactly the song that was now probably responsible for the incessant whistle of death killing too many elderly people in the audience this very moment.

But it was a success. As soon as they finished, they were met with thunderous applause and cheering.

Damiano bowed and thanked everyone.

"Now, I don't know if we can steal the stage for one more song..."

The band scheduled to play after the swing section, now gathered at the foot of the stage and enjoying the show themselves, nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

"We'd like to play another song from our latest album. And I'd love to call someone to join me..." He looked directly at her, pointing his finger before twirling it in a 'come here' motion.

Her heart stopped. Oh God, help. What was he doing, putting her on the spot like this?

She looked around, relieved to see no cameras or recording devices, thanks to the strict no-phones policy.

At least there was that. The last thing she needed was a sweet duet blowing up the internet after their photos had just come out.

A few dozen faces turned to her simultaneously, cheering for her to join him on stage.

What was she supposed to do? Desperately, she darted her eyes toward Jessie, who looked at her wide-eyed, evaluating the situation.

Marti watched as Jessie glanced at the stage, then at the people chanting her name, and then back at her, finally giving her a subtle nod of approval.

Martina stood up amidst the applause, taking another sip of wine before joining them on stage. She shot Damiano a playfully scowling expression.

"Do you know 'The Loneliest'?" he whispered in her ear.

She nodded. It was probably one of their best songs—of course she did. They quickly agreed on the harmonies, and Martina silently thanked him for choosing a slow song, knowing she wouldn't have been able to sing anything that required more movement than her dress allowed tonight.

The melancholic notes from Victoria's bass and Thomas's guitar blended seamlessly with their voices in an acoustic waltz of melodies that entranced the audience.

In the few fleeting glances she took at the crowd while they were singing, she saw captivated, dreamy faces, completely transported by the music.

She mainly kept her eyes on him, because eye contact is key in duets.

That's what they teach you.

For technical reasons, like cueing and timing—observing your partner to synchronize entrances and exits, coordinate physical movements and vocal inflections. She knew this all down to a T.

But she also knew that the best, most moving, and magical duets relied less on technicalities and more on an emotional connection—an inexplicable alchemy that you either had with someone or you didn't.

She looked at him, his beautiful face lit up by the stage lights, his marked Mediterranean, classical profile, the way he moved.

He was handsome—a masterpiece, really. But his dark eyes kept searching hers for a connection she just couldn't give.

Because... because he just wasn't who she wanted.

She really needed to talk to Damiano, to avoid giving him any false hope.

And she needed to unblock Hayden on her phone and call him. To say what, she didn't know. But she'd figure something out.

Their voices intertwined one last time, delivering the final lines of the song before fading into a transient silence, immediately washed away by the sound of claps and subdued, refined cheers appropriate for the occasion.

She glanced at Jessie and noticed she was clapping too. Marti gave herself the second, invisible pat on the back of the night.

They all descended the stage and got back to their seats where dinner was about to begin.

The lavish succession of dishes continued, accompanied by pleasant conversation. She focused all her energy on eating without staining her dress and speaking without putting her foot in her mouth.

She might have ruined it when everyone shared amusing anecdotes about their evening.

Panicking when it was her turn, she blurted out that George Clooney had hugged her from behind while she was waiting in line for a cocktail, mistaking her for his wife. "He said we have similar behinds," she concluded, attempting to appear graceful and composed.

No pat on the back for her there.

Timothée shared that his highlight was meeting George Lucas on the red carpet. He explained that Lucas was there to receive the prestigious honorary Palme d'Or, the highest award at the Cannes Film Festival, in recognition of his lifetime achievements.

She hadn't even known he was at the festival. Typically, Jessie was much more thorough with her briefings for any event she attended, preparing her on the guests, hosts, honorees, and the event's cultural significance.

This time, however, she must have cut it short given the incredibly limited amount of time they had to prepare for her attendance.

Timothée was thrilled to have met him, saying he had the time of his life talking with him and was hoping to see him again tonight, knowing he was somewhere at the Gala.

"Maybe he's inside at the exhibition," he speculated.

"The exhibition?" Marti asked, realizing that Jessie hadn't briefed her on that either.

She soon learned there was another part of the event happening inside the hotel, which was apparently even more exclusive than the dinner they were having out there in the garden.

Inside the hotel, another dinner was taking place, attended by some of the highest-profile winners and guests of the festival.

Apparently, these guests got regal treatment, luxurious suites, and all the comforts the hotel could provide. And there was also a cinema-themed exhibition on the first floor, showcasing famous pieces from various iconic films.

She looked up at the hotel, which towered impressively above them, with its soft cream colored front, and classic shutters.

There was a large terrace on the first floor, decorated with flower pots, that overlooked the gardens below.

The windows glowed with a warm, inviting orange light from within, making her itch to know whatever she was missing inside scratch even more.

Thankfully, her social battery ran out around the same time desserts were served. After they brought in an elegant version of grilled peaches with cream, she waited the polite and reasonable amount of time Jessie had advised before excusing herself to go to the restroom. Which she didn't need.

Instead, she began wandering through the terraced gardens, making her way up toward the hotel perched above them.

A whole entire event up there, they said. She wasn't sure she could slip in unnoticed, but God her curiosity was inciting her to try.

As she climbed the staircases connecting the gardens, she felt the air grow cooler and richer with the scent of jasmine. Each step was illuminated by the soft glow of garden lights, guiding her path.

Going up the stone steps, her eyes wandered over the neatly curated flower beds flanking the middle-tier gardens, then glanced at the sky.

Incredible pastel colors blended together in shades of pink, blue, and bright yellow, creating a canvas that seemed like an apology for the sun setting too soon and leaving the scene.

The path was surprisingly quiet, except for the soft clicking of her heels on the stone. It looked like all the guests were either at the dinner in the lower garden or inside the hotel.

The only thing she could hear was the late-evening crickets. She could have shouted the worst monstrosities from up there, and no one would have known.

She finally reached the level where the hotel stood, guided by the soft music playing from within.

As she arrived at the large French doors, she noticed remnants of an earlier refreshment and a few busy servers still tidying up the area.

With a confident smile, and the attitude of someone who had only stepped out for a call and was just getting back in, there was no way they would stop her. And it worked, because the servers gave her a polite nod as they let her walk inside.

The grand foyer was deserted, but she noticed the signs directing to the exhibition Timothée had mentioned and followed them, entering a vast room full of glass cases and displays filled with all sorts of cinematic treasures and rarities.

Her eyes darted from one piece to another, mouth agape in wonder: the iconic gown worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, a weathered fedora and whip once belonging to Indiana Jones, and a gleaming C-3PO costume under bright lights.

She made a mental note to go for a guy in construction or a city clerk next time because, fucking hell, there was just no escaping this, was there?

Exiting the exhibition and heading up the stairs, she couldn't shake off a strange, eerie feeling. Aside from a few staff members here and there, the hotel was pretty empty, the corridors filled with an almost ghostly silence.

Maybe the party didn't even exist. Maybe they were just playing with her. If it was this hard to find, it couldn't have been that great anyway—they could keep it.

When she reached the top of the stairs, right in front of her, at the end of a long corridor, she spotted the floor-to-ceiling windows leading to the terrace she'd seen from below.

As she walked down the corridor, she heard the buzz of muffled voices mixed with the unmistakable sound of cutlery scraping and tapping against porcelain plates.

There it was, the other event.

Giving in to her curiosity, she peered into the room from which the sounds appeared to be coming from.

Well, that was disappointing, she thought.

It was just another dinner, possibly even more formal, pretentious, and exclusive than the one she had just left behind in the garden. The room was filled with impeccably dressed, hands-behind-their-back servers, and equally elegant, rigidly postured guests, their glasses filled with the finest perlage.

She scanned the room a second time, and her eyes almost popped out of their socket as soon as she realized she had missed the forest for the trees.

If it hadn't made sense before why they had reserved another part of the venue for a different set of attendees, it was clear now.

Up here, it was an entirely different league from the lower gardens. Up here, it was legacy. Sacred glories of the silver screen, already consecrated as pillars of its history.

George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, James Cameron, Quentin Tarantino, Al Pacino, Samuel L. Jackson, Meryl Streep, Morgan Freeman, and other industry giants whose faces she knew but couldn't name were seated at the tables.

Suddenly feeling like a little girl spying on the grown-ups, she withdrew abruptly, causing her shoe to smack against the side of the door with a dry "tock" and a choked imprecation that she fervently hoped no one inside had heard.

She walked until she finally stepped out into the cool air on the terrace.

The last faint shades of color in the sky were giving way to the deeper blue of the impending night, with a few sparse stars already peeking out in the distance above her.

Placing her elbows on the railing and leaning into it, she savored the panoramic view of the gardens below.

The people at the other party appeared so small they looked like indistinguishable, human-like mini figures.

But even from up there, she could see the cluster of sequins from the sparkly suits of Damiano and the other band members. Victoria had taken over the DJ station, while Damiano was carrying Ethan on his back, and Thomas was dancing with a bunch of other guests, fist-pumping the air.

They looked so vibrant and carefree, a kind of lightheartedness she'd never truly felt like her own.

Fishing her phone out of her clutch, she fidgeted with it, passing it idly from one hand to the other.

Should she call him? Apologize, maybe? Explain how things had actually played out? That it hadn't been her intention to kiss him, let alone get photographed doing it.

Her train of thought was suddenly interrupted, her fingers instinctively gripping her phone harder as she picked up the sound of decisive steps approaching behind her.

If it was security coming to kick her out of the prime event, Jessie was going to be so disappointed in her.

She straightened up and said, "Alright, you caught me! No need to make a fuss; I'll head back down—"

"No. You won't," Hayden said.

Chapter Text

Cannes, France. Same night - Martina's POV

She immediately recognized the voice. It hit her brain like an electric shock. Hayden. Oh God.

Seeing him in front of her, his fit body framed by a perfectly tailored suit, sliced right through her heart. He looked so handsome it hurt.

She felt overwhelmed by surprise, confusion, and, somehow, relief.

Relief at seeing him. Relief that he was right here and not halfway across the world where she thought he was. That he was speaking to her when she believed he never wanted to again.

"Hayden. How did you know I was here?" she exhaled, as he slowly moved closer. His face was hard, cold like a stone and intimidating in the worst way.

He showed no hint of a smile, his eyebrows unmoving, and his cheeks as still as his eyes, deadly set on her but with no trace of warmth.

"You're not exactly untraceable these days now, are you?" he hissed, glaring down at her. "In case you didn't know, word travels fast about everywhere that you go. About everything that you do," he continued, his jaw clenching tightly. "And pics...They travel even faster."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She wasn't even sure she had anything to feel sorry for. Yet, somehow, she did.

She swallowed the ball of guilt swelling in her throat, as big as Mars, and tried to stammer out a few mortified words, "Hayden... I'm sorry. The pictures. It's not what it looked—"

He took a few long, impossibly controlled strides toward her that made her stop in her tracks, the tension of his inevitable approach choking her breath and cracking her voice.

"I'll tell you," he said, his voice as harsh as stern, "what it looked like."

She swallowed again, her knees growing unsteady at his words and his tone.

"It looked... like you had quite a lot of fun with him." She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, still not quite touching hers, so cruelly juxtaposed to the coldness of his voice.

For a moment, she imagined how she would feel if the pictures plastered all over the internet were of him kissing someone else.

She felt a hole piercing her through, searing with the same rage that now drenched his voice.

His gaze dropped to her collarbone as he swept her hair away from her neck, grazing its length with his thumb.

"Hayden, it was just—" Her words caught in her throat as his hand moved to the base of her throat, his grip deliberately tightening. The pressure slowed the blood flow to her brain, for just a moment.

"Don't talk unless I tell you to. Understood?" She nodded, and he released her throat.

"You see, I understand the fascination. I do." His fingertips began to caress her bare shoulders.

It was a touch she'd ached for so long, it almost made her cry. It was what she'd missed all these days, but it still lacked the warmth she had imagined it would come with it.

"He's young. A rock star. Successful. Poster boy..." his hand descended, trailing over her arm and forearm.

The phone in her hand buzzed, interrupting his hypnotic movements. She clumsily flipped it over, and both their eyes darted to the screen.

Damiano was calling her. She had disappeared a while ago and without a word. He must have been wondering where she had gone.

"Do you wanna take that?" An uneasy silence followed his question. She looked up to him and slowly shook her head no.

"No?" He asked, condescendingly, "Are you sure?"

She hesitated, then murmured a choked "Yes."

He leaned in, pressing himself against her until her back was pinned to the terrace railing.

Inhaling sharply, he asked, "And why is that?"

Because she didn't care. Because since he had shown up, she had stopped noticing the dusky sky growing darker, stopped feeling the breeze on her skin, stopped hearing the lame lounge music playing a few rooms down. Stopped breathing, since he'd laid his burning eyes on her.

She only whispered, "I just don't want to."

A wicked smile spread across his face. He was feeding off her half-stuttered words like bites of something that, the more he tasted, the more he wanted to devour.

"I'll tell you why." He leaned over her, so close she could feel his hot breath in her ear "It's because he has no clue."

"About what?" she muttered. The phone stopped vibrating in her hands.

"About your whereabouts, for starters," he said with a belittling undertone. "About who you really are."

The phone started ringing with another incoming call. Damiano again. This time, she watched as he took the phone from her hands and into his.

He slid the phone against her skin through the fabric of her dress, moving it over her chest and down her stomach.

Slowly, he let his hand go down further, placing the vibrating phone directly between her legs.

She didn't want to fold—not that quickly, not that easily. But only a few thin, lacy layers separated her clit from the edge of the phone vibrating against it, and he was holding it there with a calculated pressure. She bit her tongue as she tried not to feel it.

"About each and every one of your dirty, filthy wants. And needs," he murmured, circling the angle of the phone against her pussy at just the right pace. "He wouldn't know how to give you what you want if you drew it out for him with crayons."

A wave of pleasure hit her brain like a shooting star streaking across the sky. "Oh god," she whimpered, momentarily losing her balance and grasping the railing behind her to steady herself.

The phone only stopped for a second, before starting back again to vibrate with another incoming call. How many had there been, three already?

"He's stubborn, I'll give him that," he shrugged. "But utterly oblivious," he switched the motion of the phone, moving it up and down on her aching clit, as she felt the feeling of it radiate through her whole body. "He has no idea I'm getting you off to the sound of his desperation, and that you're fucking loving it."

She felt her legs give out and her eyes roll back as he increased the pressure. She tried to stifle the moan rising in her throat, but it was no use.

"He has no idea what a pathetic, whimpering mess you are just minutes after meeting me."

Oh God, she really was. Absolutely, shamefully pathetic. Her breaths were heavy and coming in short gasps, her legs feeling like they were about to falter any second.

"But that's not his fault. He can't know you like I do."

He placed the phone back into her hand and abruptly stopped, leaving her one spark away from exploding from the pleasure he had so forcefully imposed on her.

"Follow me. Now." He said, clipped.

"Where?" She struggled to catch her breath and regain her mental faculties. "I need to go back down. Everyone's looking for me. I can't!"

"You can't. But you will," he said with a wicked grin. "Because you want to. And there's not a single bone in you able to resist."

If lust weren't drowning her brain, she'd throw a shoe at him and tell him to go fuck himself.

But instead, she followed him. Because she wanted to. And because there wasn't a single bone in her able to resist. Fuck him.

She let him lead her back inside and up a side staircase to a corridor of suite rooms, just above where dinner was taking place.

He never turned to check if she was following him, and his silence, interwoven with each of their steps, only heightened the tension that had been building between them.

Moving past the first two doors, he stopped at the third. Retrieving his key card from his pocket, he swiped it over the electronic lock, and pushed the door open for her.

She hesitantly walked in, and noticed a large suitcase next to the closet, with various clothes hanging inside. Some of them had been discarded into a pile, as if they had been accumulating for days.

A little bit further down was a desk, sitting against the wall. It had a bunch of magazines piled on top of it. She cringed internally when she saw her name on the cover, and the photo of her kiss with Damiano.

She needed to make this right. She moved her hair away from her forehead and turned toward him, "Hayden, we need to talk."

He closed the door behind him and stepped toward her, halting beside the desk where she stood.

His eyes caught the magazine cover she had just noticed, and a sour smile curled on his lips.

He reached up to his tie and began undoing it with deliberate, methodical slowness, as if restraining a surge of anger, simmering just beneath the surface.

"What's there to say?" he asked, tossing aside his tie and unbuttoning the top buttons of his white shirt. "You stormed out of my room without even giving me a chance to explain. Then you threw yourself into the arms of some fame-hungry kid to go fuck around."

Fuck, this man was difficult.

She wanted to shove him, punch him. Her voice rose sharply, "Even if I did, why is that any of your concern? What did you say back in London? Random and casual! Nothing serious, right? It means I have no obligations what-so-ever. That's random and casual for you! Causal, just how you like it!"

His face darkened as he exhaled loudly, cornering her against the desk. "I swear to God, if you say 'casual' one more time."

She crossed her arms and retorted. "That's what you said—"

"I know what I said!" He clenched his teeth. "But I flew halfway across the world for you, and believe me, I don't do that randomly. Or casually."

For her? He flew half across the world for her?

No. No. Marti, come on now. Don't be fooled. These are easy words. "You're only here because you've been invited to this—"

"I've been invited here every year for the past 15 years," he said through his teeth. "It's not a coincidence I only showed up this time."

Oh gosh. The suitcase, the clothes—he must have been here for a few days, at least.

"My kid made me watch that show you made a guest appearance on. I kept staring at the TV, and you were..." His eyes, softening for the first time that night, locked onto hers. He paused, opened his mouth, but no words came out. He swallowed hard. "I told my manager I'd be flying to Europe the day after, and he hooked me up with this event. Been here a few days."

Oh god. So he was already here when the pictures came out. Guilt washed over her.

"Hayden, nothing happened with him. I was just... pissed. At you," she said, looking up at him, desperate to make things right. "I went out with him to make you jealous, but I never meant to kiss him or for it to blow up the way it did."

A condescending smile curved his lips, as he reached to move a strand of hair out her face.

"Turn around and face the wall," he said with a definitive, solid tone, and moved her roughly to spin her on her feet. "I'm dying to know...was he enough to take me off your mind?"

She shivered as his index finger slowly hooked under the shoulder strap of her dress, letting it fall off. "No," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Her eyes followed his hand as it undid the other strap.

"No," he repeated, looking at her through the mirror in front of them.

He leaned closer, speaking softly in her ear, "Tell me why, M."

He kissed her neck, his hot tongue tracing its length. He bit hard at the crook, drawing a broken, suffocated sigh from her. "Because he wasn't you," she gasped.

"Because he wasn't me," he repeated, his mouth filling with satisfaction from her words.

His fingers slowly dragged down the fabric of her dress, uncovering her breasts. She swallowed hard, feeling a wave of heat pooling between her legs.

He softly grazed her nipples with his fingertips, just enough to make them harden under his touch.

"So, the next time you think it's a good idea to sneak away and find some cheap replacement"—he leaned in slowly, his weight pressing forward, making her instinctively place her elbows on the desk for support—"remember this."

Her eyes fluttered as he slipped his hands into the back slit of her dress, pulling the sides open wider and higher, uncovering her ass and letting the fabric fall to her waist.

He caressed her hips, so slow and so soft. The touch was barely there, but the thought of what he might do next was enough to send her head spinning.

"Nobody will ever know you like I do," he said, like it was a threat and an oath at the same time.

His breaths were hot in her ears, his fingers dipping inside her panties. "You're my open book and anyone else's shrouded mystery."

His fingertips found her clit in seconds, working it with the lightest touch, and hot bursts of pleasure shot to her brain, sending electric tingles racing down her arms and legs.

It felt inebriating, like liquor. Like that long-awaited first sip after a cursed, drawn-out drought, finally quenching her thirst and shutting her mind down.

"They all see the cover. Some might even read a page or two. But never a whole chapter, let alone the entire story. Feels lonely, doesn't it?" He pushed one finger inside her, coaxing a loud moan and enveloping her spawning body, "I am the only one that can read you. And I don't even have to. I already know what it says."

Fuck, she missed this. The way he penetrated her mind, the abrasive friction of this invasion, and the sweetest release that washed over her when he took control as if it were his own. It was pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

Her cheeks burned as he pulled her closed by her hip, sliding another finger into her cunt. "Oh god," she whined.

His fingers thrust in and out of her, intensifying the irresistible pressure building in her lower abdomen.

And yet, while her body melted under his touch, it was nothing compared to the searing, permanent mark his words were carving into her mind.

"I know who you are in the dark, when no one's watching. I know the deepest, most secret part of you. And unfortunately for you, it is exactly what gets you off."

She didn't know if he was fucking her mind more than he was fucking her cunt, but she felt herself teetering on the edge, ready to be swept away by the waves building inside her.

"That's how I know 'nothing happened' with him. It's because you couldn't get me out of your damn mind." His fingers kept sliding in and out relentlessly, hitting a spot inside her that was making her knees weaker and weaker each passing second.

"But..." he abruptly and mercilessly stopped his fingers just as she was about to explode, leaving her unfulfilled and hanging for the second time tonight. "You did kiss him."

She whimpered at the loss of his fingers inside her. He was enjoying this, she could tell by the satisfied, muffled laugh coming from his throat.

"He kissed me," she said, her breath still catching.

"I still didn't like that," his hands now gripping her hips, his breath hot on her neck, "Bend. Over."

She just...complied. Faster than her brain actually processing his words, every part of her dying to give in.

No one had ever told her to bend over anything, especially not with such an irresistibly demanding voice.

If God himself had come down in that moment and whispered in her ears, it wouldn't have sounded as sweet.

She bent, feeling the smooth, cool surface of the desk against her breasts. Instinctively, she anchored her hands at the edge of it and turned her head to one side.

His breath was getting heavier, threaded with a vein of tightly controlled restraint. He lightly traced his fingers, feather-like, over the bare skin of her ass, and she shivered with the electric, static charge of anticipation.

"On your tiptoes," he commanded. "Don't let your knees give out, or I'll have to start all over again."

"Start what?" she whispered, slipping out of her heels and rising on her toes.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him rolling up his shirt sleeves with focused precision, as if it were part of a sacred ritual.

"Your lesson," he said. She heard the sound first, then felt a sharp sting on her ass cheeks as her eyes flashed wide open.

It was so sudden she almost lost balance, but she managed to hold her position, as waves of pain and sheer, unrestrained pleasure rippled through her brain.

This wasn't like when he had slapped her pussy or her thighs on the jet. Those had been softer smacks, deliberately aimed at making her feel good.

This felt different—punishing. Angrier, like the hand that delivered it. And she couldn't say why, but she was enjoying it even more.

A second, heavier swat hit her on her other ass cheek, coaxing a loud moan from her lips. The surge of pleasure spread through her like uncontrollable fire, obliterating any other sensation in her body with an all-consuming violence she'd never thought possible.

His hand lightly stroked the skin just below the back of her thighs, his breath growing shallower and uneven.

She felt a rush of air as his hand lifted, a subtle puff from the movement, then it came down again, harder than before.

The impact was enough to make her body jolt forward, and yet her lower stomach contracted, her pussy clenched, and she let out a broken cry.

It was as if by some magical force, the pain instantly evaporated, dissolving into a cloud of steamy, raw ecstasy swallowing her whole.

A series of heated slaps, more intense and closer together, left her gasping for air. "Oh god," she moaned, breathless and nearly blinded by pleasure.

"Fuck," he growled. "The idea was to punish you, but it sounds like you're enjoying this way too fucking much."

He continued spanking her, giving her just enough time to catch her breath between each slap.

She closed her eyes, arched her back, and embraced each strike, becoming one with pain and pleasure until she lost count of how many times he'd hit her. Was it ten? Twenty? Thirty? She truly couldn't tell. She still wanted more.

"You think you've had enough?" he asked, his breath tense and raspy. Without waiting for a response, he continued, "What's your lesson, M.? Tell me."

She couldn't even think, let alone speak. She was floating too high to come back down and form words. She let out a suffocated moan, breathless and overwhelmed.

"I asked you a question," he said grunting. "Maybe you really haven't had enough,"

Another blow landed, this one fast and hard enough to almost make her knee buckle, nearly toppling her from her tiptoed stance.

The pain took a moment longer to transform into liquid bliss coursing through her veins and up to her brain. But it did. She steadied herself, gripping the edge of the desk tighter.

"Careful there," he said with a patronizing inflection. "Don't want to tumble down and make me start all over again..."

His other hand reached to grip the hair at the back of her head, and tugged it back a little. "... I'm not sure your sore, pretty ass could handle it."

Another angry, heavy-handed spank. Her whole body spasmed, pushed higher, chasing peaks of pleasure she never thought to reach, without even being touched.

"Oh ffffuck!" She cried out, feeling her skin burn.

"But," he said, caressing the tender skin, the hypersensitivity making her shiver, "judging from the desperate sounds you're making, maybe you'd enjoy it even more. Like the needy, little slut you are."

Oh god. She bit her lip, trying to stifle the loud sound about to come out. Could she really come from spanks and words alone? Was that even possible? Maybe she was going to find out tonight.

He released her hair, his hands gliding down her back, tracing her waist, and moving to her hips. His fingers hooked under the hem of her panties, slowly dragging them down her trembling legs.

As they touched the floor, she stepped out of them one foot at a time, making sure to stay on her tiptoes.

A gasp escaped her, embarrassment flooding her cheeks, as soon as she felt his fingers sliding over her slit, gathering the wetness from her entrance to her clit as he started rubbing it.

"Jesus Christ, you're so fucking wet, M," he said in a self-satisfied, mocking tone. "You just can't help it, can you?"

The pressure he applied on her clit was driving her insane, making it impossible to keep her legs and feet steady. She panted over the desk, her fingers nearly hurting from gripping it so hard.

"'Cause down to your very core, you're a...Fucking. Dirty. Whore." He shoved two fingers inside her without warning, hitting her just on the right spot.

Her legs were hurting with cramps for being on her tiptoes for so long but she'd rather die than break her stance. So she held on, even as he picked up the pace.

Bending over her, he leaned down to her ear, "Are you ready to tell me what your lesson is, M?"

"I don't know," she whispered, feeling her orgasm approaching relentlessly.

He stopped. Again. She whined in desperation. God, not again.

She felt him pulling her upright, spinning her to face him, and then lifting her to roughly set her ass on the desk.

Placing his hands behind her knees, he pried her legs open towards him.

He reached for his zipper and hastily pulled out his already hard cock. Her gaze instinctively dropped down, taking in its thickness as he stroked it.

"Look at me M," he commanded, noticing her distraction. "I'll tell you what your fucking lesson is."

"You might be a dirty fucking whore," he growled, thrusting his cock inside her in one forceful motion, making her erupt in the loudest cry. "But you're my fucking whore."

She threw her head back, the sensation of his thick cock stretching and filling her completely was sending her out of this world, into a state of pure bliss.

"You're MINE. ONLY mine." He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in harshly as he pulled her furiously against him. "Now say it. Who do you belong to?"

"Oh god. To you. I am your fucking whore," she panted, "Only yours."

"Damn right you are," he growled, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing it while he continued to slam his cock inside her. "And who makes you come?"

She felt her walls clenching violently around his cock, the heat and pressure building to the brink of rupture. "You," she panted, "Oh fuck, only you make me come."

"Then fucking come for me," he commanded, his deep, sigh-filled moan pushing her over the edge. "Come all over my fucking cock like the good little whore you are. Now."

The wave of her orgasm crashed over her with an intensity she had never felt before, leaving her frantically consumed by euphoric release.

Her mind went blank for a moment, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. The only proof she hadn't passed out were Hayden's shameless moans in her ear as he thrust a few more times before pulling out and spilling over her thighs.

She relaxed, collapsing with her back against the wall behind her, while he leaned over her, his forehead pressed into the crook of her neck.

They stayed like this for a few moments, catching their breath, before he withdrew and stood up.

He gently cupped her face, lightly swiping his thumb across her cheekbone, then disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later, he returned with a dampened towel and began to clean her.

He kissed her, his mouth soft at first. She realized that, for some reason, this was their first kiss that night.

Reaching up to his neck, her fingers threaded through his hair, savoring every bit of the kiss that felt like hers to claim.

She pressed her body against his, their kiss growing more demanding and devouring as it deepened. The intensity made her think they'd soon be ready for round two if they kept this up long enough.

"Okay, that's enough now. I need to breathe," she said, breaking the kiss and laughing as she playfully pushed him away. "Let me go."

"No," he replied, his lips curving into a smile as he pulled her closer, kissing her again.

She gently pushed him away once more. "Yes, you need to get back to your elitist, fancy dinner with slimy escargots and premier cru champagne."

She picked up her phone from her desk, noticing four missed calls from Damiano and five from Lex. "I'll get back downstairs before my bodyguard sends a whole squad to rescue me. And I still need to talk with Damiano."

His eyes dipped down to the notifications on her screen. "What are you going to tell him?"

"Uh, I don't know... I think I'll tell him about a certain lesson I was taught that—" she attempted to joke, but he interjected.

"Marti," his eyes and voice grew more serious, "I meant what I said. I don't want to share you."

Thank heavens she was sitting. Otherwise, her legs would have truly given out and she would have melted into a pool of her late dignity. Her stomach dropped, did a backflip and came slapping her on the back of her head all in the span of a second.

"I don't want to share you either," she whispered.

He kissed her again and smiled, his eyes now relaxed with a warmth and softness she was seeing for the first time that night.

"When are you flying back to LA?" he asked.

"Actually, I might be stuck here for a few more days. We have this family reunion to attend," she said, with a nervous huff, as she anticipated the stress that usually came with every gathering. "Which, I wish I could escape, but no such luck."

"Well, I am here for a few days more too, so...maybe... if you can't escape it and want some help enduring it, I could come with you," he said nonchalantly, like it was no big deal.

"Come with me?" She looked at him, wide-eyed. "I thought you didn't want to get involved in family time."

"I never said that," he replied. "Family is important to me. I'd like to meet yours and see where you come from and where you grew up."

"So you want to meet my family, but I can't meet yours?" She was sure there was a rational explanation somewhere, but either her ego or her stupidity was somehow blocking the view.

"It's not that," he explained, rubbing his thumb on the side of her neck, "It's just in my case, having a little kid involved makes things a bit more complicated."

"Because of delicate co-parenting dynamics?" she suggested.

"Yeah, something like that." He smiled and kissed her forehead. "Plus, the fact that you happen to be who I'm dating and my kid's biggest obsession and idol makes it also completely uncharted territory."

She laughed, her mind quickly returning to his original offer to carry the burden of this family reunion with her. She pictured the possible outcomes, and a flicker of panic must have shone in her eyes, because he asked, "So, you don't want me to come with you?"

"Uhm... No, I do. But I feel like I should give you all the necessary fair warnings, Hayden. Just to prevent you from speeding out of the driveway, screaming in horror and repulsion, and trying to turn some member of my family into the local authorities or the nearest madhouse."

He burst out laughing, "Jesus Christ! That bad?"

"I mean, I love them but they can be...let's just say it's a fast and furious ride from 'God, I missed them' to 'How do I get out of here?' to 'How am I even related to these people?'". She masked her nervousness with a fake smile.

He cupped her face in his hands and drew her closer. "Families can be like that sometimes. But I want to be there. So don't worry about me. Deal?"

She nodded with an uncertain smile. "Deal."

Chapter Text

Liguria, Italy. May 24th - Martina's POV

"This one? Or this one?" Sara stormed into the bathroom where Martina was brushing her teeth, nervously flipping between two perfectly elegant black cocktail dresses that were indistinguishable to the naked eye.

Marti glanced down at her own oversized Jurassic Park t-shirt draped over mom jeans, and gestured at her casual outfit. "It's not the White House Correspondents' Dinner, Sara," she said with the toothbrush still in her mouth.

She finished brushing her teeth, and quickly chased after her sister, who had impatiently stormed out the bathroom with a frustrated groan.

"It's just a family BBQ with our family, Sara. You're allowed to dress down," Marti said, entering Sara's bedroom.

All her sister's clothes were either neatly folded on the shelves or hanging in her closet. Meanwhile in the room nearby her half-unpacked suitcase sat on the floor with clothes crumpled up inside and scattered all around,

She laughed to herself and shook her head. They really couldn't have turned out more different from each other.

Yet today, as it happened every time they returned home to be with their family, their differences blurred and faded, reminding them that, at their very core, they weren't so different after all.

They were deeply loved as children, and neither of them could recall a single time when their parents had ever raised a hand to them. All their basic needs were always met.

They were unquestionably the top priority of their parents, who made sure they focused on studying and getting good grades, practiced the right amount of sports, were well-traveled and well-read, and attended Sunday mass every week.

As a downside, their parents also happened to value achievements, performance, discipline, conformity, and adherence to socially dictated norms above everything else—especially above their daughters' self determination and emotional well-being.

It often felt like the bar was never high enough for them. Every success was briefly praised, only for the bar to be raised even higher.

And so, growing up, they learned pretty fast just how conditional parental love could be, how tightly tied to meeting certain expectations.

And boy, did they both try to bend themselves out of shape to meet them.

Of course, moving across the world had done wonders for them, severing that heavy umbilical cord and freeing them from their constant judgment and lukewarm approval.

For Marti, this had been the main theme of many $500-an-hour therapy sessions, making things immeasurably better now than they were when she was a kid or a confused teenager.

They were adults now, and their parents had no actual control over their lives anymore. Yet, being back at their house often felt like a time warp, as if they were 16 again—defenseless and hopelessly trapped in the grip of their toxic criticism.

It seemed like they experienced some kind of regression, reverting to old patterns and coping mechanisms developed in their youth, each reflecting their own personal struggles.

While Marti had spent her entire life trying to be as smart, accomplished, and emotionally controlled as their father wanted her to be, Sara had tried to fit every idea of propriety their mother had elevated as the norm.

As a result, Martina's autopilot behavior during these gatherings was entrenching herself in a sort of emotional desensitization chamber. She kept it cool and made things as light and positive as possible, focusing on the good: the joy of reconnecting, the celebration of pleasant memories, carefully dodging any discussion she knew could generate friction or revisit old grudges.

Which was hard, because as their parents got older, the pool of safe topics shrank smaller and smaller as their mentalities diverged further and further. Even contemporary subjects that seemed safe and innocuous were enough to trigger lengthy, hostile debates that ended in dialectical wars.

When she was younger, she had tried to be bolder by openly discussing and educating them, offering new perspectives in the hopes of broadening their views, but it had always been useless, leading only to silent treatments and a palpable sense of resentment.

She could handle it back then, but not anymore. She had lost all her energy for it, and each time she left on bad terms, she was consumed by crippling guilt—especially when returning to the U.S., uncertain of when she would see them again.

What was even tougher for her to admit was that, even though she looked like she had broken free from the psychological grip, if a conversation got really heated and she sensed disappointment from her father, it completely wrecked her emotionally.

So, she endured. She bit her tongue at comments that made her insides boil, sometimes clenching her fists until little crescents dug into her palms whenever their words triggered her.

Sara, on the other hand...well Marti wasn't sure she had any coping mechanism in place at all. She was just her usual overachieving, perfectionist self—only on steroids.

If a bad call with their mom was usually enough to unsettle Sara's day, seeing her in person made Sara's usual confidence and resolve flicker like a candle in the wind.

She took every little remark their mom casually threw around like punches in a boxing match.

Which, considering she'd only ever done ballet, was a poor strategy, because she couldn't block, dodge or spar to save her life.

More often than not, it ended with her leaving the table to go 'fix her makeup' in the bathroom once she ran out of nails to bite.

Marti recognized Sara was definitely the one having the harder time, so she approached her closet and helped her pick out an outfit—one that was comfortable but also satisfied her need to look like a prime minister at a G7 meeting to this domestic get-together.

Then, she stepped beside her sister, who was in front of the mirror, tucking her hair into a sleek, elegant bun secured with at least a dozen pins.

She wrapped her arms around her from behind, "I assure you, that bun is going nowhere. It is bound to you by every law of physics known to mankind. You look beautiful. Now, do your breathing exercises and get dressed. It's only two days. We can survive it."

Marti kissed her sister's cheek and leaned against the door frame on her way out. "Hayden's here. I'll wait for you in the car, okay?"

Sara groaned again, dropping her upright, composed stance. "Ugh, I forgot he was coming too. Does he really need to be there?"

"Don't know about needing. I am still wrapping my head around 'wanting'. I don't really think he has an idea of what he's getting himself into. But look at it this way: he'll be a nice novelty element, and hopefully a distracting one."

Marti flashed a conniving smile at her sister, tapping her temple with her index finger. "They can't obsess over the two of us if they're distracted by him."

Marti left Sara's room, gleefully bouncing down the stairs, skipping out the door and down the driveway.

The car was already parked there, with Lex beside it, helping a staff cleaner wipe away the last droplets from the freshly washed side mirrors.

Nick usually didn't join them on international trips, so they typically hired local drivers. But Lex loved driving, so today she volunteered to take them to their parents' house.

A few feet from the car, Hayden stood waving at her with a smile. He signaled for her to wait a moment, as he was on a call that seemed difficult to end.

She got into the car and buckled herself into the back seat. A minute later, Lex slid into the driver's seat, turned on the windshield wipers, and tilted the rearview mirror, where their eyes met.

Marti couldn't hide her amused smile. "Ready, Lex? Hope you like the circus, 'cause that's exactly what you're gonna get!"

Lex smiled back and nodded, adjusting the seat to fit her large frame. Relaxed and radiant as always, she replied, "Not really a fan, to be honest. But you know I'm always ready—it's my job."

"Speaking of which, Lex," Marti said, leaning closer from the backseat, "you could have reasonably taken the day off. No one is going to hurt me at my parents' house. Not physically, at least."

"I know. But it wasn't you I was worried about today," Lex responded.

Marti didn't have time to fully register it. She wasn't even sure she'd heard it correctly, suddenly distracted by Hayden getting into the car.

She still second-guessed Lex's words, wondering if it was Sara she was referring to and why she was taking such an interest, but Hayden's lips pressed firmly against hers long enough to derail her thoughts.

Marti formally introduced Hayden to Lex, who had never actually met him in person until now, and who —Marti could tell—was struggling to keep the fangirl in her in check.

Sara got in the car right after, opening the front passenger door and quietly taking her place in the shotgun seat, next to Lex.

She acknowledged Hayden's presence with a polite handshake and complimented him on his courage for joining them 'on a day like this.'

Then, she adjusted her giant black glasses and sighed in exasperation. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Lex laughed as she started the car, pulling out of the driveway and beginning the hour-long drive to her parents' house, nestled in the countryside of her hometown in the Ligurian region.

Amidst small talk and light conversations, Marti noticed Hayden's slightly distracted expression, his worried eyes frequently checking for new notifications on his phone.

Before she could ask if everything was alright, his phone rang again. After a brief exchange with the caller, Hayden exclaimed loudly, "Really!? Thank goodness! Thanks, Randy. Alright, talk to you soon."

The relieved tone in his voice, the loudness of it, and his words captured not only Marti's attention but also Sara's, who turned to him, in a silent invitation to explain the backstory behind the call.

Earlier that week, his lawyer had reached out to warn him that Disney's legal team was investigating why his role in Ahsoka—which was supposed to be strictly confidential and protected by a hefty NDA—had begun to leak, and why more and more gossip sites were circulating the news, citing a source close to a cast member.

Sara had been in shock, her eyes wide as she fully grasped the legal and financial consequences of the NDA breach, along with the potential impact on his career.

Thankfully, it turned out that Disney had unleashed their legal hounds for a basic round of investigation only as a sort of standard procedure, but then decided not to pursue it further.

Since the show was about to air, all this talk had generated tremendous hype around it, probably benefiting the show more than harming it.

The conversation, involving business dynamics she was well-acquainted with, proved to be an enticing comfort zone for Sara, stimulating her interest and further questions. "But how do you think it leaked? Who did you tell?" she pried.

"My mom and my brother have known since the day I was booked, as for any other project I've ever been a part of," he replied. "I doubt it leaked from them. The only other person who knew is..."

She already knew how to fill in the blank: her. Oh God, it was her, and the realization made her stomach churn.

"Well, her," he finished the sentence, turning to look at Marti.

"Hayden, I swear I didn't tell anyone!" Marti instinctively tried to reassure him, hoping with all herself he'd believe her.

After all, they had fallen out a bit, and she had sought some kind of revenge over him. But trying to make him jealous was one thing and jeopardizing his whole career was another. She understood the difference and she wasn't sure he knew that.

"Yeah, she would never," Sara agreed, nodding matter-of-factly. "I've been drilling cautionary tales about breached NDAs into her for the last ten years. I've tried to instill this ancestral fear of them in her—"

"Well, thank you, Sara," Martina scoffed, "for implying that the only reason I wouldn't do it is because of your repeated efforts to condition my mind into fearing NDAs, rather than because I'm a decent person."

Hayden laughed and reached for her hand, squeezing it and leaning toward her ear to whisper, "Never took you for much of a snitch."

His words relieved her, but an uneasy feeling lingered. How did he know it hadn't been her? And most importantly, who had actually done it?

Lex changed the subject, asking why their parents had chosen to stay in the house where they grew up. Marti began to explain that, despite their many offers to buy them a new, larger home, their parents had always turned them down.

She was just about to mimic their father's familiar refrain about not wanting to leave a house bought with "their own means, a lifetime of sacrifice, and hard work" when Sara abruptly interrupted with a question for Hayden.

"When did you tell her you were going to be in Ahsoka?" Sara asked, her phone in hand and the Notes app open, as far as Marti could see from the backseat.

"Uhm," Hayden sounded puzzled, "on the jet to London."

"Who was there with you? Could someone have overheard you?" Sara pressed further.

"It was just us and the pilots in their cabin, so no," Hayden replied politely, seemingly ignoring the fact that Sara's behavior was bordering on paranoid.

Sara turned to Martina in the backseat and lunged toward her, snatching the phone out of her hands. She removed the case and meticulously ran her fingers along the edges, like she was inspecting it closely for any signs of tampering.

A jolt of anxiety rushed through Martina as she tried to decode her sister's apparently unhinged behavior. Sara knew Marti wouldn't tell a soul about it, and she had just learned they were alone when they discussed it.

The only explanation for her to act like this just now, was that she suspected someone might have overheard them, or worse, purposely listened in.

Marti reached forward to get her phone back and hissed, "Stop it, right now!" Even considering the chilling possibility that Sara was onto something, now was definitely not the time to look like a derangedly neurotic Veronica Mars.

Jeez. She glanced at Hayden, feeling a bit embarrassed as she tried to gauge his reaction.

If he was bothered or bewildered by the sudden interrogation, he hid it well. He squeezed her hand and turned to look out the car window, taking in the maritime pines and palms lining the Riviera roads.

She realized that of all the madness she had warned him about, she'd pointed the finger to her extended family, and she had forgotten to mention their own specific brand—the one unraveling right there in the car.

After all, it was true what they said: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Chapter Text

Liguria, Italy. May 24th - Martina's POV

"Ah, le mie ragazze!" Their mother, Bianca, cheered in her high, sugary tone of voice as she welcomed them.

*Translation: "Ah, my girls!"

She rushed out onto the porch of their childhood home. Her long, elegant beige dress flowed around her and cascaded in graceful layers, perfectly framing her elegant and slender silhouette.

Marti couldn't recall a time in her life when their mother had ever let herself go.

Her hair was always meticulously styled in a vintage blowout—and by vintage, she meant the '50s, not some '80s mullet, god forbid.

She never stepped out of the house without perfume and makeup, and she'd sooner cut her finger than have chipped nail polish.

Bianca had always been very naturally thin but had always kept in shape alternating aerobics, pilates, power yoga and Zumba. None of this had changed now that she was in her 70s.

She had been an elementary school teacher her whole life, teaching Italian and history.

She often said that her passion was teaching little kids, but over time, this passion had transformed into an irresistible urge to dispense lessons to everyone, even outside the classroom—and whether they asked for one or not.

Bianca spread her arms wide to engulf them both in a big hug.

Always started like this. Always ended with a cluster headache.

She dragged the embrace a little longer than necessary, then yelled to everyone and no one in particular, "Oh, let me hold them before they're gone again, my little Halley's Comets—orbiting around their family once every twenty years!"

It wasn't plural. There was only one Halley's Comet. And the orbital period wasn't twenty years, it was around seventy-six. But Marti decided not to argue about it.

Their dad came running after their mom and quickly kissed Sara on the cheek before throwing his arms around Marti.

"How's my shining star?" he exclaimed loudly. "You have to see what we have planned for tonight! I got that red wine you love, and I made your favorite—trofie al pesto!"

He was wearing his signature look—a polo shirt and capris—which always made him look as if he had just been golfing until two minutes ago. It was funny, considering he had never played a day of golf in his life.

He had thick, salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that were the exact same shade as Sara's. Their facial features and rectangular body shape were strikingly similar as well.

Martina, on the other hand, had inherited her dark hair, and high cheekbones from their mother, and her curves from Bianca's mother.

"Enzo, let her breathe," her mother told her dad, as Marti tried to catch her breath from the suffocating hug.

Their dad hadn't been particularly affectionate during their childhood. Marti remembered him as a strict, serious, and rather austere man, not very comfortable with displays of affection.

As a Sales Director of a local company, he was intensely focused and stressed over his job, frequently traveling and often out of the country.

He began to bond with them more as they grew older, and as he started to scale back his work commitments in preparation for retirement.

Marti didn't know if it was retirement, the fact that both his daughters had moved half across the world all at once, or just the fact that he was getting old, but in recent years, he had softened up and eased into a more relaxed version of himself. Most of the time.

As soon as the obligatory round of greetings and hugs with their aunts, uncles and cousins ended, Marti glanced back at Hayden, who had been waiting a few steps behind, and at Lex, who had just stepped out of the car.

In the background, she heard her mom asking Sara if she had put on weight before pinching her waist and joking that all that American junk food must have finally managed to slow down her metabolism after all.

Marti quickly pulled her sister away from their mom's unsolicited remarks and asked her to help with the introductions.

Their parents greeted Lex and Hayden with a mild and polite level of excitement.

Lex was a complete stranger to them, and Hayden was no different.

They had lived their 70 years without ever watching Star Wars and felt no need to consume American popcorn flicks, thank-you-very-much.

They preferred Italian movies, and typically longed for intellectual prowess in their entertainment choices.

Whether it was music or films, their judgment moved along two sole main criteria: the older and more existentially distressing something was, the better.

So yeah, Star Wars—or even Martina's music, for that matter—was not their prime choice.

However, they soon realized he was somewhat famous when Sara and Marti's nerdiest cousin, Marco, yelled out an incredulous, "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!" in the thickest Italian accent known to mankind.

Marco promptly patted Hayden on the back, shook his hand enthusiastically, and asked for a selfie, all before urging his son to fetch some action figures from their collection in the house nearby to snatch some autographs.

Their three cousins, all around the same age as Martina and Sara, had done life right in Bianca and Enzo's humble opinion.

They had secure, normal jobs, they never left their hometown, and they had bought houses less than five minutes away from their own family.

They got married and had children all by the age of 30, following what Martina and Sara's dad loved to call the normal steps of life. And their parents loved very few things more than the concept of normal.

Marti, on the other hand, had committed the original sin in her father's eyes by not finishing university.

When she won XFactor, she was just a few exams from earning her degree, but then things just sort of blew up, and she had to drop out.

It wasn't like she could ask the record label offering her a multimillion-dollar deal in the U.S. to wait until she passed Financial Math and completed her final thesis.

It really didn't matter that she had become a global sensation in the meantime, earning an insane amount of money, a shitload more than she could have ever made with a normal life.

As her dad often said, unlike education or culture, fame and money were fickle companions that could vanish overnight, leaving her empty-handed. And sorry-assed. He didn't phrase it like that, but he might as well.

Given that everyone at the table spoke English but no one felt particularly confident—except for their dad—the conversation had comfortably revolved around light and easy topics. Politics and social issues hadn't come up yet, which was a relief.

It still didn't stop her dad from inquiring about Hayden's private life, asking how long his marriage had lasted and how soon after having a baby he had split from his ex.

Hayden answered patiently and politely until Marti switched to Italian to ask her dad to stop the interrogation.

And she prayed that whatever familiarity Hayden might still have with the language prevented him from understanding her mom's occasional comments about him.

Like when she pointed out that divorces in Hollywood are no big deal, with people swapping spouses as casually as they change their underwear.

After the first course, the younger one of their cousins announced her third pregnancy, followed by applause by everyone at the table.

"Congratulations, Francesca and Paolo!" Their mom exclaimed, raising her glass in a celebratory cheer. "Since the heavens have yet to bless me with grandchildren of my own, at least I can still enjoy having little kids around thanks to you! I mean, with these two," she hinted at Marti and Sara, "I better not hold my breath, am I right?"

"You know who's holding their breath, though? Thousands of people every time your daughter takes the stage to perform a platinum album she wrote, for which your other daughter designed the promo strategy and a record-breaking world tour." Hayden, who had been mostly silent until now, spoke with a calm politeness that somehow still felt like a slap in the face.

Sara dropped her fork onto her plate with a baffled expression, while Marti felt her heart swell so much it could have burst from her ribcage.

She didn't look at Hayden, but she smiled down at the plate in front of her, feeling his proud eyes on her.

A brief moment of silence followed, punctuated by the deafening noise of cicadas from the surrounding fields, the sizzle of meat grilling on the barbecue next to their table, and the faint scraping of cutlery against plates.

"Well, we know, Hayden," their father interjected, slightly affronted. "We're very proud of our girls and fully aware of how successful they are."

"What I was trying to say is that there's a time for everything. Nature has its own timing. And if you miss it, you might end up regretting the greatest joy a woman could ever feel." Bianca seized yet another opportunity to bless everyone with an unrequited lesson.

Marti looked down at her wine glass, counting the tiny bubbles rising to the surface. She was convinced that by the time she reached twenty, their parents would surely realize how invasive and gratuitous this conversation was. Right?

"Well, never say never," Lex chimed in, having mostly engaged in conversations with the little kids next to her until then. "People tend to get pregnant later now than they used to back in the day."

"People?" Their dad scoffed. "You mean women?"

"No, I mean people," Lex repeated, though still radiating her characteristic positivity as she took a bite of the bread in her hand. "Besides, I believe everyone has the right to discover what their greatest joy in life will be beyond predetermined options. Isn't that the true meaning of life?"

Lex's tone didn't seem polemic, or political to Marti. It had probably just come out naturally, reflecting the radiant and open person she was. Like she was just thinking out loud and voicing her easiest and clearest thoughts.

Yet, it was enough to make her mother stiffen in her seat and subtly scrunch her nose, ready to counter what she perceived as a personal attack.

"Marti?" A squeaky voice suddenly interrupted the heated mood. It was Lucrezia, the 7-year-old pigtailed daughter of her oldest cousin, who had been carefully observing her and Hayden from across the table. "Was your last song about him?"

Marti shot a fleeting glance at Hayden, who looked quietly pleased with himself. She then turned to the little girl, whose mouth had been playfully covered by her mother in a late attempt to shush her.

"Well, Lucrezia, art isn't made for me to tell you what to take from it. Art is open to interpretation... it's about whatever you want it to be about." It was a realistic answer, but it likely just went over a 7-year-old's head. God, she was good with children.

The dinner progressed somewhat pleasantly until the punctual moment when her dad asked Martina to tell him everything about what she had been doing and what she was currently working on.

It would always start as a nice, celebratory moment until, without fail, the 'in-my-opinions' kept piling up, accompanied by increasingly critical comments.

They were usually not only directed at Martina, but also at how things could have been managed better, which had Sara sitting back, biting her nails and torturing her fingertips until they bled.

"Marti, can you take me to America so I can become a singer like you?" Lucrezia asked, captivated by the glittering world she was getting to hear all about. Her mom rolled her eyes, not taking her daughter's wish too seriously.

"Oh, baby, maybe when you're older," Marti said, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling that gripped her whenever she thought about little kids in the entertainment world.

"But you know what you should do in the meantime? Write down all the songs that you can think of! About anything that makes your heart explode with joy!"

Lucrezia nodded enthusiastically, ecstatically fueled by this new mission. "I'm going to write a song about ice cream! Right now! And I'll sing it to you when I'm done!"

Marti laughed, watching her run off to write what would one day surely be a Grammy-winning song about ice cream.

The other kids took it as a signal that their mandatory time at the table with the grown-ups was over and that they could enjoy the fun part of the evening, running and playing like little rascals in the yard. Bless their untouched innocence.

The industry was a scary, demanding, dangerous, and ruthless place, even for adults.

Over the years, Marti and Sara had concluded that the main reason they had managed to survive it was that, even if they had been catapulted into it rather suddenly, at least they were grown enough not to be swallowed whole by it. And most importantly, they had each other.

"Trust me. Keep her far away from Hollywood for as long as you can," she told Lucrezia's mom with a worried tone. "Kids and entertainment... not a good match."

"Come on now, it can't be all bad," her father replied.

She shot him an incredulous look. "No, you're right. It's not all generically bad—there are many vividly disturbing shades to it."

Marti shot a glance at her sister, searching for a knowing look, but she was nervously bouncing in her seat, her eyes flitting nervously between different people at the table. Lex, on the other hand, was calmly and casually sliding a chicken wing onto Sara's plate.

Sara had eaten only a few grilled eggplants and probably a grand total of five lettuce leaves as her whole meal that night.

It always got worse when they were back home. All the progress she'd made over the years seemed to vanish for a few days.

"Living with Americans is starting to hinder your dialectical skills. It's all cheap clichés and poor critical reasoning," her father remarked with the usual contrarian and careless attitude he always displayed when irritated. "No offense, Hayden."

"I'm... Canadian," Hayden clarified with a slightly puzzled expression that might have made her laugh if she hadn't been busy keeping her cool and not reacting to her father.

She remained silent, biting her tongue, and kept her gaze fixed on her sister in front of her.

It wasn't helping, though. Sara hadn't touched her chicken and was biting her fingers like she had ten more to spare.

Marti noticed her mother reaching to take Sara's hand out of her mouth, whispering something about still not being able to control this 'bad habit' of hers.

It was in moments like these that she realized she really should have practiced the anger management techniques her therapist had suggested—all those count-to-ten exercises she had always foolishly dismissed.

Moments like these, when she felt the snake of resentment hissing and writhing in the sands of the complacent, quiet life she had buried it in.

She took a deep breath. "I wish it was a cliché, Dad. Do you know how many child molesters are out there in the industry? It's not the rarity you think it is."

"But you just told us how there were many children on set at your last acting job, and that you all had fun!" he insisted, determined to prove his point and demonstrate to everyone at the table how sound critical judgment was exerted.

Why did it always have to feel like a trial where she was called to defend a thesis he would never let her win?

"I did, but I stand by what I said. Even in a safe environment, it's tough work. A 5-year-old fell asleep three times during a scene once. And they woke him up to keep filming every single time!" She could hear her voice rising, realizing she had fallen into her dad's trap and now felt like a defendant in court. "Don't you think that child would be better off at home, warmly tucked up in bed, falling asleep in his parents' arms, rather than working on a tight schedule on set, living with performance anxiety before he's even lost all his baby teeth?"

"Oh, come on!" The judge dismissed her counterargument. "That kid gets to have experiences and tell his schoolmates about exciting stuff they'll probably envy him for!"

"He's still not free to fully be himself like any child should. To live out his whims, especially when they don't fit into the production schedule! It's not like he can sit it out if he's feeling sad, tired, or angry, and I would never expose my child to that!" she insisted.

"Well, if I were the director, I'd have ten kids of the same age lined up, ready to pick the one who seems more likely to perform well that night," he scoffed. "Children in entertainment can mix. It's always worked out great and it always will."

"It never has," Hayden interjected unexpectedly. He had been following the back-and-forth between her and her dad like a tennis match, much like everyone else still at the table. "Many child actors carry the scars of being exposed to the industry much too early, and they deal with those scars all their lives."

"It's a goddamn lack of discipline. Kids need to learn that from a young age. Control their feelings, set aside their special snowflake inclinations, and do what is asked of them."

The judge hit the little hammer to deliver his verdict.

"I disagree. The only thing I feel like asking of my daughter is to be her free, happy self. And even then, she doesn't owe me that," Hayden said, taking over the torch of this exhausting debate. "It's her life to live. Not mine to dictate."

The words sank into her like soft, soothing balm she wished she'd had handy when she was growing up.

She casually glanced at her mom's poorly concealed expression of disdain, watching as she clutched her pearls, probably still grappling with the fact that Hayden had a daughter from a failed marriage—something her conservative mindset found inconceivable.

Her dad, on the other hand, had turned a shade not too dissimilar from the red grilled pepper next to him on the table, his chest puffed up with wounded pride and indignation at being so openly and blatantly contradicted.

It was time to change the subject. Her mother snapped out of her mild shock just in time to grab the dessert she'd made.

"Who wants cake?" she asked in a sing-song voice, flashing her fakest, most rehearsed smile. "Speaking of daughters, since we're on the subject," she continued, her tone gleaming with anticipation as she cut the cake into small pieces, "do you girls remember Elena, the mayor's daughter?"

Marti and Sara idly nodded. They didn't know Elena very well, but they did remember her grand wedding.

She had married young while they were still living in their hometown, and the ceremony had been extravagant—complete with drones, a dance ensemble of girls dressed as fairies, and the Harlem Gospel Choir. That was something you didn't see every day, especially in a small town like theirs.

"Well, she ran away to Brazil..." Bianca paused for suspense, "with a woman!"

"Brazil, wow! Good for her," Marti remarked, lifting her glass in a half-hearted toast to the news.

"Less good for her husband," Lex quipped, eliciting a small snort from Marti.

"It was so unexpected! She never...seemed like that kind of person!" her mother said, settling back into her seat after serving everyone dessert.

"Think of her poor father. I can't imagine his desperation!" Enzo chimed in from across the table.

"The time difference with Brazil is not that bad from here. It's only 4 hours, even less than with LA. I'm sure they can keep in touch—you know, Facetime to shorten the distance," Lex suggested.

Oh Lex. Sweet child of summer.

Martina had endured too many narrow, right-wing debates at Christmas tables to miss that the desperation her father meant wasn't related to the challenging mileage.

"Putting some kilometers between them might be the only positive thing Elena did for him," her mother's mouth twisted with polite contempt. "At least he won't have to watch her strut and flaunt her new lifestyle around town."

Marti closed her eyes at the words and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She couldn't do it, not tonight, not for the hundredth time. She was too exhausted to engage in this conversation straight out of the Middle Ages.

She looked up at Lex's shocked face, Hayden's bewildered frown, and Sara, tense as a violin string, biting her nails again.

Martina felt the snake inside her hissing again but this time she wouldn't take the bait.

She was over it—the hateful conversation, the dinner, everything. She needed to escape the table and get some air, maybe take a walk with Hayden. Maybe down to the old windmill where she used to go when she was—

"It's not a lifestyle, Mrs. Moreschino." Lex spelled out, with furrowed brows and a tightened jaw she'd never seen on her face.

"Damn right it's not! It's a full-on disgrace!" His father raised his voice, coming out choked by his scorn.

"Oh my God, dad!" Marti snapped.

"What? Don't think you can bring your godforsaken ideas into this home. I've made it to 75 years old with my values and sure as hell I'm not about to change them now because Hollywood made this twisted inclination a new normal!" He spat the words out with anger.

Oh shit. Time seemed to freeze as Marti's eyes widened in shock and shame.

She watched as Lex stiffened, took a deep breath, and slowly set her fork down, clasping her hands together in a visible effort to regain her composure.

Sara slowly shook her head no at Lex, who seemed to bite back her words and focus on big calming breaths.

Silence and embarrassment were now filling the air, an irrefutable byproduct of decades of missed therapy sessions.

Sara shot up from her seat to go take an urgent call, leaving everyone else at the table with a lingering bitterness and a strong desire to leave as well.

"Well, let's not argue over this anymore. After all, it's not our problem, right?" Her mother tried to patch up the dinner's mood, which was now ruined for everyone.

Marti excused herself from the table and signaled for Hayden to follow. They made their way to the group of kids and cousins who were gathered around the fire, eagerly awaiting the fireworks that the local festival was set to launch at midnight.

As they approached the group, she cleared her throat and looked up at him, her face flushed and ashamed. "I'm really sorry about all that. I'm sorry I even brought you here."

He shook his head and shrugged. "Don't worry about me. Are you okay?"

"I'm..." She was mortified, emotionally drained and overstimulated, though sadly accustomed to it all. "...Can you give me ten minutes alone? Will you be alright?"

"Of course," he smiled warmly, "I promised your cousin to sign all his Star Wars Funko POPs anyway. I'm sure I'll be fine."

She squeezed his hand in return and walked from the garden to her parents' house, heading straight to the bathroom on the first floor. Once inside, she shut the door and tried to regain control of herself.

After a few minutes, she realized there was only so much better she could actually feel.

Her priority now was to find her sister and check on her. She needed to remind her, and herself, that their parents did love them.

They just had unresolved issues of their own, too ingrained and too old to address at this point. They simply had to accept this and hold on a little longer before they could go back to their own lives.

She went down the stairs, and as she approached the living room, she heard the familiar voice of Lex coming from inside.

Instinctively she thought to join them, but then something in Lex's tone of voice told her not to, so she stood there, unseen behind the door frame.

Peeking into the room, she saw Sara with her face covered in tears. Lex was standing right in front of her, speaking with a fire she was very aware Lex was capable of but that she had never seen before.

Lex gently cupped Sara's cheeks in her hands, wiping away her tears. "Sara, you're the most badass person I know. And I've been in the army, so I don't say that lightly."

Sara managed a smile through her sobs, and Lex continued, "You can't let anyone treat you like that. Screw them, even if they're your parents. Fuck them. There's absolutely nothing wrong with you. Nothing. You should be celebrated every day, not tolerated, changed, or corrected."

Another tear rolled down Sara's cheek, and Lex gently wiped it away. "You should just be...loved. Your light shines too brightly for anyone to tell you to shine differently."

Sara's sobs intensified. "Come here," Lex said, engulfing Sara in a tight hug that she disappeared into.

Marti stepped back behind the wall, suddenly feeling like an intruder in a moment that was too private—or even...intimate?

Could it be...?

No, that couldn't be right.

Sara had only ever dated guys. Disastrously, yes.

But she had never said or done anything that gave Marti the impression she was interested in anyone other than men.

If Sara had suddenly discovered a new side of herself, Marti was pretty sure she'd know about it.

Not because she thought her sister owed her a declaration of sorts for her to approve or accept, but because they talked about everything.

Sara knew she could tell her sister anything and she'd get nothing but openness and love.

Maybe a little bit of surprise, yes.

But then she'd react however Sara wanted her to. If Sara wanted a celebration, she'd throw a parade. If she didn't want to make a fuss about it, she'd give her a nod, flash the peace sign, and never talk about it again.

But Sara knew all of this.

Oh god, Marti thought as shivers of anxiety made her head dizzy. Did she?

And by the way, when had Lex and her sister gotten this close? And since when Lex knew how to talk to her?

Marti had always believed that sharing the same family, she was the only one who knew how to support her sister through this—helping her endure and turn a blind eye, just as she had always tried to do.

But she had been wrong all along. All it took to make her see that, was hearing Lex speak with such fierce conviction, saying exactly the opposite of what she had always told her sister.

Lex had never spent a lifetime entangled in these dysfunctional dynamics. She saw them for what they truly were—harmful and unfair.

And she had just given Sara exactly what she needed—and deserved: not enabling justifications or encouraging endurance, but recognition and freedom.

The right of choosing herself over the hurt they were causing her.

The image of Sara wrapped in Lex's strong arms replayed in her mind, along with the sound of her sister's liberating sobs.

Tears brimmed in her Marti's eyes. As she felt panic and cold sweats taking over her body, her heart broke for Sara in thousand pieces, in all the worst possible ways.

Chapter Text

Liguria, Italy. Same night - Hayden's POV

He hadn't minded spending the past half hour with the younger, and by far the most normal, part of Martina's family.

Sharing behind-the-scenes tidbits of his cinematic life with her cousin and skillfully dodging intrusive questions about his upcoming classified projects was still better than whatever shit had gone down at dinner.

But, she had said she would only be gone for ten minutes. It was getting late, the fireworks were about to start, and she still hadn't returned. He fished his phone out of his pocket to text her and ask where she was.

A few minutes later, as Marco's kid whacked him on the back with the most plasticky toy lightsaber he'd ever seen, he heard his phone go off with a text from her.

Martina: 'I'm up in my room. Sorry, lost track of time. I'll get back down in a second.'

Lost track of time doing what, exactly? He looked up at the first floor of the house. Only one room was lit up, and he could see her silhouette pacing back and forth.

Something didn't look right.

He reached the house and climbed the stairs to a short corridor with three doors.

The first door was slightly ajar and led to a bathroom. The second door was on the wrong side of the house for a garden view, so it had to be the last door on his left.

He approached the door and smiled as he noticed an old wooden sign from the '90s with a pink-flowered "M" on it. He knocked gently and called, "Marti, are you in there?"

He heard something fall to the floor, followed by a muffled but still audible "Shit," before she opened the door.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm late, I'm here!" She said, rushing to flick the light off.

When she opened the door, she made a conscious effort to avoid looking him in the eye, but he could see her face was red and wet.

He stood in the doorway, blocking her path and flicking the light back on. "Have you been crying?"

She braced herself, looked at the floor, and shook her head. "It's nothing. Let's just go see the fireworks."

It didn't look like nothing. Whatever it was, it had kept her up there for the past half hour. He stepped toward her, backing her into the room.

"We're not going anywhere until you tell me what you've been crying about," he said, closing the door behind him. She sighed and pressed her fingertips to her still-moist eyes.

"Yeah, that would take all night," she said bitterly, wiping her hands on her jeans. "I don't want us to miss the fireworks. Besides, this is already so much worse than I anticipated when I asked you to come. I really don't want to make it any worse. So, can we just go now?"

They could. He could ignore what was clearly going on inside her, not too hidden beneath the surface, and proceed with the night as if nothing had happened.

He could make a cocky joke about how quickly he could make her forget all about it, and move right past it.

In fact, that had been his default approach for the past few years.

Just keeping the lid on, to avoid an inconvenient overflow of feelings that he simply didn't know what to do with.

This time though, he felt like he actually wanted to know. It didn't even feel like it was someone else's problem.

In a way he couldn't fully grasp, it felt like it was his own as well, as if the line of separation between them had become paper thin.

"You didn't ask me to come. I volunteered," he said, sitting down on the edge of her bed. "We do have all night. So no, we're not going. Now, what made you cry?"

"I just, I...I..." she groaned, nervously scratching her forehead and starting to pace again, "I just sat back and said nothing. I stood up for fucking children in the industry. And I don't even have children in the industry! Or children at all, for that matter! But I didn't stand up for...oh God... Who knows how many times she must have needed me to...I just said nothing!"

He furrowed his eyebrows, and tilted his head asking himself what the real truth of the matter was, because it was clear from her disconnected speech that they weren't there yet.

"It didn't look like there was too much room for an open conversation, or even—" he began.

"I was just selfish! Like I've always been!" she interrupted him, clearly too caught up in her own train of thought.

"Selfish how? You can't fight a battle every time you talk with them. And you can't change them if they don't want to be changed, Marti. Don't blame yourself for it."

"No, you don't understand!" she said, her voice dripping with exasperation. "All my life, I've bent over backwards to impress him, trying to meet his expectations and breaking my back in the process. It was SO FUCKING EXHAUSTING," she punctuated each word slapping the back of one hand against the palm of the other. "Especially when I started having different opinions than them..."

Looking at her gesticulating at a speed that was probably enough to count for cardio and listening to the cracks in her voice was enough to tug at his heartstrings.

"...and fighting back always strained me, physically and emotionally. So whenever something wasn't strictly about me, I just stood back and took a breather. I thought I was just taking turns with her but all I was was SELFISH!"

"I'm sure you did what you could, Marti," he tried to reassure her, mostly because she looked like she was about to spin out of control and self-combust if he didn't calm her down in time.

"No, I didn't!" she yelled, stopping her pacing and turning to face him, just a foot away. "I should have fought back more. She wouldn't be crying now if I—"

Her voice broke in a way that made his stomach clench, and she burst into uncontrollable sobs. He stood up and stepped closer, pulling her in and holding her head against his chest.

"Your sister?" He asked, hesitantly, unsure how much she wanted to share.

"I thought she was just hiding her bleeding fingers and food issues, just like I was hiding my anxiety attacks and repressing my feelings until I questioned whether I had any left. But what if that wasn't all she was struggling with? What if I missed other...things? And for how long?" Her tears soaked his t-shirt. "Oh god, I was so selfish," she whispered, her voice shaky and choked.

He felt like he was missing some piece of information here, but he got the feeling she was past the need for venting or reassurance, now.

She was caught in an anxiety spiral and needed to calm down.

He gently took her hands and guided her through a breathing exercises she had once told him about: inhale to a count of 4, hold for 4 seconds, then exhale for a count of 4.

Admittedly, it wasn't rocket science. But she had explained to him that many people mistakenly believe they need to calm their mind first to control their breathing, when it's actually the other way around.

By focusing on regulating your breaths, you simultaneously slow down everything else in the body, including the mind.

Once she had finally calmed down, he turned off the bedroom light and sat on the bed, guiding her to sit between his legs with her head resting on his chest.

He began stroking her hair, inhaling her violet scent. They sat like that in the semi-dark room, illuminated only by the moonlight and a muted lamp in the corner. They remained in silence until her tears stopped.

"Are you feeling better?" He asked, trying to gauge her expression, which was hard to see as she faced away from him.

"Yes," she breathed out softly. "Can we stay here? I don't feel like going down anymore."

"We can do whatever you want," he replied, kissing her head. Then he whispered in her ear. "Marti, it's very difficult to fix something you didn't break in the first place."

"I know, but I—" she began, likely about to spiral again.

"Uh-uh, it's your time to listen now," he interrupted. "Whatever you think you 'missed' about your sister wasn't yours to catch. She probably wasn't even keeping it from you. I'm sure if you talk to her, you'll find she doesn't blame you for it."

"I hope so," she sighed.

The sudden roar of fireworks echoed in the distance, lighting up the room with each explosion as different colors and shapes pulsed in time with the bursts outside.

"I think your environment was challenging for both of you in different ways," he said. "And you both did your best with what you had."

He wasn't sure if she was convinced, but he heard her take a deep sigh and noticed she seemed calm again, her breathing finally back to a regular pace.

"Hayden?" She shifted in his arms to face him, her glistening cheeks reflecting the fireworks outside. "I thought it was going to be a normal dinner. It usually takes a few days for things to get like this, not the very first night. I didn't mean to throw you into all this drama." She placed a hand on his face and kissed his lips. "So thank you for not speeding out of the driveway."

Surprisingly, even for him, he hadn't thought about it a single time. Ironically, he felt like he was exactly where he wanted to be.

And he didn't need to be thanked for that.

"Honestly, I can't say I was shocked by what I saw tonight," he smiled and kissed her back.

She propped herself up. "Really? You were expecting all this madness?"

"Not the specifics, no. But if you'd asked me to guess what your family was like three weeks into knowing you, I could have outlined almost every fucked up dynamic I've seen tonight."

"Really?" She steadied herself on his shoulders, swinging her legs over him and settling into a straddle position.

He could see in her eyes, her movements, and the breathiness of her voice that her mood was shifting. "And what would you have written?"

"Probably something about being raised in a home where accomplishments and performance define your self-worth," he said tentatively, as her fingers kneaded the hair on the back of his head.

"Definitely true," she said, diving in to softly kiss him on his lips. Instinctively, he placed his hands on her waist, pulling her closer. He opened his mouth to kiss her back, his tongue slowly twisting against her.

"What else?" she asked, their lips less than an inch away from each other.

"Something about discipline," he said slowly, pondering each word. "Orders...obedience...approval...praise." He noticed her pupils dilating softly, her eyelids fluttering slightly as he spoke.

He'd seen her do that many other times, when he intentionally said things he knew would turn her on. And he could see just how his words were affecting her right now. They were kind of affecting him too.

But it was a very thin line...

"What else?" She asked, as she leaned in to kiss his neck.

"Something about expectations...punishment...pain...reward...Pleasure." He felt her hot, wet tongue lick the length of his neck as she softly ground against him.

His cock involuntarily twitched against her pussy through his jeans, eliciting a soft, breathy whimper out of her, that made him even harder.

She must have felt it, because the second after, she was moaning in his ear, "Oh god Hayden, please. Make me feel good."

Fuck. Not that moaning voice. He already wanted her bad enough. He wanted to roll her over, tear her clothes off, pin her to the mattress, and fuck her senseless until she screamed his name.

But that needed to fucking wait, didn't it? He straightened himself up and pushed her back a little.

Not only because she was probably still in a very raw, emotionally vulnerable state and not in the right headspace for this.

But also, because he had just spelled out all of her childhood traumas in ten words or less, and she had mistaken it for dirty talk. And it didn't take a psychology major to realize that there was a conversation to be had.

"Marti," he said, summoning all his self-control as he sidestepped her attempt to kiss him again. "Wait. We need to talk about something."

"What? Now?" she protested. "I don't want to talk right now. But you know what I do want? I want you to bend me over and spank me harder than you did back at—"

"Jesus Christ, woman," he said, shutting his eyes closed and feeling his cock twitch again violently in his jeans at the image conjured in his head, "PLEASE. Be quiet for a minute. And listen."

She huffed, rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine. Talk."

Good. He got her attention. Now what?

Where should he start?

Admittedly, his etiquette was not always perfect, sometimes it was even more relaxed than it needed to be.

But this was too important to mess up, so he took the long way round just to be extra careful with it. With her.

"Do you remember when I told you I can read you like an open book?" He began.

"Rizz," she said, jokingly.

He glared at her and she nodded.

"Well, the reason I can is because in many ways, we're the same."

Her eyes gradually drifted away, down to his chest and lower, as she subtly reprised her grinding on him.

"Stop that," he reprimanded her, blocking her hips. "What I mean by that is we...vibe on the same chord. A lot of the wounds you have, they are like mine. Opposite sometimes, but similar. They're hardwired into us."

She inched closer again, her index and middle fingers making a slow, walking motion in deliberate trail up his chest.

All she seemed willing to offer was her finest deflection, distilled and concentrated.

That wouldn't do.

"Will you stop acting like a child and fucking listen?" He grabbed her wrists and pinned them to her side. "It's important."

"Okaaay! Jeez," She huffed again and said, "I'm listening!"

He held her stare and paused until he was certain he had her full attention.

"There's something we never talked about," he said, looking for the right words. "I know we discussed some of the things we do and what we like." He swallowed. "Well, for some people, it might just be a kink—a way to switch things up when missionary and doggy no longer do it for them, right?"

"Well, now this is getting interesting" she whispered, barely moving her lips, sarcastically. He glared at her, and she quickly snapped back into focus.

"There's nothing wrong with that. But for us, it might be more intense," he said, gently caressing her forearms. "For people like us, it's different. It's called trauma play."

The look on her face told him all he needed to know about her being absolutely clueless about it.

"Traumas carve deep scars into you. They create patterns that you will relive and revisit time and time again because, well, brains love nothing more than repetition. They find comfort in it," he said, pausing to decipher her puzzled expression, wondering if he was being too abstract.

"You spent half your life obeying your father's demands, which might as well have been orders for how tied they were to his love and approval. You know this pattern by heart, and so does your brain: it knows what you'll get if you behave and what you'll get if you don't."

"Oh," She brought her hand over her chest, "I assume it's bad and embarrassing that I haven't moved past it? Right?"

"It's not inherently bad. And you're allowed not to move past this side of it if you don't want to. As long as it's reframed it in a positive, consensual context. This way you can play it on your own terms, gain control and get pleasure from it. Sometimes, even closure and healing."

She stood still, letting his words sink in, "I...I...I never thought about it like that. I wasn't aware..."

"I know, that's why we needed to talk about this," he said trailing his fingers up and down her arm, "Because as good as it might feel, it's about retracing some of the deepest and most painful wounds in your soul. Even if they're no longer open, and have stopped bleeding long ago, it doesn't make the scar any less delicate and tender to the touch. And with that tenderness comes a responsibility."

"Ok," she looked at him confused, "I don't understand...you want us to...what? Not do it? Do it less?"

"No. I don't," Jesus. He wished he was a better man like that, one geared up right that would find all of this too risky, sick and unnecessary. One that didn't get off on it. "But you have to be aware of what this is, where it comes from and how it works."

Then, he reached for both of her hands, and held them in his. "Most importantly, I need you to know that everything about this dynamic—you hear me? Everything—ends when we're both finished. That's how it can become something good, safe, and healing. Understood?"

"I think so," she nodded.

"I want none of that bullshit for us. I don't want you to feel like you need to work hard to deserve my approval. You do not need it. You do you, and you come as you are. It might not always align with me, and we might fight about it. But you keep your shape, as beautiful as it is now," his hand came up to trace his thumb over her cheek.

He seemed to catch a new sparkle in her eyes, and it looked like she was on the verge of saying something, words she seemed to swallow before they could be spoken.

She threw her hands around his neck instead, and crashed her lips on his. It was a naked, raw kiss, marked by the lingering saltiness on her skin and a new kind of timid, vulnerable abandon.

Relaxing against him, she arched her back so that he could feel her soft, full breasts on his chest.

She nibbled at his neck, her hips rocking back and forth on his cock, driving him wild. "Hayden?" she purred in his ear, "Can I have what I want now?"

A rush of adrenaline shot down from his shoulders to his finger, in electric anticipation. He could feel the vibrations of the engine revving, waiting for either one of them to put the pedal down just enough to set their little game in motion.

He inhaled heavily, "And what is it that you want?"

"Whatever you decide, I want," she said in a mellifluous voice, her languid eyes melting into his.

"Do you want to be a good girl for me?" He asked her, enjoying the sight of her eyes fluttering at the words. "Is that what you need right now?"

"Yes," she whispered, her big maple eyes growing even larger, hanging from his lips and whatever he would say next.

"Go unlock the door," he instructed. Seeing her look of confusion, he added, "Leave it closed, but unlocked."

She furrowed her brows but slowly approached the door, turning the knob to the left. Before she could walk away, he added, "Turn off all the lights." She complied dutifully.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the only dim glow in the room now coming from the distant garden lights below.

"Undress for me," he growled like he was a starved animal, and she was the prey he couldn't wait to sink his teeth into.

His eyes were devouring her, tracking her every move as she slipped off her t-shirt and jeans, left in a lace, see-through red lingerie.

He swallowed hard at the sight of a little red bow at the front of her panties, making his cock twist uncomfortably in his pants. Fucking hell, he wanted to EAT. HER. UP.

Clenching his fists, he forced himself to steady his breath, and watched as she unclasped her bra and slowly slid each red strap down her shoulder, one after the other.

The moonlight waltzed across her pale, creamy skin, and soon his eyes fell under the same spell, dancing all over her body—from the curves of her round breasts and her rosy nipples hardening for him, to her generous hips and thick thighs.

Her fingertips reached the side of her panties, waiting for some sort of hint from him. He nodded. She deliberately lowered them to her knees, easing one leg out and then the other, until she was completely naked before him. For him.

The need to touch her was burning him. Just two steps and he could have pinned her up against the wall, touching her exactly how she wanted, his hand tightening around her throat until the only sound escaping it were suffocated moans of his name.

But, no. He had to be patient.

She peeked at him, full of anticipation, eager for his next command. So pure, so bendable, so dependent, so fucking his. So fucking beautiful.

There was still a faint trace of shyness in her eyes, but he had watched her long enough to know this would be the last shred of it she would show all night.

He had to hit the right nerve, strike the right note just hard enough for the dopamine to hit her brain like a car crash, and it would vanish, like it had never even been there in the first place.

"Get on your fucking knees." It came out even more commanding and disrespectful than it had sounded in his head.

But it was exactly what she needed. It shattered the fragile glass of her inhibition, enough to make her close her eyes and let go a shaky sigh.

The sight of her obediently kneeling before him, gazing up with her hands resting on her lap, was both too much and yet too little at the same time. He craved more. He needed her closer.

"Now...," he commanded in a low growl. "Crawl to me."

Something flashed in her eyes, like a short-lived flicker of surprise.

Had she ever envisioned this, he wondered? On those long, lonely nights between their encounters, when she thought about him, her hand sunk in between her hot thighs? She might have pictured it, and pushed the thought away. Told herself that, no, she'd never do that.

She would. He knew she would.

Their eyes were locked in a mortal, all consuming grip, burning him up from the inside, as her sinuous body moved to him until she reached the side of the bed where he sat, her face glancing up at him from between his legs.

Jesus. The filthiest, nastiest, godforsaken images flooded his mind. So many things he wanted to do to her, so many ways he wanted to ruin her.

He struggled to narrow down his options, not wanting to push her too far tonight, even though she had asked for this.

His mind and his cock violently disagreed, each pulling in opposite directions.

He unbuckled his leather belt, removing it as slow as possible, savoring the exquisite mix of anticipation and exhilaration in her eyes as she swallowed hard.

"What do you say if it gets too much?" he asked firmly, tilting her chin up with a finger. "Red," she said with a breathy flutter in her voice, betraying the arousal taking hold of her.

"Good girl," he said as she closed her eyes again, riding the high that it triggered in her.

He looped his belt around her neck, and she instinctively lifted the hair that fell in the way, without him even having to tell her to. His sweet girl.

Wrapping the belt's tail around his hand for more control, he pulled it up, guiding her to stand and spin on her feet until she was facing away from him, toward the long mirror in front of them, right beside the door.

"Get on top of me and keep facing the mirror," he instructed, watching as she lifted one leg up, then the other, settling with her legs spread wide across his lap. "Stand up on your knees."

He kept one hand firm on the belt, while his other hand grazed her skin, traveling high to cup her breast. It was dark, but if he leaned just a little to the side, he could still see her reflection in the mirror.

His fingers dropped between her legs, easily gliding through her slick slit, fully coated in her juices the closer he got to her entrance, "God you're so fucking drenched already. Did crawling to me like an obedient little slut get you this wet?"

She sucked in a small breath as she nodded. His wet fingers slid back up to her clit, drawing the smallest, softest circles. The touch was barely there, as light as a feather, but it made her shut her eyes and throw her head back with a sigh.

"No, keep your eyes open," he ordered, looping the belt tighter and tugging it to increase the pressure on her throat. "I want you to watch yourself. Watch your face as it contorts in pain," he pinched her clit hard, relishing the sight of her reflection as her face contracted exquisitely, "and pleasure," he continued to rub it with a steady, rhythmic pressure.

He paused for a second, then slid his two fingers down her pussy, thrusting them right into her in one sharp move. A loud whine escaped her mouth, her back arching into his chest. Poor thing couldn't resist and had closed her eyes yet again.

His hand shifted from the belt's tail to grip the part coming out the buckle, and he felt his cock hardening thinking on just how much control he had on the constriction of her breathing with just one subtle pull.

"I said, don't fucking close your eyes," he hissed, tightening the belt gradually as her breath grew shallower and he kept fucking her with his fingers.

"Look at you. The door's unlocked... anyone could walk in at any moment... and see you like this..." he thrust his fingers deeper and harder, "all spread out for me... yet you can't stop yourself, can you?"

She didn't answer, too busy stifling the moans threatening to break through her, so he pulled his fingers out, savoring the sound of her whimpering at the loss. He pulled the belt a bit tighter and repeated, harsher this time, "Can you?"

"No, I can't. Please keep fucking me," a strangled, pleading cry, "please, make me come, please!"

"No," he said and she sighed in response. "Not yet."

He fumbled with his zipper, freeing his rock-hard cock and sliding it slowly along her pussy to tease her. But she angled herself perfectly, bucking her hips as she reached down, took his cock in her hand, aligned it, and slid him inside all at once.

He dug his fingers into the skin of her hip while she scratched his forearm, riding him slowly at her own pace.

Fuck, he felt so damn good inside her—her tight little pussy wrapped around his entire length. God, he wanted to die like this, buried inside of her.

"What would they say, M?" He asked between labored breaths. "What would they say if they walked in on you, taking every inch of me like a greedy, dirty, whore? Would you still be daddy's good little girl, would it make your daddy proud?"

"Oh my god," she wailed, "I don't care."

He let out a slow, smug laugh, then tugged the belt tighter, the sweetest, softer, strained moan broke out. "It's not that you don't care," their eyes locked in the mirror, piercing through the darkness. "You get off on it."

She quickened her pace, riding him faster and harder, "Look how bad you want it. Look how gorgeous you look while I choke you and you fuck yourself on my cock."

She was close. He could feel it in the way her walls clenched around him, and he was on the edge himself.

He slid his hand to the front of her, the pads of his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it until her legs began to tremble, and she threw her head back in complete abandon.

She didn't slow down, her ass relentlessly crashing down on him with each thrust. Fuck, the weight of her thighs smacking against him, as she took him deeper and deeper was heaven.

"Oh god Hayden, I'm coming, oh god," she cried out, with a faint voice.

"Yeah? You want to come on this fucking cock?" his fingertips stroking her swollen, aching clit. "Say it. Tell me how bad you want it."

"Oh god yes please, make me come on your cock, fill me up good and deep" She wheezed, her voice drenched in pleasure.

"Oh god, I'm coming!" She gripped his arm tight as her pussy clenched around him in violent release.

Jesus, since when did she talk back like this? It was too much—he was on the brink of exploding into her. With a smooth movement, he pulled out and freed her from the belt. Then, he wrapped his hands around her and laid her back on the bed.

He was on her in a heartbeat, and he couldn't hold back one second longer. The sight of her, naked and spent under him as he pumped himself was enough for him to cum all over her.

Hot, white lines spilled on her lower belly and dripped down her pussy, making her squirm and moan.

A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead as his cock still throbbed in his hand.

"You know, you can come inside me, if you want to," she breathed, her voice still heavy, her eyes gleaming with a thirst he could tell hadn't been fully quenched. "I'm on the pill."

"Wish I'd known that a few moments ago," he muttered, imagining how good it would have felt to be buried inside her warm, tight pussy squeezing him dry until the very last drop, "'Cause I was dying to fill you up with my cum. Shoot it deep inside you and see it dripping out of your cunt."

Running two fingers along her slick folds, he gathered his cum and smirked. "Doesn't mean I can't fuck it back into you," he said, shoving two fingers deep inside her. The sight of her arching her back, biting her lips to stifle a strained moan, made him relish every second of this heavenly view.

He kept curling his fingers, pumping them in and out of her, collecting every bit of cum that was on her and pushing it right where it should have been in the first place.

There was something so utterly captivating, so hypnotic, about the way her hips lifted and bucked toward him, like she was fucking herself on his cum covered fingers.

And there was something downright addicting to him in driving her pleasure higher, pushing it to its limits, watching her writhe and squirm under his control.

With his thumb pressing harder against her clit, he increased the friction, synching his movements with her sighs and moans, until her legs trembled, and her fingers dug into the sheets in sheer desperation.

"God you're making me come again," she whispered, her tone a sweet blend of exhaustion and surprise, as her head pressed back into the pillow.

He could do this forever. She came in his hands, her body shaking with a pleasure he liked to think only he had ever been able to give her—and he hoped no one else ever would.

Chapter Text

LA. May 26th - Martina's POV

Marti tossed and turned in the sheets of Hayden's bed in his LA house, her eyes flicking between the moonlit palm trees outside the window and the time projected onto the ceiling.

Who even had those clocks anymore?

4 A.M., and her head was still spinning with questions since when they had landed back from Italy.

Well, since he had opened that enlightening window into her soul, one that somehow she had never managed to open on her own.

She had always liked how he could navigate the narrow paths and blind corners of her mind. No one else could do it like him. Most people got disoriented, frustrated, and eventually stopped trying to make sense of the maze.

So watching him move through it with the ease of someone who belonged there, as if he instinctively knew every twist and turn, was the main catalyst of the gravitational pull she felt toward him.

But this was different. He had shown her the way, uncovered a hidden chamber within her that she hadn't even known existed.

And there wasn't a part of her that felt violated or intruded upon.

Still, even though he had brought her more self-awareness than countless $500-an-hour therapy sessions ever had, he had also awakened her curiosity.

If she was carrying these deeply ingrained childhood dynamics that had shaped every aspect of her being—even seeping into her sexuality—she wondered what it was like for him.

He had told her it was more than just a playful, kinky side for him, too. He said it could be healing—that they both had scars. But which ones?

Now she wanted to know every one of them. She wanted to dance on his as softly and delicately as he did on hers, she thought, rolling onto her side to face Hayden, sleeping beside her.

Then her racing thoughts must have materialized into actual noise and awakened him, because he suddenly started talking.

"Let's beat jet lag together, I said. It'll be fun, I said" he whispered without opening his eyes. "You drank enough caffeine to strike down a horse. I don't know what I was expecting."

"Well, you drank none, and you're still as awake as I am," she retorted.

"Actually, I was sleeping just fine until you started tossing and turning like a possessed raccoon," he said, pulling her closer and kissing her forehead.

She gazed into his blue, moonlit eyes, mesmerized and eager to uncover whatever was behind them. "Hayden... can I ask you something?"

There was probably a better time for this conversation—likely not in the middle of the night—and his sleepy eyes were a clear giveaway of that. She was about to say 'never mind' and postpone her question when he replied, "Sure."

"You said we have opposite yet similar wounds. How opposite? How similar?" she asked, her voice softening as the question grew more specific.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

Shit, maybe she had crossed the line she shouldn't. What was she doing, grilling him with a 4 AM interrogation?

"I mean, you don't have to share if you're not comfortable..." she rushed to say. "We can talk about it another time, if you still—"

"No, it's okay," he interrupted. "It's just... I don't revisit it often, and I talk about it even less. I'm not even sure where to start."

He took a deep breath and began, "You know how you've been controlled your whole life? Whether they told you what to do, or you just knew what was expected, you knew you had to follow along to be loved. The control they had over you, and that need to obey that came from it, became tied to whether you received love or not. That is the hold it has on you, right?"

She nodded.

"Well for me, control was something I never had but desperately craved growing up. When my parents divorced, everything sort of fell apart. My mom was hurting , and I couldn't do anything about it. My dad was god-knows-where with another woman, and I couldn't do anything about that either. I just felt all this anger and this sense of powerlessness that I couldn't escape."

A wave of protectiveness washed over her. She wanted to reach out and comfort the little boy he once was, her heart aching at the thought of him facing those struggles alone. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that," she said softly.

"Yeah, it was tough. Thankfully, my grandma helped a lot. She taught me to re-frame my thinking, to let go of things that were beyond my power and focus on what I could change. Like my reactions, my grades, even stupid things like growing carrots in my backyard. And it worked. I started to feel a rush from every situation I could control, as if it was making up for all those times I felt useless and powerless."

She furrowed her eyebrows at the mention of carrots in Hayden's development arc but felt like it was important not to interrupt.

"But still, for the longest time, I kept fantasizing about having a magic wand to turn back time, thinking maybe I could've saved my family if I'd caught my dad with that woman before my mom did. And even though learning to focus on what I could control was a great lesson, which really came in handy in so many other troubled times in my life, it will never stop hurting that I didn't have it when I needed it the most. When it felt like an illusion, always out of grasp. So...I'm sure you get the hold it has on me...the healing that comes from feeling in control, from having the power. Does it make sense?"

"Yes," she said, tracing the invisible thread connecting that little kid to the man in front of her, feeling so grateful for this exclusive glimpse of his soul she was getting to peek into. "It does make sense. Thank you for telling me."

"Anytime," he smiled, kissing her on the lips. "Well, not literally anytime you know, maybe when it's daylight, next time."

"I want to know more about—" the words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

"Jesus, remind me to sedate you the next time we land from a 14-hour transatlantic flight," he protested with soft eyes. "What do you want to know more about?"

"The list," she muttered, a little embarrassed.

The room was dark, with only a faint glow coming from the wide window, yet she could still see the way his eyebrows knit together and the lines on his forehead deepened. He had no idea what she was talking about.

"What list?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"You know... the list! The list of things that turn you on, the stuff you might want to experiment with, things you're open to, and the things you never want to try—your hard stops."

"Hard limits," he corrected her.

"Yes, those. So you know the list I'm talking about. There's always one in books and movies."

"Marti, you've been in movies. I take it you know that they don't always mirror reality one-to-one, right?"

"So you don't have one?" she pressed.

"Not exactly something I keep lying around for all my partners to fill out," he replied with a hint of humor.

That somehow made her feel better than the alternative of a stack of pre-set checklists on letterhead, drafted under a lawyer's supervision and ready to be used at a moment's notice.

"I still want to know," she insisted. "I want to discuss our hard limits. What if one day you decide to pee on me, and our relationship is never the same after that?"

She wasn't joking, but he snorted out a laugh that echoed through the silence of the night.

"What? I think it's important!" She tried to make a point.

"It is," he said as the wave of laughter subsided. He took another moment to catch his breath before continuing. "But believe it or not, not everyone drafts up a notarized contract to discuss these things. We can have an open and just as effective communication about it. That said, if you feel like you need one, we can have one."

"Yes, I do want one. And I also want to say...please never degrade me based on my intelligence, my looks or my sense of self-worth 'cause I think I might hit you. Or cry. Or both. And yes, not big on golden showers—or brown ones, for that matter."

He suffocated another deep laugh and pulled her closer, kissing her again. "Noted."

"What about you?" She asked him.

"Not a fan of bodily waste either, if that's what you're worried about," he brushed a lock of hair from her eye that had shifted in their kiss, and continued, "I don't like to be restrained with handcuffs or ropes. But it's more of a soft limit."

"See? I didn't know that!" she exclaimed. "What about pegging?"

"Fuck no. Hard limit," he responded firmly.

"Yeah, I kind of guessed that. Not really my thing anyway," she admitted. "What about threesomes? I used to have this fantasy where—"

"No." His face turned hard.

"Really? You never...?" She probed.

"I have," he confirmed.

"And you didn't like it?"

"I did. But with you, no. Hard limit."

"Why?" She asked, hesitantly.

"I don't want to share you. With anyone. Do you really think I could just stand back as someone else looks at you and touches every inch of your body?" He shook his head. "That would end up with police tape and LAPD squad cars flashing in my driveway. So no."

She giggled, "Okay, no orgies then." She let out a dramatic sigh. "Jeez, way to kill the mood—I had so many planned."

"Yeah? Better cancel then," he said, leaning to claim her lips possessively.

"I will," she conceded, wiggling her body close to his, taking up all the space in between them and in that moment, it felt like there was none.

***

LA. June 15th - Martina's POV

Martina took a look around the Rooftop Garden they'd chosen to celebrate the release of her brand new album, "Bleeding Cherry".

It was a visual feast, bursting with color-coded, themed decorations.

Perhaps, a bit too on-the-nose, she thought—looking at the giant floating prop cherries hanging around. But for a private party with just her closest team members, it was more than good enough.

The only part of this setup that the rest of the world would see was the one she was about to use for her live stream on socials.

She trailed behind Jessie to the designated area, entering a small enclosed set, called the "Rosso Antico Boudoir".

Now, this was much closer to the vision she had for the concept of the album and its dark cherry-core aesthetic.

The vibe was giving 1900s boudoir, with a low, dark polished wood table set before a plush, blood-red sofa. Yes, this was exactly what she had in mind.

On the table were a dozen thick candles in various stages of burn, that low key made it look like she was about to perform a throat-slicing sacrifice and summon Hecate live on Instagram.

And this was a little less like what she had in mind, but ok.

After the track leaked a little over two months ago, Sara suggested stopping all promotion until the album's release date, which was to be kept secret.

Out of the blue, they had started a surprise countdown on her website and social media, and by midnight, when the album dropped, Spotify Went down for about 10 minutes because too many people tried to connect at once.

All of the media outlets and music publications had been on fire since then, putting out story after story of the unexpected drop and reviews of the album.

The fan reception was overwhelming, and numbers were rolling in. It was her highest debut to date.

Marti walked over to the velvet sofa and settled into it, adjusting her maroon dress as she waited for the final touches on her makeup.

"Alright, we're ready," Stacy from Social Media said, ensuring that the phone cameras and lights were perfectly framed to capture both her face and the sultry background.

"Quiet on set," Jessie instructed, silencing the murmurs. "Marti, you're live in 3... 2... 1."

"Hi guys! I just wanted to thank you for all the love you showed to 'Bleeding Cherry'. What you've done is just unbelievable—it's already number one. It means the world to me, so I kinda wanted to give something back to you guys with a surprise for you!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jessie silently clapping and giving a thumbs-up in an adorable attempt to cheer for her.

"...I'm so excited to share that I'll be performing a special concert at the LA Forum on August 13th! I can't wait to see you all there, my beautiful bleeding cherries!"

The fans enthusiastically welcomed the news with a flood of heart reactions and comments, which she took a few minutes to engage with, before ending the livestream.

Jessie clapped, audibly this time, and cheered as well, "That was fantastic, Marti!" She helped her off the sofa and guided her out, thanking everyone on the set for their work as they went, "Great everybody! Now let's all get outside and enjoy the party!"

They walked side by side, joining the rest of the team, already mingling and enjoying drinks under the soft pink sky.

The vibe was nice and everyone seemed in a great mood. But Jessie's mood? Unparalleled. Nothing put a smile on her face like a good PR day—all smooth sailing with no hiccups or issues.

Marti decided to make it even better.

"So, one last work thing before I let you enjoy the party," she said, taking up two glasses of cherry spritz, and handing one over to Jessie, "I think it might be time to schedule that PR meeting with Hayden to, you know, explore the possibilities."

Jessie's eyes sparkled, and she squealed with delight, "Oh my god, that's fantastic news! I'm so happy for you! I'll schedule the meeting first thing after the Fourth of July weekend, okay?"

Marti nodded as Jessie cheerfully raised her glass in celebration.

She smiled to herself, knowing that while Jessie was wholeheartedly happy for her, she was also especially relieved at the prospect of finally taming that loose thread in her whole PR strategy that had been running unchecked for far too long.

"SNOOP, come here!" Katy, the office manager, shouted, breaking the moment. Marti turned to see Snoop, Katy's tiny dachshund, zooming through the crowd with a giant sausage in his mouth.

The dog was headed straight for the bushes beside them, seemingly intent on disappearing into the foliage with his prize. Blissfully unaware, he was about to launch himself into rose bushes, thick with thorns that would have made his snack an uncomfortably regretful experience.

From her position, Martina only needed a brief sprint to anticipate the dog's trajectory, so she lunged forward and intercepted Snoop in mid-air before he could make the jump.

She knelt down a little to take a look at him. The bad news was that the sausage was nowhere to be found, probably already half digested in his tummy.

The good news was that he was safe and thorns-free. She lifted him triumphantly into the air, channeling her inner Rafiki, hoping to calm Katy, who was running toward her from the opposite side of the rooftop garden.

As she began heading back to return Snoop-the sausage thief-to a very worried Katy, she casually glanced to her left, noticing a subtle movement on the opposite corner of the garden.

She squinted to focus her vision while continuing to walk. When she realized what she had just seen, her mind reeled.

Screaming, crying, throwing up.

Dear god, what had she just seen?

Tapping into all the nights spent playing Texas Hold 'Em—which amounted to about 10—she quickly, rapidly, urgently summoned her best poker face.

She tried to shrink her eyes back to normal, and shut her wide-open mouth, then walked quickly toward the rest of the group like nothing ever happened.

Like she hadn't just caught her sister and Lex aggressively making out against the rear bar wall.

But there was no going back, now. She couldn't unsee it.

She returned Snoop to Katy with a bewildering array of facial expressions that absolutely didn't match the situation. It was all she had left, though: a bunch of weird Nicholas Cage-like faces and mixed-up feelings about what she had just witnessed.

First of all, they all had been nagging and terrorizing her with warnings about her safety, insisting that her stalker might be closer than she realized.

They practically enforced round-the-clock surveillance on her. And now her 24/7 bodyguard was smooching her sister while she was out there doing Matrix-worthy contortions to save a dog.

She could have died doing that!

The dog could have been sent by her stalker to make her trip and fall down this very rooftop. Katy could have been the stalker, for all they knew!

And they never would know, because they were back there living their teenage dream.

Heart racing in their motherfucking skin-tight jeans.

This was nuts. Her sister was nuts. They could have been seen! They weren't out as a couple. Hell, Sara wasn't out at all. Not even to her own sister.

Not that she felt entitled to it, but she hadn't planned to find out along with the bartender who was casually tossing pineapple scraps into the bar's back bins.

And yet.

More than that, Sara had always been so meticulous about Martina's love life. Everything had to be vetted and planned before coming out publicly.

Now, she was risking being seen by just about anyone on their team?

It was downright outrageous. This wasn't anything like the Sara she'd always known, she reflected as the bartender—who almost felt like part of the family now—prepared her first cocktail of the night.

No piña coladas. Wouldn't want to give him yet another reason to sneak out the back to empty more pineapple waste tonight. Someone had to be goddamn responsible here.

As she sipped her drink, she watched Sara rejoin the group. A few minutes later, Lex returned as well, back to her guarding position, blocking the entrance to the garden.

Thanks a lot, Lex, she thought. She could have been killed five times in the past half-hour. On closer inspection, she noticed a few more guards stationed just behind Lex at the entrance, so no, she couldn't have. But still.

She sighed as she twirled the straw in her cocktail.

Maybe this 180 change in Sara was the whole fucking point. Maybe it was like back at their house, when Lex had told her all the opposite things Marti had always told her sister to cheer her up, changing a pattern that maybe needed to be shattered.

Sara was talking, laughing, and having fun. She seemed more carefree than ever. Not like woman-in-a-heavy-flow-tampon-ad kind of carefree, but she did look happier and more relaxed, which was not a frequent look on her.

Suddenly all the voices inside Martina's head that had been ranting bitterly for the last couple of minutes silenced all at once.

Yes, maybe this was the whole fucking point, she agreed with herself in her mind. As sane people do.

She plunged back into the crowd, bumping into Chang, her tour manager, who had come up with the idea of hosting this kickoff concert at the Forum to launch her world tour and announce the dates starting in November.

Earlier, when she had thought Jessie's mood was unmatched, it was because she hadn't yet seen Chang, ecstatically shouting in her face that the LA Forum dates were already 90% sold out and would definitely be gone before 8 PM tonight.

He was the best at what he did, but honestly a tad aggressive when it came to numbers and sales, so she high fived him and moved over.

Spotting her sister in the crowd, she walked to her. Nick was standing next to her, looking exceptionally elegant and well-groomed—perhaps even more so than usual.

Martina passed a hand over the fabric of his maroon-colored suit, "Oh my God Nick, look at you, what a sharp dresser! And in theme, no less!"

He gleamed at them, with his typical child-like smile, all happy and satisfied with the compliment.

Both Sara and Marti took a theatrical step back to take a deeper look at the details of the exceptional outfit of the day: his shiny shoes and the cherry-shaped cufflinks.

"Wow, Nick, you're on fire!" Sara spoiled his ego, "And look at the hair! And the beard? Next level!"

Nick blushed and looked even happier about this compliment shower, like he was enjoying every second of it.

"Thank you, ladies." He smiled, his cheeks puffing up with pride. "Ehh, I switched barbers. The old one rushed through it like he was late for lunch, and the music was so loud you couldn't even have a proper chat. But this new one, I like! He's Italian too. He got me this old-school olive oil aftershave. 'To lock in the moisture,' he said." Nick concluded, patting his cheeks with his hands.

Micheal from Security swung by and joined the scene, "Nick, dude! Looking sharp! Plans later? Going on a date after this?"

"No date, nothing like that!" Nick energetically shook his head. "It's just that today is also my birthday!"

Marti exchanged a complicit glance with Sara, who raised her hand to signal the staff inside the bar. When they emerged with the cake, Marti threw an arm around Nick's shoulder.

"Don't think we forgot!" Sara said as they placed his birthday cake in front of him, its sparkling candles drawing everyone's attention as they all began to sing.

When the collective jingle was over, Marti hugged a very much olive-oil-scented Nick, and noticed just how emotional and moved he was by this simple gesture from the tearful look of his eyes. She squeezed him and gave him a kiss on his cheek. "Buon compleanno Nick!"

As an avid fan of The Office, she had always laughed at and criticized corporations trying to sell the old "we're all a big family" line to middle and lower management.

But looking at the people around her now, she couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude, affection, trust, and reliance for each and every one of them.

The warmth of the moment filled her heart until it was suddenly enhanced by another kind of warmth. One that was trickling down her leg.

Looking down, she saw Snoop gazing up at her with puppy eyes and his tongue hanging out, utterly satisfied with her ankle as his new favorite pee-spot.

Chapter Text

LA. June 15th - Martina's POV

Most people didn't grasp the fine art of crafting the perfect playlist for the perfect occasion.

It wasn't like you could just select a bunch of songs and then vulgarly rely on the random algorithmic suggestions they threw at you.

Marti was meticulous about her playlists. Nitpicky. Clinical, even.

First she needed to block out every single one of her own songs from the automatic shuffle.

She lived and breathed her music every waking moment already. Blasting it some more in her free time would have felt borderline narcissistic.

Second, and this was vital, it needed to be consistent. It was non-negotiable. No one wanted to have a neurotic breakdown listening to a 90's playlist because some criminal had the audacity to string together bops like Genie in a Bottle, Wannabe and Believe followed by My Heart Will Go On.

Technically all from the 90's. Dramatically different vibes.

A lot of thought and effort went into creating her playlists, and this one—she decided as she set it up from her phone to the speakers—was just chef's kiss.

It was left untitled, only tagged with a fire emoji—which might be cringe, but she didn't want to be too explicit, in case her account got leaked and her Spotify revealed.

She lit a few candles around the room, drew the blinds, locked the door, and set the AC to the perfect temperature. Then, she placed her phone inside a jewelry box on her desk.

Flopped onto her bed, she rolled toward the nightstand drawer to retrieve one of the dozen burner phones Sara had given her.

"Thomas said there's no traceable tapping on the phones, but please, for the love of God, if you're going to do anything on there that you wouldn't want to become public, use them," Sara had warned her a few days ago, giving her a long, uncomfortable look. "That includes your frisky, freaky time, alright?"

"YA NASTY" Marti had quipped, but thanked her mentally.

She had scooped up the phones from the table where Sara had left them with both arms and hoarded them up and away in her bedroom.

She texted Hayden to let him know it was her from a different number and to ask if it was a good time to call.

After waiting the few minutes he said he needed to find a quiet spot, she dialed.

She waited one, two, three rings, mouthing the words to Put Your Lights On by Santana and Everlast.

Chef's kiss playlist, really.

"Hi baby," his voice finally came through. She felt her stomach flutter as a hundred butterflies broke free. No way she was getting used to this.

"Hi," she chimed in softly, blushing like a twelve year old. How embarrassing.

When asked about the reason for the number switch, she vaguely blamed it on not finding her main phone at the moment and hoped he'd let it go, which he did.

He wanted to know about the release party, so she recounted every little detail: the record sales, the sold-out LA concert, and even Snoop baptizing her foot.

"I wish I could be there celebrating with you," he said finally, his voice partially covered by the background chatter and noise.

"Are you kidding? I wish I was there with you! Lighting up the whole Empire State Building into a giant lightsaber?! Does anything get any cooler than that?!" She imagined him flipping the switch at the grand Star Wars takeover ceremony.

"Yeah, I remember you're quite fond of lightsabers," he said, lowering his voice by an octave. She could almost hear his grin as he spoke.

"I wish you were fucking me with one right now," she said softly.

"Jesus, Marti," he sighed at the other end of the phone, and cleared his voice, "Don't make me picture things I shouldn't be picturing in public."

"I'm not on speakerphone, am I?" she replied, "so I guess I can still say whatever I want...like how much I'd like to have your hand on my throat right now."

A deeper, grunting sigh. She could almost see him, looking around cautiously, making sure no prying eyes or ears were in sight.

"How much I like the way your eyes look the moment before you start to choke me..." she said, placing her hand on her own throat to mirror her thoughts, her fingers pressing against the side of her neck. "And when your grip's so tight I can barely breathe and my vision starts to blur..."

"Fuck," he exhaled with a growl of frustration, "you're making me hard. In public."

"Am I?" she feigned innocence, as her hand moved down to her panties, not touching, just resting on them. "Well, that sounds like a you problem..." she said with a dry, bratty delivery, when in reality she was giggling under the covers, "Nothing you can do to make me stop."

"Sure about that?" Again, she could hear the cocky smile on his lips from the sound of his voice.

"Well, you're not here, so—"

"I can still get you to stop. I haven't got long and I'm supposed to be back in a few minutes," he said, his tone shifting to a commanding edge. "So you're gonna shut the fuck up now, and do exactly as you're fucking told. Understood?"

She felt her face flush with warmth as the blood violently rushed to her cheeks. She could only hum into the phone, unable to form any words.

"Take the hand that you oh-so-surely already have between your legs and start touching yourself," he instructed, his command coating her mind like sweet, addicting honey.

She lifted her hips and swiftly wiggled out of her damp panties, eager to follow his whispered instructions. As soon as her fingers brushed her clit, she bit her lip and whimpered into the phone.

"Oh," he said with a condescending tone, "listen to you. Not much for talking now, are you? Good. Because all I want is for you to listen."

"I am," she breathed out, her middle and ring fingers drawing lazy, slow circles on her clit.

"Good girl. Now slide your fingers up and down your pretty little pussy. I want you to get them wet and move them all the way up your needy, aching clit."

She did, and as the hot sensation enveloped her clit, a deep rush of warmth radiated from her core, flowing down her legs.

"I wish I could suck on your fingers now," he said in a raspy, low voice that made her belly twist in the most delicious way. "I wish I could feel them in my mouth, taste you on my tongue, have my face buried between your thighs..."

She sucked in a breath, closing her eyes to picture his gaze locked on hers as his tongue relentlessly flicked over her clit, and let out a muffled cry.

"God, you sound so desperate already, M," he taunted, "and we've barely begun. Now spread your fucking legs for me."

Jesus Christ, she shivered, pressing her head back into the pillow as his words cut through the thick haze clouding her mind. She complied.

"Push your middle finger inside...all the way in...nice and slow," he whispered close to the phone.

"Oh God," a throaty sound escaped her lips.

"That's right. Now slide another in and pretend it's half as good as when it's me fucking you with my fingers," he said, pausing for a moment.

"Oh God, Hayden," she panted.

"Fuck, I swear to God, the sounds you make," he said greedily, his voice dripping with need. "Moan for me again."

She cursed as a raw, unrestrained cry burst from her chest, "I wish you were here."

"You need to thank your good lord I'm not," he retorted, "'cause if I was I'd fuck your tight pretty pussy raw till you can't walk no more..."

Her hips bucked as she quickened the pace of her fingers sliding in and out of her pussy.

"I want to know exactly what crossed your mind when you thought it was a good idea to call me in the middle of a PR event and drive me insane with thoughts of your fingers buried in your sweet, wet cunt."

Exactly this, she thought, giving out to the pressure building in her belly. Heat spread from her core, taking over her body, as she felt herself drawing closer.

"I just wanted to hear your voice," she lied innocently.

"No, you wanted to make me suffer, getting me this hard when there's fucking nothing I can do about it, didn't you, you dirty little slut?"

"Oh, fuck, say that again, please," she moaned into the phone, moving her wet fingers on her clit and rubbing it harder.

"That's right, you can't help it. That's exactly what you are—a needy, pathetic, insatiable, filthy whore. My whore."

"Oh god, oh god," she cried out loud.

She was there. She felt everything clench, her clit and asshole throbbing at the same time. Her back arched, yearning for that final, infinitesimal push that would send her over the edge.

"Fuck I know you're close... I can hear it in your voice" he said, "rub your clit faster now. Let me know how good it feels...let me know how hard I can make you come without even touching you...and know that it's still a fraction of how hard you'll be coming on my fingers, on my tongue and on my cock as soon as I get my hands on you again..."

She closed her eyes as intense, electric jolts consumed her body through the longed-for release. Tiredness and pleasure swept over her, melting her brain into a state of content bliss and aching need for him at the same time.

"Thank you... oh God. That was... Wow. Thank you," she whispered, a relaxed smile spreading across her face.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. And it should be me thanking you," he said with a hint of amusement, followed by a long, frustrated sigh. "Now I have to give an interview, and the only thing I'll be seeing in my mind and hearing is the sound of you coming through the phone."

She giggled to herself, satisfied, "Sorry about that...I'm sure I can find some ways to make it up to you when you come back. When is that, anyway?"

"Soon. After this it's Minneapolis, then Houston and then I'm all yours for the rest of the summer," he reassured her. "I need to go back now..."

"Of course," she said, feeling her limbs and eyelids suddenly heavier, "I...I..." conscience and barriers were starting to slip away, but thankfully something prevented her from saying the words that were so naturally about to roll off her lips. "I'll talk to you soon..."

"Okay, baby. Sleep tight," he said before the call ended with a brief blip.

She reached for the drawer to stash away her secret phone, then buried her face in the pillows, peacefully drifting off to sleep.

***

LA. The morning after - Martina's POV

The incessant, grating hum of a lawnmower brutally shattered her sleep.

Groggily, she opened her eyes, as the engine's roar pierced the morning quiet, sending her mind into a state of confusion.

She didn't recall leaving her window open.

Slowly regaining awareness, she found herself in a pool of sweat, her skin sticking to the bed sheets. The AC was still running, but with the window open, it wasn't doing much good.

Annoyed, she flung the sheets aside, only to belatedly realize she was still naked from the night before, and had fallen asleep without her panties.

They weren't under the covers, and neither at the foot of the bed. Rubbing her gritty eyes to see more clearly, she leaned over to check the floor on the side of the bed she'd slept on. Nothing.

Leaning over the other side, her fingertips suddenly brushed something soft and velvety—definitely not the sheets.

She rapidly blinked her eyes and impatiently waited for her vision to clear, with an eerie sense of discomfort creeping over her.

Rose petals were scattered all over her sheets. She scooped up a handful with a mechanical motion, staring wide-eyed as they fluttered back onto the bed.

Her gaze then fell on a single red rose laid out on the pillow next to the one she had just woken up on.

She didn't know how, but she just knew none of this was from Hayden.

Her heart accelerated and her body knew before she did. She swallowed hard, panic clawing at her like a bloodthirsty beast, and instinctively pulled her knees to her chest.

She froze at the sight of two small Polaroids lying beside her. Horror took over her mind as she picked up the two pictures in her trembling hands.

In the skinny seconds separating her from the truth, she heard herself exhale shakily, blowing on the fleeble flicker of blissful ignorance.

Her stomach tightened as she saw herself in the first picture, peacefully sleeping with her face abandoned on the pillow. A sleep that obviously had no business being peaceful.

A slow drop of frozen sweat rolled down her neck. Or it might have been tears, she wasn't sure.

It didn't matter, she thought, with her breath stuck in her throat, as she pulled the second Polaroid over the one she'd just seen.

It was a photo of her panties—the ones she couldn't find earlier—lying on her sheets. She felt even more powerlessly vulnerable as she read the mocking note at the bottom of the picture. "Thanks for the sweet keepsake, little bird."

She heard herself scream her sister's name at the top of her lungs, as the walls of her own bedroom seemed to close in around her.

The mingled scent of rose petals, freshly cut grass and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on, churned her stomach, making her feel sick.

She bolted out of bed, realizing Security must have certainly heard her scream and that a bodyguard was likely about to burst in—only not Lex because it was Sunday and she had the morning off.

The last thing she wanted was Philip, or someone else for that matter, to catch her curled up in a bed half-naked, so she mustered just enough strength to put some clothes on and rush out her bedroom, wondering if she'd ever feel safe enough to be back inside it.

She found Sara scrambling up the stairs, her face etched with worry, followed by Micheal. "Good God, what happened?" she asked, just as Marti ran into her arms.

The moment Sara's embrace enveloped her, the adrenaline deserted her body and she collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. "He was here, Sara! Oh god, he was here!"

Chapter Text

​​

LA. June 29th - Martina's POV

Clung to a khaki pillow, Marti idlessely followed the cleaning bot as it methodically navigated each corner of Sara's living room.

She had been staying at her sister's house for the past two weeks. Sara's place was just 30 yards down the street, so by any logic, it couldn't be considered an impregnable fortress. If the stalker had broken into Marti's house, chances were he would be very able to break into Sara's as well.

But the thought of returning to her own home, her own bedroom, made her feel nauseous and anxious.

Fifteen days had gone by since the break-in and she hadn't been able to shake off the persistent feeling that she wasn't safe there yet.

The Police and her security had turned the place upside down looking for evidence—clues, proofs—and found jack shit. They'd even checked for bugs, cameras, any form of surveillance. Again, nothing.

It was like a ghost had broken in, leaving without a trace, unnoticed and uncaught. And for the love of god, she couldn't understand how that had been fucking possible.

The nitty gritty dynamic of it apparently, was that Lex had just ended her night shift just before Michael was supposed to start his. However, Michael had lingered for about 30 minutes, chatting with Polly and the other guards at the entrance gate, before finally heading to her front door.

That was allegedly when they believed her stalker had the chance to enter the house and then exit through her window, using the roof of the downstairs porch to escape. Like a fucking ninja.

Thomas had said that in his career, he had never encountered such a level of unprofessionalism and had fired Michael on the spot.

It was standard procedure, but it felt like one person was paying for her Security's total lack of clue on how to identify her stalker and get rid of him for good.

Regardless of Michael's mistake or negligence, the stalker had still managed to breach the security system, cutting off all the cameras around the premises.

And if he weren't this good, the backup system would have activated as soon as the main system lost power. But he had deactivated that too.

And if he hadn't been so meticulously careful, the police might have found something he left behind—fingerprints on the Polaroids, skin cells on the rose stem, hairs on the ground, or, god forbid, something even more disturbing on her bedsheets.

And yet, Michael was the only one taking the fall, while ridiculously bigger security flaws lied all around her.

She tossed the pillow aside on her sister's beige couch and got up to her white kitchen, opening the gray fridge. Sara loved her grays and beiges, her neutral palette queen.

Marti poured herself a glass of cucumber-infused water from Sara's pitcher and spit it out—disgusting as it was—then glanced at her reflection in the glass cabinets across from her.

Dark circles framed her eyes, faithful companions of the past few weeks restless nights, and thanked god she didn't have any public appearance these days.

A tear of frustration gathered in the inner corner of her eye. She hated this—the way he could make her feel like a helpless child, trapped and frightened in her own home.

He had all the power, and she was to blame for that. She'd let him take it, time after time, accepting whatever he threw at her—whether it was gifts, emails, messages. Or home invasion.

Because what was she doing, besides getting more and more scared? Besides pushing the thought of it out of her mind and pretending like it wasn't even happening to her?

Nothing. She just sat back, waiting for her security or the police to make sense of things.

Meanwhile, he was probably laughing, already planning his next move, and forcing her to play a game she couldn't win.

Perhaps that was exactly the problem. She didn't know the rules of this game. And she should have. She would have, in fact, if she hadn't been running away scared every fucking time.

This was a game he had crafted specifically for her. She was meant to be the queen in this twisted chess match, and instead she was playing like a forgettable, nameless pawn.

If she had paid attention, she would have known by now why things had worsened almost immediately since moving to LA, what his messages meant, or how much time was likely to pass between each move and whether they were triggered by something in particular.

She needed to observe more carefully, pick up details, patterns, things that would probably seem meaningless to everyone else but her.

Who better than her to solve this mess?

The police didn't care. Countless other celebrities had stalkers, this was probably just a Tuesday for them. They had probably shaken their heads and brushed it off as 'the price you pay for fame' as soon as they left her house.

Her security was doing their best with what they had, but it wasn't enough. It was embarrassing, if she was being honest.

But he was evidently smarter. He was having the time of his life, watching the country's top security agency make fools of themselves with their clumsy and inconclusive attempts to catch him.

Lex and Sara's laughter echoed just outside the door, brutally snapping her out of her train of thought and back into the present moment.

The hands of Sara's kitchen wall clock pointed to 9:25.

She wasn't 100% sure, though.

It was hard to tell because, instead of numbers, each hour was labeled with the word 'now', making it unnecessarily hard to read.

Sara had justified her purchase by saying it was a motivating invitation to seize the moment and an incredible ode to productivity.

Marti just thought it was a psychotic choice of clock, if someone wanted her opinion.

She massaged her temples and took a few deep breaths, waiting for Nick's car to arrive and trying to calm her nerves and prepare for today's Roundtable.

Sara had told her it was ok if she wanted to sit this one out, but what was she going to do anyway?

Sit around in a state of hypervigilance, shitting herself at every creak of the floorboards? No.

Besides, it was the last Roundtable of the season. After the Fourth of July break, she'd be dedicating every waking moment to training and rehearsals for the LA Forum concert.

Marti straightened up and headed toward the door, where Lex and Sara's flirtatious laughters kept resounding. They'd need to be way more discreet than this if they were still trying to keep it under wraps.

She hadn't said anything, giving them the space and time to come out on their own terms when they felt ready, but it was getting harder to pretend like she was blind.

Her sister's voice echoed loud from outside, "Marti, the car's here!"

***

The first order of business was an open-shut meeting. Sales were soaring, with Bleeding Cherry topping both the U.S. and Global charts, holding the number one spot on Billboard.

The tour update was equally promising: Chang enthusiastically reported that the LA Forum had sold out on the same day she had announced it. They planned to reveal the world tour at the end of the show—70 dates, November through June, multiple international legs, spanning five continents.

He energetically broke down every aspect of the tour, covering logistics, finances, promotion and safety, then concluded his pitch with a loud slap on the table, anticipating that Bleeding Cherry World Tour would be yet another record-breaking, unforgettable beast.

Everyone applauded his presentation, so she forced a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, politely thanking him for his hard work and dedication.

She sat through the remainder of the Roundtable, gritting her teeth and impatiently waiting for the only part that mattered to her that day: the security briefing.

The moment she spotted Thomas's silhouette approaching behind the glass, she immediately perked up in her chair.

Her legs bounced with impatience as everyone else left the room, leaving her alone with Sara, and Thomas, who activated the smart glass, turning the walls from transparent to opaque.

The meeting began with the topic of the further analysis they had conducted on the pictures left at the scene, but unsurprisingly, it hadn't led anywhere.

No shit. After all, they were just Polaroids—not bullets or banknotes. They didn't come with unique identifiers. They were mass-produced and widely distributed, so it was impossible to trace them back to him.

"About the pictures... there's something you should know, Marti," Sara began, her voice tinged with a thin layer of guilt. "I found another one a while ago, before we went to London—on the curbside, right outside the gate."

Huh.

So that's what Sara had been keeping to herself all this time? Marti forced herself to stay calm, resisting the urge to overreact, even as the revelation gnawed at her already frayed nerves.

"What picture was it, and why am I only hearing about it now?" She said through clenched teeth.

"It looked like a close-up of... your eye," Sara said hesitantly. "I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure what to make of it. It could have been someone blowing up a picture of you from the internet and printing it out, or it might have been taken with a long lens camera. We just didn't know..."

Thomas cut in, "At that point, we were still trying to figure out how close he could actually get to you—whether he was truly nearby or just trying to scare you by making it seem like he had access."

"Well I guess it doesn't matter now. He's made it clear he has the fucking access," Marti snapped.

Sara nodded with a remorseful expression, and slowly slid a small picture toward her. "There was something written on the back."

"Does it mean anything to you?" Thomas asked, his voice cautious.

She picked up the picture, flipped it over, and read the message scrawled in the same jagged, tense handwriting that was on the most recent Polaroids: a shaky few words that sent a chill down her spine—'Glad we see eye to eye, little bird.'

She winced and shivered, looking up at Sara and Thomas' puzzled faces.

"It does..." she scratched her forehead, feeling stupid all of a sudden. "This must have been right after I got the email where he told me to stay away from Hayden. Can you pull it out?"

Thomas sifted through the stack of evidence piled up on the desk in front of them. When he finally found the email, Sara picked it up and began to read aloud:

'You should be careful who you bring into your life, little bird.

Whoever gets close to you, gets close to me. And I can be difficult to deal with, you haven't seen half of it.

Have you told him you're already spoken for?

Tell you what, stay away from him and I might even consider leaving you alone for a while.

You look like someone who might need a break.

Think this through, little bird.'

Sara looked up at her, still not getting how the two things were connected.

"I stopped seeing Hayden after this," she said, putting two and two together. "For a while. I got scared and thought it would be for the best... And at the time, we were also dealing with the track leak. I was just trying to regain some sense of control, thinking I could somehow negotiate... I don't know... It was stupid, I know..."

Thomas lifted up his eyebrow, "It worked. Because somehow, he knew you had stopped seeing Hayden, and it pleased him enough to send you this."

"That was so reckless and irresponsible of you to do," Sara said, scrunching up her nose and shaking her head in disbelief.

"It was a brilliant idea." Thomas countered. "Dangerous, but brilliant. It established a contact between the two of you, some kind of conversation."

"Exactly! That was sort of what I was thinking. I think we need to start communicating with him."

She ignored Sara, who kept shaking her head beside her.

"Have you lost your mind?" Sara shrieked, like the neurotic banshee she sometimes turned into, "Why don't you just go for a date with him then? Do you want me to set up one so the two of you can have tea together?"

"No, but listen to me! The one thing he wants more than anything is access to me, right? What if we give him the illusion that he has that?"

"You're playing with fire here, and I don't like it. Not one bit," Sara replied, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

"I'm tired of living in fear, Sara. Constantly waiting for his next creepy message or the moment he decides to crawl up in my room again. He wants me? Let him think that he has me. We can control the exchange, make him believe that if he plays by our rules, he'll get what he wants."

"She has a point," Thomas agreed. "This will give us the opportunity to turn the tables—observe him, for a change. Watch how he moves and wait for him to slip up, and when he does, we'll be ready to catch him."

"And how would you suggest we do this?" Sara asked, still skeptical.

"Well, for now, we wait," he said, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "Soon he'll reach out. We will start a conversation—something that will allow us to entertain him and string him along just long enough for us to flush him out."

"Are you sure you can handle it, Marti?" Sara reached for her sister's wrist.

"It's better than the alternative, and I'm sick of feeling like there's nothing I can do about this but endure it." Marti said, "I'm ready for combat, and I want to fight."

Sara pursed her lips at Marti, disapproving. Then she sighed and turned to Thomas, searching for reassurance, more details—or anything that would make her like this plan more than she did at that moment.

"Keep the plan between the three of us—no one else," he said, his expression serious. "And don't discuss the stalker with anyone, period. I'll brief my team with only the essential details."

"Well, I wasn't planning to broadcast it," Marti replied, her words carrying a hint of sarcasm.

"What I mean is," Thomas continued, "this weekend made it clear how close he can get. But what we still don't know is how close he is right now. We need to be extremely cautious about every piece of information you share with anyone around you."

Sara nodded.

"Anyone?" Marti asked, hesitantly.

"Anyone." Thomas confirmed. "Even in the team, it's important not to rule anyone out—"

"Who has ruled you out?" Marti asked Thomas, only as a half-joke.

"Marti!" Sara scolded her for her question.

"No, she's right," Thomas conceded. "That was exactly my point. You shouldn't rule anyone out—not even me. As the head of Security, I've undergone extensive background checks, including on my criminal record and mental health. I've already submitted my fingerprints and DNA, and I'm more than willing to be under surveillance if it helps clear any doubts. Besides," he added, his face deadpan, "I can assure you, I don't have the slightest obsession with you."

"Aha! You say that now, 'cause you're on the spot!" Marti retorted. "For all I know, you could be going home every night, lying awake, just thinking about me. And where were you last night when the break-in happened?"

"At home, with my husband Jeff and his family," he replied matter-of-factly. "A total of eight people can confirm my alibi."

Sara's eyes widened in surprise as she turned to him. "I didn't know you were... married."

"Felt it was relevant to my alibi." He said, serious.

"Yeah, I didn't mean to imply you were guilty, it was just an inappropriate joke. Sorry." Marti felt embarrassed by her joke backfiring spectacularly.

"You did the right thing by asking," he reassured her. "And for the record, we'll be running additional background and alibi checks on the rest of the staff as well, just to cover all our bases."

She pressed her lips together, fully aware that she'd blown yet another chance to keep her foot out of her mouth, and silently prayed the meeting would soon wrap up.

It did. There was nothing more to address. As soon as Thomas said his goodbyes and left the room, Sara stepped in front of Martina's chair, fixing her with one of her most anguished looks.

Sara's anxiety was contagious, Marti believed. If you looked long enough in the abyss of her anxious stare, the abyss of anxiety would stare right back at you.

"I don't like where this is going, Marti." Sara said. "I don't want you talking to him. What if he gets even more obsessed than he already is?"

"More obsessed? Are there even any notches left on the scale after taking pictures of me while I'm sleeping and running off with my underwear?" Marti tried to laugh it off as she stood up. "Besides, I'm not in this alone. Thomas is overseeing everything—he won't let it go too far."

They were just approaching the exit of the meeting room when they saw Jessie's coming toward them, with a composed but somewhat fretted walk.

"Have either of you checked your phone recently?" Jessie asked, eyeing their clueless expressions.

"We've been stuck in here for the last two hours," Sara replied. "Why, what's going on?"

"TMZ just posted a picture of you and Hayden getting off the jet," Jessie smacked her lips in disappointed sadness. "It's a bit blurry, taken from behind the airport fence, but... it's clear enough. You can see it's the two of you. Kissing."

Marti threw her head back and stomped her foot in frustration, groaning in despair, "You've got to be kidding me! What was I doing in my past life? Killing kittens? Tripping old people? Multi level marketing?"

"I'm so sorry this got out before we had the chance to handle it on our own terms, honey" Jessie said, her voice heavy.

"What are they saying about it?" Sara asked, her practical side taking over.

"That we're doing it to promote the new album. To make up for the lack of promo, to be exact." Jessie precised. "Do you want me to make a statement?"

Sara snorted loudly. "Do we need to? Do people really think we'd stage a grainy nighttime photo for promo? What are we, amateurs?" Sara replied. "We were killing it before it even got out!"

"Who's feeding TMZ anyway? This is the second time they fuck me over like this. I'd like to make a statement, a statement to tell them to go fuck the living shit—" Marti protested.

"Uh-uh come on, Marti." Sara gently pushed her sister out the room. "Go home now, I'll work with Jessie to address this. I'll see you tonight."

***

After passively flipping through the stack of Architectural Digest magazines on Sara's living room table, Marti began pacing restlessly around the house, moving from room to room in every direction.

Walking by a symmetrically arranged display of seashells on a shelf, she was tempted to move one just to mess with Sara's spider senses, but she refrained.

She kept walking, checking her phone every two minutes, until her fingers nervously tapped on the screen and she hit the call button.

Come on, come on, come on, pick up, Hayden. This was only the fourth or fifth time she'd called him since the news broke.

She wanted to know how he was feeling. Was he angry? Panicking? Had already fled the country? Did the realization that dating her was incompatible with a quiet, peaceful life finally hit him? Was he planning to leave her, or worse, ghost her? She let herself sink into the bed in the guest room.

Did he even get the news? She had texted him, wanting to be the one to break it to him first, but with him in the middle of Houston Con, probably signing autographs and taking pictures with fans, she doubted he had much time to check his phone.

Still, with every social media re-posting the news like wildfire, she also doubted the word hadn't reached him.

"Hey, Marti," he said in a shockingly calm voice. "Sorry I've been trying to call you but it's been crazy here."

She jumped on her feet. "Hi! No, don't worry!" Suddenly she felt hesitant to bring up what she had wanted to discuss all day, so she took the roundabout to it. "So... how... have you been? How was your day?"

"Good. It's been good," he said, a stifled chuckle escaping before his words. "I heard we're dating..."

"You heard, huh..." Of course he had.

"My manager called me in full-blown panic mode. He said his phone was melting from all the press calls—everyone wanted me to confirm, deny or schedule interviews..." He explained.

He didn't seem irritated, though. If anything, he sounded amused.

"I'm so sorry, Hayden. I wanted to keep it private, to have control over it..." Marti's words spilled out in a rush of frustration.

"It's okay, Marti," he replied, though there was a pause as if he was searching for the right words to express what he really felt. "I don't know...I really think it's okay."

It was so weird. Unexpected. Was he for real?

"No, it's not okay, and I know that," she replied quickly. "But you should know Jessie's doing everything she can to contain it. She's been calling out the major media outlets for capitalizing on it, even threatening to cut them off from future interviews with me if they keep fueling it." She paused to catch her breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. "And... we don't have to confirm or deny anything...We can still keep this private. Jessie's a pro at this—you'll see!"

"Calm down, Marti. Breathe," he said, gently. "Really. I think I'm ok with it being out there."

"Are you, really?" He clearly hadn't thought it through. Maybe he was just tired and trying to avoid a difficult conversation.

"I mean. It's not like the first time I'm in a relationship that's sort of under the spotlight."

"Last time you were, it was the 2000s." The words came out far more mocking than she had intended.

But seriously. Maybe she was channeling a bit too much of Sara, viewing anyone who experienced fame in the flip phone era as a media dinosaur, when going viral meant catching a bad flu.

"Just to remind you, smart mouth, we broke up in 2017—not exactly a geological era ago," Hayden clarified.

"Still, that was before #MeToo and cancel culture," she countered.

"I'm not planning on being cancelled for dating you. In fact...I'm pretty stoked that now everyone knows you're mine," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

She shook her head, smiling, and then asked, "What about your family?"

"My ex already knew, and she'd been warming Lena to the idea. So, it's not complete news." He explained. "She's thrilled, by the way."

"So, we're ok?" She held the sigh of relief she so desperately wanted to let go a moment longer.

"We are. We'll navigate it. Together," he reassured her.

She took a long sigh on the phone and huffed.

"Are you okay, though? You sound really anxious."

Suddenly, all the pent-up frustration, helplessness, anger, and exhaustion from the past few days crashed over her like a wave.

It was so damn difficult to keep it all bottled up, and for a moment, she was tempted to let it spill out and tell him everything.

Maybe she was underestimating him.

She had been convinced he would overreact about this too, but he'd handled it just fine. Maybe he could handle the stalker thing, too.

The thought of opening up came dancing before her eyes, like a cotton candy cloud, soft and tempting. She caressed it, imagining how much lighter she'd feel with that heavy burden finally lifted from her shoulders.

It was a beautiful thought, and maybe someday she'd be able to share it with him. But for now, she let that fluffy pastel cloud drift away and held back.

"I've just had a long day," she said, sighing. "I wish I could disappear for a few days until this all blows over."

"That, we can arrange." He said.

***

LA. June 30th - Martina's POV

A large pile of sweaters and hoodies was stacked from her hands to under her chin, bundled together haphazardly with sleeves dangling loosely, making it difficult for her to see over the top.

All it took was Hayden's casual comment about Canadian summers being a bit cooler than LA, and suddenly, she was packing as if she were headed to an entirely different hemisphere.

She was a warm-blooded creature, after all. For most of her life, summer meant scorching under the blazing Italian sun, diving in and out of the sea to cool off. Clothes clung to sweat-damp skin, the only relief coming from the creaking fans in every room, stirring around the thick, humid air.

So, anything below 90°F felt more like autumn than summer to her, and conjured up images of fallen leaves, plaid shirts, and scarves instead of beach days and sunbathing.

Was this a good time to finally learn about happy mediums and moderation? Probably. As good as any.

But she was about to spend a few days at Hayden's farm, maybe even meeting his family, and she was low key panicking about it. So she'd leave this soft skill development for another time.

She was scratching her head, debating whether packing wool socks was taking it too far, when her phone chimed.

Absent-mindedly, she reached for it and swiped the notification open.

'See you never cease to surprise me, little bird.

I thought I already knew everything about you.

I know your childhood's dog was a German Shepherd named Lady.

I know your favorite snack is Mars chocolate bars.

I knew your go-to coffee order, caramel lattes in the winter, coconut matcha in the summer.

I know your blood type's A+ and your star sign is Scorpio.

I know you prefer Family Guy over the Simpsons and the Office US over UK.

I know your favorite movie is Little Miss Sunshine.

I know you competed at the National Championship in gymnastics when you were little.

I didn't know the scent of your panties. And now I do.

Sweeter than cherries.'

She struggled against the waves of dry heaves, her body convulsing in horror and disgust, while anxiety simmered in her veins.

She screenshotted the text and sent it to Thomas, as they agreed, in case he hadn't seen it already.

This was the revolting opening they had been waiting for, but this time she wasn't going to shut the door.

This was it.

Game on.

Chapter Text

Ontario, Canada. July 3rd - Hayden's POV

For a global superstar who had walked more red carpets than grocery store isles in the last few years, Hayden couldn't help but notice how good farm life looked on her.

After picking her up from the airport, they had returned to his farm and he had shown her around.

Not only had she listened as he explained the steps and fundamentals of pond-making, but she had also devised her own personal system to rate them.

As he drove them around in his tractor to visit each pond, she ranked them on size, style, water clarity, and the beauty of the floral and clay decorations.

In no time, they reached the area of the animal's pens, and he watched as she petted and baby-talked cows like people usually do with golden retrievers.

She fed the pigs and tried, with all her might, to get Old Jack—the biggest and oldest one—to sit down for his carrot. And for the love of god, he just hadn't it in him to tell her that wasn't how it worked.

She completely lost it when he opened the gate to the piglet enclosure. As they came sprinting toward her, she excitedly screamed "PIGGIES!!!" and then shrieked so loud he was pretty sure it echoed all the way to British Columbia.

He explained how piglets tended to be needy and ravenous in the mornings. They needed to be fed first, at 5 AM, which was usually his duty when he was staying at the farm, and the staff's when he wasn't.

The funniest part though was when she fed the ducks. Ducks had a spunky, feisty personality, which she probably hadn't been educated on.

So when they came asking for more food and she didn't have any because she'd run out, they started chasing after her with a vengeance and she ran away from them like a scared little child.

The scene was just too priceless for him to hold back his laughter.

It ended with her running for refuge in his arms, only to punch him for laughing at her and playfully scolding him for putting her life in danger.

They continued the visit moving on to the greenhouses and the cultivated fields. He walked her through rows of corn, vegetables, fruits, and lavender, and they eventually came across Keith, who was busy transplanting some seedlings.

When it came to maintaining the farm and its crops in his absence, Hayden trusted the man with his life. Despite being in his late 60s, he remained not only highly capable but also deeply committed to taking care of the fields.

Even for a man of a certain age, who had spent a lifetime bent over in the fields, he was still smart and tech-savvy enough to send Hayden a weekly farm report with animal births, losses, and illnesses, newly planted fields, produce yields, and any upcoming improvements that needed attention.

When they ran into him, knee-deep in soil, he launched into a tangent about the Colorado potato beetle—a conversation that was probably stimulating to them and Old McDonald alone.

Hayden half-expected Marti to give him the fish-eye look most people reserved for such discussions.

Instead, she quietly seated herself next to Keith and timidly but attentively observed his every move, until she was transplanting seedlings with dirt up her wrists along with him.

The main idea of getting her there at the farm had been to escape the chaos of the media frenzy they were both caught up in right now.

But beyond that, he genuinely wanted to show her this side of his life—the way he spent most of the year, when he wasn't living a much faster, more frenetic life down in LA.

It had become such a fundamental part of him that he felt if he didn't share it with her, she would never truly know him.

This was never intended to be a test in his mind, but if it was, she was exceeding all expectations.

It wasn't even his intention to draw comparisons, but he couldn't help thinking back to the last time he'd brought one of his exes to the farm.

It was a few years ago, and he couldn't pinpoint exactly what had gone wrong, but it hadn't been a nice experience.

Maybe it had been the mud on her clothes, or the lack of 'things to do around here', as she'd said. Or maybe it had been the rooster waking her up long before her usual time, or the ducks latching on to her extensions for dear life.

Whatever the cause, it had ended with her barricading herself inside his house, confined to the only place where the WiFi wasn't spotty, binge-watching Selling Sunset.

Not exactly a success.

It was different with Marti. She'd only just spent a morning at the farm but he'd never seen her more relaxed or at ease. Happy.

But he had saved the best for last.

They left Keith behind and walked to the northernmost edge of the farm, where the land met the open fields and a gently rolling hill.

It was a peaceful spot, far removed from the noises of farm equipment, with no house in sight—just the quiet, expansive beauty of the countryside.

When they emerged from the wooded trail, the landscape unfurled before them in all its breathtaking view.

Light poured over the moss and surrounding hay fields, making the colors glow through a delicate haze. The only sounds around them were birds chirping and wild horses swishing their tails as they grazed on weeds.

He often came here to read, to unwind, and simply to soak in the unique atmosphere of the place.

It seemed like it had struck a chord with her as well, because when he turned to point out the vast maple forest ahead, where they harvested the best local syrup, she was uncharacteristically silent, her hands resting on her chest, and her eyes glistening slightly.

He'd pulled her in his arms, and asked if everything was alright.

"Yes. I'm just...This light... there's something so magical about it... just so... golden." She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. "Like you."

He grinned. "I'm golden?"

"No. Well, yes. I mean..." She fought the smile tugging at her lips. "It's the kind of thing I can write better than I can say. I meant stunning. It's pure light. All of this. You," she said it like a whisper. "I don't know how I'll ever be able to look at anything else. And I don't even want to. It's all so beautiful."

"You are," he lifted her up and kissed her.

He breathed her in, her violet scent mingling with the earthy scents of hay, grass, and trees around them, fitting perfectly—just as she was seamlessly blending with this part of his world, this part of himself.

Only now, being here with her, did he realize how little he had missed this place since she came into his life.

Before, he could barely manage a month in LA or traveling around the world. After a few days, he would start to feel like he was underwater, gasping for air and struggling through each day until he could finally return here and breathe again.

He kissed her forehead before gently setting her back on her feet, reflecting on how things had slowly, almost imperceptibly, changed.

Since meeting her, the moments he'd truly felt like he was holding his breath weren't when he was away from the farm, but the ones when he wasn't with her.

From the hill, they strolled down to the farmers' market for lunch, and on the way back to the farm, they took twice as long because she kept stopping to pick flowers along the trail. 

By the time they arrived at the house, she was holding a small, handpicked bouquet.

He led her into the house and kicked off his boots by the door, but when he turned to show her around, she was already happily wandering off toward the kitchen.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and an amused smile playing on his lips as he watched her open two wrong cabinets before finding the right one. She pulled out a glass, filled it with water, and carefully put the flowers inside.

She pranced out of the kitchen and placed the flowers in the center of the living room table, as if she were decorating her own home, looking up at him with pride, clearly pleased with her little arrangement.

His mind played traitorous tricks on him as unbidden images flashed before him—of her, seated at that very table during Christmas Eves and Thanksgivings past, ones she had never attended, and all the future ones he secretly hoped she would.

Her eyes suddenly widened with surprise as they caught sight of the piano next to the couch. "I beg your finest pardon?!" she exclaimed, pulling her hair into a ponytail. "You just so casually happen to have a fine-ass, purebred beauty like this one sitting here, and you didn't think to mention it?"

She approached it. "May I?" she asked, waiting for his nod before sitting down and flipping the key cover open.

Her fingers caressed the keys, dancing over them and bringing to life chords he recognized from a song he had heard coming from Lena's room so many times.

As she started humming along, his phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket, and he moved over to the window to take the call.

"Hi, Daddy!" Lena's voice chimed. "Mom said to call you because we have a surprise!"

"Hey, little bear. A surprise, huh?" He played along. "And what might that be?"

"We're coming up to see you tomorrow with aunt Hayley, Jordan, and Grace!" His daughter's overly ecstatic voice lingered with anticipation on the other end of the line.

"Really? That's wonderful, Lena! I can't wait to see you. Can you put Mom on the phone for me?" he asked.

This was a plot twist he hadn't anticipated when he asked Martina to come up here. His family wasn't supposed to join him for another week.

His sister and his ex had remained close friends after their divorce, so they often traveled or vacationed together with the kids. They were supposed to spend the 4th of July with Rebecca's family in Montana.

On the phone, Rebecca explained that Hayley's husband had managed to get off work a few days early, and Hayley's kids were eager to join him and celebrate together at the farm. He lowered his voice to let his ex know that Martina was staying with him.

"So we're really doing this, huh?" Rebecca asked. He could hear the hesitancy and lack of enthusiasm in her voice, but he knew she would never dig in her heels if it meant ruining the 4th of July for their daughter and the rest of the family.

"We are," he confirmed. "Please prepare Lena. I don't want her to faint when she sees her. And remember this is happening sooner that we all expected."

"I will. I'll text you the flight details. Bye," she said, and the call ended with a brief blip.

As he was hanging up, he saw his grandmother's silhouette from the window, entering the gate and making her way up the entrance trail on one of those motorized mobility scooters for the elderly.

Everyone had asked her not to use it between their houses because the ground was gravelly and that thing could get stuck or topple over.

She insisted that if they didn't want her using it, they should have chosen houses closer together—and closer to hers.

So there she was, speeding along.

He turned to Marti, who continued playing undisturbed, likely having heard nothing from his phone call, just as he wasn't hearing his grandmother knocking on the door now.

When he opened the door for Grandma Rose, she barely acknowledged him as she swept inside. Without missing a beat, she told him that the compost pile was as dry as a bone and needed water, all while handing him a bottle of her famous homemade rose petal liqueur.

She took a few tentative steps further inside, her ears perking up as she noticed Martina at the piano, and gestured to Hayden to stay silent so they wouldn't interrupt.

Marti had switched to Fevered Dreams—this time he could clearly recognize the song—and she was singing it beautifully, her voice dancing smoothly with the velvety sound of the piano.

Maybe, if he had continued seeing his therapist instead of dropping out the moment he started feeling better every time, he might have allowed the wave of emotions mounting inside him to bring him to tears.

Instead, he felt a twisting ache in his ribs, trying not to let her take yet another piece of his heart. In vain.

Because the therapy he did do, was enough to make him realize that this attempt was nothing more than leftover reflexes.

Keeping someone at a distance had been a well-exercised muscle of his, in the past. He still found himself flexing it, from time to time, to see if he could still make it work as he wanted to.

And now he goddamn couldn't anymore.

Grandma Rose approached Marti over the piano, applauding to get her attention. "You sound like an angel, dear."

For a half a second, Hayden caught the flicker of panic on Marti's face as she found herself unexpectedly facing an unfamiliar old lady.

But she quickly composed herself, offering a polite smile and a thank you, as he made the introductions.

"I just had to give it a go. Hayden didn't even tell me he had this gem," Marti said, running her hand over the shiny piano top.

"I'm sure he forgot to mention that he also knows how to play it," Grandma Rose sold him out.

"What???" Marti exclaimed, turning to him with surprise.

"Not as well as you, and it's been a while," he said, trying to manage her expectations.

"It was a fight to make him attend his lessons when he was young, and even worse to make him practice," his grandmother recalled. "He only ever wanted to play hockey. But he still did around 5 or 6 years of it."

Marti grinned up to her ears, pulled her phone from her pocket, and set it on the music stand, the sheet music clearly displayed.

She then reached for him, grabbing his arms with inviting eyes. "No way you're getting out of this now," she said with a smile. "Come on, play with me. Pretty please."

He sat by her, and it took a few attempts, but soon enough they were playing together. She cast occasional glances at him, her eyes flecked with copper, flickering tiny flames.

At the end, a lingering silence fell as she mouthed "thank you" and looked at him as if he had just gifted her a star or the moon—or something along the same lines of unattainability.

He felt that old, dusty muscle clumsily flex again. Dead. Pure atrophy.

"Thought I'd never seen the day, Haddie," Grandma Rose ruffled his hair as Marti snorted out a laugh at the nickname.

"Alright alright, glad you both enjoyed it. Don't hold your breath for another solo anytime soon," he reassured them.

They spent the rest of the afternoon between old photo albums he'd rather left unopened and embarrassing stories he'd rather left untold.

Marti said it was bittersweet for her to spend time with grandparents because hers had passed away more than ten years ago, and she missed them dearly.

She recalled her fondest memories with them though: long summer nights playing rummy and eating stuffed zucchini blossoms for dinner.

Grandma Rose suggested they make some for dinner, and soon enough, they were all in the kitchen, with her and Marti ordering him around in a way only two Italian women could.

They exchanged jokes in Italian that he couldn't understand, while handing him ingredients to chop and prepare as they cooked together.

"So, Martina, do you miss Italy?" Grandma Rose asked as they finally sat down for dinner.

"I do," Marti replied, gazing out the window at the setting sun with a sigh. "Life moves differently there. It's not too different from here, actually. There's that same feeling of everything slowing down, moving at a pace where you can actually stop and smell the roses—quite literally."

"Are you having a tough time in LA? Is it as bad as Hayden makes it sound?" Grandma Rose asked, casting him a sidelong glance. "We can never tell if he's telling the truth or he's just getting more melodramatic as he ages."

Marti smiled and nodded. "LA can be...full of opportunities, I guess. And also a black hole that drains the good out of everything at the same time."

"See?" Hayden shook his head at his grandmother. "No lies."

Marti looked inside her now empty glass of rose petal liqueur, and Grandma Rose readily filled it up again for her.

"To survive it, you have to learn how the system really works. And once you have, you can't unsee the rotting gears that keep it moving. It's hard to stay in it without letting it taint you. But usually it's a good sign if you're uncomfortable with it. It means you're not rotten to the core."

Maybe Marti had been more open or articulate than he had ever been. Or perhaps she'd simply found the right words, because Grandma Rose gave her a look of genuine understanding—not just the usual sympathetic eyes she reserved for him. She was nodding along as if she fundamentally grasped and empathized with what Marti was saying.

"It sounds like one of those places that either breaks you or bends you if you stay too long," his grandmother remarked, pouring herself yet another glass of rose petal liqueur. Must have been the third. Couldn't be good for her.

"That's why I always try to stay as little as possible," he clarified.

"Yeah," Marti replied, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. "I'm not sure there's a place for those who refuse to bend but aren't broken yet. I don't know what happens to them."

"They find each other," Grandma Rose said, her warm, wrinkled eyes twinkling as she looked at them both with a tender smile. "Maybe, if they're smart enough, they hold on tight not to lose what they found. And you, my dear, you seem really smart." She winked at Marti, then nodded toward Hayden with a movement of her head, "Lui un po' meno.*"

*Translation: "Him, not so much."

Marti's laughter filled the room as he struggled to catch on.

"What did you say? I didn't quite get it," he asked his grandma, who just smiled at him and replied, "She did."

Then she added, "Well, dears, I'll leave you to it. I've probably overstayed my welcome anyway, and I need to be home by 9 to catch the reruns of Murder, She Wrote. See you tomorrow!"

***

Ontario, Canada. Same night - Martina's POV

"Jeez, that rose liqueur has really gone to my head," she said with a laugh, venturing down the steps leading to the pier on the lake.

This was probably his second favorite spot on the farm, close second to the open field. He and his brother had built it during his first year there.

The pier wasn't long, but it extended far enough over the lake that, at night, you could see the starry sky perfectly reflected on the water's surface.

He took her by the hand and held it firmly, because Grandma Rose's liqueur had clearly left its mark. She was walking with a carefree bounce in her step, but also swaying unpredictably—not the safest combination on a pier over a lake.

"Is this the part where we live all cinematically, strip down, and go for an unforgettable skinny dip under the moon?" she asked, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint.

"No," he said firmly, pulling her back as she wandered too close to the edge, her feet mirroring her words. "This is the moment where I heroically stop you from doing just that—because if you did, you wouldn't be living cinematically. You wouldn't be living at all. Two strokes in, and I'd have to throw you the lifeline."

She looked at him confused. "Throw me what?"

"The lifeline," he repeated, hinting at the orange hoop and rope tied to the pier piling. "Saves you if you're drowning?"

"I won't be drowning. I learned how to swim when I was a baby," she said with a touch of dignified resentment.

"It's not safe," he tried to explain.

She wriggled her hand free from his and threw her arms up theatrically, "Life isn't! Live a little!"

He immediately reached out to reclaim her hand. "Lakes are tricky—you don't always realize you're drowning. The waters may look still, and you might think you're floating just fine, that you've acclimatized to the cold temperature, then all of a sudden...there's water in your lungs and you're gone. All it takes is a whirlpool." He pulled her close, her body landing against his as he kissed her forehead. "That's what lifelines are for."

"Well I don't need one," she retorted stubbornly. "I'm a pro."

"It doesn't have to do with how well you think you can swim." He said. "Besides, with all that alcohol, I'd need one too."

"No, you wouldn't. I can be your lifeline. I'll keep you afloat," she replied with a confident smile, clearly trying to convince him to jump in the water with her.

She had said it innocently. Nonchalantly. Like a light-hearted, booze-infused joke.

His ribs twisted again, harder than ever before, as her words sank to the bottom of his heart—where it had always been too dark to see, and he'd always been too scared to look.

He sighed and faked detachment from whatever truth was taking shape down there.

"Please. Don't jump in the water, Marti." He gently pulled her back a foot or two from the edge. "Behave, and sit with me."

They sat on the pier edge, and she took in the view of the lake and the stars scattered in the sky over their heads.

"Only because you asked so nicely. And because today was the best day I've had in a long time." She turned to him, her warm, big maple eyes locking onto his. "I have you to thank for that. This place is amazing. If I were you, I'd never leave."

"Would you? How do you know you wouldn't start to feel like your life is shrinking after a while? How do you know you wouldn't miss the inspiration and excitement from the outside world?" he asked, his eyes tracing the faint ripples on the lake's surface.

"I don't know...But since I've been here, I've felt nothing but expanding. My lungs. My heart. My mind. And most of the inspiration I need comes from within me anyway," she hiccuped. "And shame on you for dragging me into these deep-ass conversations when you think I'm too drunk to skinny dip but just fine for existential debates."

He laughed. "I'm sorry. You're handling it like a pro, if it helps."

"I always do," she smiled proudly, before lying back to gaze at the starry sky. "Honestly though, I respect this type of life too much to think of it as a cop-out," she turned her head toward him. "If it gives you the freedom to choose the pace of your life and decide what you want in it, instead of having it thrown at you...is it really that bad? I don't know. I wish your grandma's liquer allowed for deeper thoughts but the lady packed it with a vengeance."

He lay down beside her. "So, I guess this isn't the best time to mention that my family's coming over tomorrow?"

"What??" She turned to him, eyes wide in shock.

"I didn't know. It wasn't planned. They just called today. I wanted to tell you earlier, but—"

"It's alright," she said, her voice tinged with a bit of disappointment. "I guess I can still arrange a flight back first thing tomorrow."

"No, you're staying," he said firmly. He couldn't even stand that she thought he was sending her away. The last time they had a conversation like this, it ended with her leaving him and flying to another country, into somebody else's arms. This time, he'd slice the wings off the jet himself before she could do it again. "I mean. I want you here. I talked to my ex and she's fine with it too. That is, of course, if you want it as well."

Her eyes lit up, and even in the dim light of the pier and the soft glow of the moon, he could clearly see the rush of joy in them and the grin spreading across her lips.

"Of course! I'd love that," she said, nodding eagerly. "Oh gosh... do you think they'll like me?"

"There's nothing not to like," he said, as if it were an undeniable truth. And it was.

"Wow. This really is the best day," she giggled and sighed with excitement. "Can't think of a better way to end it than this, staring at the stars."

She gazed at him with those bewitching eyes that had carved themselves into his soul since the first time she looked at him like that.

"I can," he murmured, rolling onto his side and then over her. He kissed her, savoring the lingering taste of rose petals on her lips. One taste wasn't enough; he drew her lower lip into his mouth, sinking his teeth in, craving more. "And we both know these are not the stars you really want to see."

She bit her lip as he slowly moved his way down her body, lifting the oversized t-shirt she was wearing—his t-shirt—and savoring the way she squirmed as he slipped off her panties.

He lowered his face, gripping her soft, full thighs as he kissed the inside of them, inching closer. He inhaled her scent like the sweet, intoxicating essence it was to him.

God. He wanted to eat her. Devour her. Let her quench his never ending thirst for her.

But she needed it to let it build slowly, and there was nothing he wanted more than to give her exactly what she needed—and then some.

He dragged his tongue flat and slow, from her entrance to the very top, his lips softly enveloping her clit.

His hands reached to her ribcage and down her waist, pulling her even more into him. He flipped his tongue over her clit and felt her squirm in his hands.

She arched her back as he began tongue-fucking her, her fingers fisting his hair.

He was in control of her every breath, her every whisper, every spasm she gave. He was the master of her pleasure. He could feel her dripping down his chin and neck, but it still wasn't enough. He wanted more. Sliding two fingers inside her, he pumped them in and out, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of her moans.

"Please, Hayden," she cried out, her hips bucking forward.

"Please what?" he asked. He wanted to hear her say it.

"Make me come, please," she begged, her voice a delicious whine beneath the moonlight.

He increased the pressure on her clit, her thighs tightening around his face. Moments later, they began to tremble as her body spasmed and she came hard against his tongue.

He glanced up at her.

What a fucking vision. If he could choose one thing to look at for the rest of his life, it would be her, just like this.

Her, rolling her eyes back and moaning at the night sky under his touch. Her, laughing in his kitchen. Her, playing his piano. Her, with her hair bouncing as she ran in the hay fields.

Her. Nothing but her.

All the time, and for all time.

Chapter Text

Ontario, Canada. July 4th - Martina's POV

A picture of her hands.

Her hands doing what, exactly? How was she supposed to take it? She tried several poses with her hands raised to the sky, but it didn't quite make sense as a pose.

The more she thought about this, the more she got nervous.

She had been a lot bolder suggesting this plan, than she was now at executing it.

When her stalker sent that last creepy message, she worked with Thomas on how to reply and make contact with him.

They'd texted him that he had scared her by getting into her house while she was sleeping—no shit—and asked him to please never do it again.

They'd actually said the word 'please,' which she hated, because all she wanted to tell him was to go die in a ditch.

Then, the stalker had reassured her that he'd never hurt her, but it felt as comforting as if Freddy Krueger had said it.

And then, they'd set the bait.

They'd told him she needed him to stay at a distance, but that if he complied, she'd do her best to give him what he wanted.

She didn't know how he could possibly fall for that.

He wasn't stupid. If anything, he'd proven to be at least as smart as he was unhinged.

And this screamed of bait. But apparently, he'd taken it.

His first request had been a voice recording of her singing one of her early songs, just for him. It had been relatively easy; she simply had to pretend she wasn't singing it specifically for him.

She'd sent the recording to Thomas, the security team, and the IT expert coordinating the communications with the stalker.

From her understanding, they had cloned her phone and used an interface that let them control and monitor the interactions, making it look as if she was directly communicating with him.

They were the ones actually sending the files to the stalker, each embedded with an encrypted tracking code that was supposed to reveal his IP address, his location and, hopefully, his identity, if he had opened them.

Which, again, had her wishing the IT expert really knew what he was doing because if they got caught, things could have turned badly.

She shook off her hesitation, reminding herself that at least it wasn't feet he was asking for.

After all, there was a full day ahead of her, an important one at that, and she refused to let him get to her.

Positioning her hand holding a rose picked from Hayden's garden, she took a deep breath, snapped the picture, and hit send to Thomas.

She put her phone away and made her way back from the garden to the living room. She carefully closed the door behind her to avoid waking up, but as she did, she heard the sound of the shower running. He must have already woken up.

The clock read 6:30. That probably still gave her some time to tune out all the creepiness, and reconnect with herself.

She picked up a pen and a napkin and opened up the piano key cover.

***

"Ready?" Hayden's arms wrapped around her from behind as they watched the pickup truck approaching.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she sighed a little bit of worry away, and squeezing his hands, she followed him out the door to greet his family.

Her heart pounded like crazy as they pulled up in the driveway.

Smoothing her sweaty palms over her dress, she clasped her hands in front of her chest, in an unconscious attempt to calm herself.

She'd met some of her ex-boyfriend's family before, but it had never made her feel as shaky or nervous as she was feeling today.

This was different, for so many reasons.

First of all, in the past family meetings the ex wasn't usually part of it. Secondly, none of her exes had kids. Hayden had a kid, and according to him, she was obsessed with Martina Moreschino, the star.

She wasn't sure she would like her—just Marti—as much.

The waters looked like a challenge to navigate here, so she braced herself, gripped the metaphorical paddles of the rowboat she had to navigate them with, and flashed her best, welcoming smile.

Hayden's sister stepped out first, giving her a full-armed wave and calling, "Hiiiii!".

She was followed by her two kids: a boy who looked about 12 and a girl around 10, who looked like they were in the middle of a heated fight and too busy to notice anything else happening around them.

His ex Rebecca stepped out of the car next, her large, square glasses covering half her face. Lena bounced out the car right after and froze for a second, her little hand flying to cover her open mouth in marveled disbelief.

Her face lit up with dramatic, wide-eyed astonishment. "Mom!" she squealed. "Look! It's really her!"

"I can see that, Lena," her mother replied, as to state that she also had perfectly functioning eyes.

"Hi Lena!" Marti called out, loud enough that she could hear her from the porch steps. "It's so nice to meet you!"

Lena squealed again and dashed toward her, while Marti glanced at Hayden, who was clearly enjoying the excited reaction he had anticipated from his daughter.

Marti knelt just in time to catch Lena, who threw herself into her arms in one of those all-encompassing, barrier-breaking hugs that children often give.

"I can't believe it!" Lena squeezed her with all the strength a tiny human could muster, and Marti let her embrace envelop her. "I have all your albums! And I've been to two—no, three!—of your shows!" She held up three fingers for emphasis. "I sing your songs every day! Can we sing together today?"

"Lena, you'll have plenty of time to get to know her; let her breathe a bit," Hayden said, gently reprimanding her. "Now come give your dad a hug, little bear—I've missed you!"

Lena pulled back, giving her a knowing look as if to excuse herself for attending to her needy father, and went to hug him.

Soon the rest of the group joined them on the porch.

Hayley, Hayden's sister, gave Martina a warm hug and introduced herself and her kids. "It's really nice to meet you, Marti! We're so glad to have you here!"

Rebecca extended her hand for a brief, tepid handshake and said, "Hi. I've heard a lot of...things about you."

Marti tried not to dwell on the slight pause and emphasis in Rebecca's phrasing or on the absence of the customary 'great' before 'things'.

After the initial greetings, they all went inside and everyone just sort of disappeared.

Hayley took her kids to get her husband from their nearby home, promising to return for lunch, while Hayden went upstairs to help Lena unpack.

That left Marti alone in the kitchen, focusing on the pasta she was cooking, until Rebecca walked in with an air of casual familiarity.

She opened a cabinet, took out a pitcher, and filled it with water before placing it on the table. Noticing the two Coke bottles Marti had set out, Rebecca swiftly removed them. "Oops, no sugar for the kids," she said. "They get restless and noisy."

Rebecca had been a global superstar in the 2000s. She had been on the cover of every magazine back then, a true IT girl and trend setter for almost a decade.

Now, however, she seemed fully dedicated to her life as a mom and a few other projects, like a TV show she was on and her podcast.

That's what Marti had read on Wikipedia, at least.

This morning, Marti had found the time to listen to one of Rebecca's latest episodes and found it even engaging. The questions to the guest were interesting, the quips were funny, and there were thought-provoking insights.

She'd thought the vibes were laid back, positive and warm—a far cry from the chill ones Rebecca had brought to the function or in that very kitchen, up until now.

"Oh," Marti said, feeling stupid all of a sudden. "I didn't know that."

"How could you?" Rebecca shrugged with a smile and hint of something else in her eyes. "It's not the age of kids for you, is it? It's the age of sold-out world tours, Vogue front pages and whirlwind romances, right?"

Marti swallowed and tucked her hair behind her ears. "I'm sure I've got a few brain cells left for this new piece of information," she said, flashing an open smile.

"Do you need any help with those?" Rebecca asked, pointing to the bowl of tomatoes that she and Hayden had handpicked that morning, which needed to be sliced and seasoned.

"Yeah, thank you so much," Marti passed her the bowl.

A few seconds of silence stretched longer than she was comfortable with, so she followed Jessie's advice for these situations: asking people about themselves. There's nothing people love to talk about more than themselves, Jessie always said.

"So Rebecca, how's the podcast going? I listened to your latest episode today, and I saw you've had a lot of great guests!" She loaded her tone with all the enthusiasm she was capable of.

"Thank you, it's going great," Rebecca replied monotone, never lifting her eyes from the cutting board as the knife sliced through like a metronome. "It's tough to get new ones each week. We actually invited you too. Never got an answer. I guess we're barely blips on the radar when you're that high up."

Oh shit. Marti seemed to recall there was an intern on Jessie's team assigned to review external inquiries and politely declined, if needed. It must have slipped, they got thousands per week, so it was probably hard to keep track.

Even if it hadn't though, Jessie hardly would have allowed it. They had limited interviews to just one or two per year, and yes, they typically kept them high-profile.

"Oh, I'm really sorry about that. It must have slipped past my team's attention. It wasn't like—" Marti began to apologize.

"Don't sweat it, know how it works," Rebecca said, casually tossing a cherry tomato into her mouth. "Been there, done that."

Marti pursed her lips, acknowledging that the waters she was navigating today were indeed rougher than anticipated. She pictured herself in her tiny rowboat, struggling to keep it afloat as chilly winds whipped up waves to slap her face.

Thankfully, the others began to arrive at the table for lunch. Hayley's kids, now reunited with their dad, sat peacefully next to each other, while Marti took her place between Hayden and Lena.

Lena had a lot—cue euphemism—to share and couldn't sit still. She kept interrupting the conversations around her to relay every enthusiastic detail she could think of.

She told Marti about a singing competition at her school where she had come in second place—only because Madison Sinclair from fifth grade had played it safe by singing the National Anthem.

And because, she whispered into Martina's ear so that her parents wouldn't hear her, Madison was nothing but a brown-noser, having brought homemade cookies to the judges. Marti laughed heartily, covering her mouth with her hand.

Lena went on to tell her how her parents didn't want her to listen to some of Marti's songs that were marked explicit on Spotify.

And how the older brother of one of her hockey teammates had disabled the block on her phone so she could listen to them anyway. Martina stared blankly at her plate, wondering if she should snitch this out to any responsible adult.

"Is everything alright?" Hayden asked her from a seat over. "Looks like you've seen a ghost"

No, not a ghost. Just all of her most inappropriate lyrics flashing through her mind. She made a mental note to ask Sara about strengthening parental controls on streaming platforms.

Then Lena leaned in and said she had a secret to confess, making her promise with a pinky swear not to tell anyone. Marti hoped to god it wouldn't be another inconvenient truth.

"I've been hoping you and my dad would get together ever since he saved you from falling at the Emmys," she whispered with her sweet voice. "Even though everyone told me not to. I made a drawing about it and gave it to him. He said it was nothing, but he kept my drawing in the bedside drawer in his house in LA."

Lena pressed her fingers to her lips and mimed zipping them shut, while Marti felt her heart swell with a sweetness overdrive.

She didn't quite know what to say or how to thank her, so she awkwardly resorted to doing a heart gesture with her hands. Lena reached over and rearranged her fingers until they were still making a heart, but the gen-z type this time.

After lunch, the idea of spending the afternoon at the lake quickly gained traction among the kids and a half hour later, they were heading there in two separate cars for a short ride there.

Hayden was driving and Rebecca had claimed shotgun over her motion sickness, so that left Marti riding in the backseat with Lena.

It wasn't a problem for her. Just like all the inside jokes and the recollection of past family adventures weren't.

Of course after a while it had Martina wondering if Rebecca had an issue with her, because they started to sound like they were deliberately meant to leave her out, even though Hayden kept trying to steer the conversation back to include everyone.

So, when she heard the third 'Do you remember that summer when', she dissociated herself and followed the background music.

She got excited picking up as the smooth synths of Agora Hills by Doja Cat came on, and she got lost in the music, mouthing the lyrics without thinking.

It hit her a moment later, as the song progressed, that she probably shouldn't be rapping along and at the same time as Rebecca's hand providentially flew to the station button to shut it down right before it got inappropriate.

Don't sing about torrid PDAs in bathrooms in front of kids. Noted. Felt like she should've known that much already.

"Dad, are you going to Marti's show in LA next month?" Lena asked, cutting into her mom's nostalgic reminiscing about the park they'd just driven past, where they used to have picnics back in the day.

They had never actually discussed it. Marti wasn't even sure if he'd be in town, but he answered for her. "I think I will, little bear. Maybe Marti can get you in too?" he said, seeking confirmation as he looked at her in the rearview mirror.

"No, she can't," Rebecca cut in. "We've already talked about this, Lena. You start school the next day, which makes it a school night. You know the rules—and so does your father." She shot Hayden a reproachful look.

"Come on, Becca is just one night. It's not going to kill her to go to bed an hour later than she normally would," he said, lowering his voice.

"Tickets are sold out anyway. And we'll be stuck in traffic forever trying to get out of there," Rebecca complained.

Lena looked defeated, but not willing to wave a white flag just yet. "Marti, can you do something? Pleaseeee!"

She could feel Rebecca's eyes burning into her through the side mirror, as if she would press an ejection seat button the moment she said the wrong thing.

So, Marti carefully considered her response.

"Well, the date and time have been set and I'm afraid I can't do much about that." Marti said, glancing at Lena, who was staring down at her lap. "Tell you what, though. I can see if, by any chance, we still have some VIP seats available, with priority entrance and exit, so you can skip traffic and lines. Then, only if it doesn't make you too late for school, and only if both your parents agree, I can get you the tickets."

Lena's face lit up with hope at Marti's words, while Hayden sent a silent, grateful glance her way through the rear view mirror.

Even Rebecca, from the side one, was no longer glaring daggers at her for the first time today, and her seat hadn't been expelled from the vehicle. A success.

As the car neared the lake, Marti pulled out a large black hat and oversized sunglasses from her backpack, and topped the look with a surgical mask.

When they got off the car, Rebecca commented amused, "Gee. Not the Hannah Montana disguise. That all necessary?"

Ok. Martina had been nothing but collaborative, open and nice. All fucking day. And she'd rather tap out before getting dragged into this ex-versus-current-woman showdown.

But she was just about done with Rebecca's mildly conceited and condescending comments. It wasn't her fault that they ended up on the farm on the same days.

But she had come for some peace and quiet, not a free treat of passive-aggressive commentary.

"We're at a packed family vacation spot during both Canada Day and Independence Day week. You better hope it's enough." Marti laughed, slamming the car door a little harder than necessary. "Or if you prefer, I can go bare-faced. Give it two minutes, and you'll be wishing I'd put on a full diving suit."

Hayden laughed and put his arm around her as they joined his sister's family and made their way to the parasailing kiosk.

As they approached, Marti glanced up at the sky and, seeing just how high the parasails were soaring, tightened her grip on Hayden's hand. She didn't like it—not one bit.

Her lifestyle and misfortunes had already provided enough adrenaline to last for several lifetimes—she didn't need any more. Besides, she hated heights and not having her feet firmly on the ground. If it were up to her, she'd have cemented them there.

She was supposed to parasail with Hayden, but as they waited in line, she noticed Lena growing increasingly anxious, switching between clutching her mother's hand and hugging her father's thigh.

So, when they called for a three-seater parasail, Marti stepped back and said, "You three go ahead, guys."

Hayden asked if she was sure, and she nodded with a smile. Hayley's kids wanted to go up with their dad anyway, so she figured she could ride with Hayden's sister.

Hayley was the complete opposite of Marti when it came to adrenaline-fueled sports. She could tell by the endless stream of ecstatic 'woohoos' and 'let's go's' she had been shouting ever since they wore the harness, waiting for the boat to accelerate and launch them into the air.

Marti kept her eyes shut and scrunched her nose the entire time they were taking off, but she couldn't help but laugh when, halfway through, Hayley grabbed Marti's arms and shook them skyward in a goofy, hands-up-in-the-air pose.

Maybe it was Hayley's overflowing golden retriever energy, or maybe the parasail stabilizing, or the fact that the view was actually really nice, but after a few minutes, she was able to relax and enjoy herself.

"So Marti, how are you liking the country life?" Hayley asked.

"Loving it so far!" Marti replied with a smile. "What's not to love?"

"I don't know! I mean, I was born and raised like that so I've never really known anything different," she shrugged. "But I always figured it was more the kind of life suited for people like my brother."

Marti giggled, "What do you mean?"

"Brooding, boring old men with a kink for ponds and contemplating hayfields?"

They both laughed out loud.

"He's not brooding," said Marti, still hiccuping from laughter.

"A lot less since he met you," Hayley said, her big blue eyes as warm as her brother's were sincere as the smile on her face. "You've been good for him, Marti."

"You think so?" Marti asked, glancing down instinctively in a moment of shyness—only to quickly snap her eyes back up, remembering there was nothing but 20 meters of air between her and the water. "How so?"

"Well, like I said, he's been smiling more. And not just when Lena's around," Hayley replied, carelessly dangling her feet in the air.

"You've finally gotten him off the farm a bit more. Which, I guess, is terrible news for the berries crop and a bummer for me because I love the jam he makes from them. But it's great for him." Hayley continued, waving back at her kids as they turned around in the parasail ahead. "He's out there. You know? Working, traveling to conventions and events, and he's even doing TV interviews now."

"I'm not sure I can take credit for all of that," Marti said, still white-knuckling the ropes. "Maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Who's to say? But we've had plenty of 'coincidences' over the years, and none of them made him as happy." She turned toward Marti and playfully slapped her thigh. "And for that, I'm willing to give up all the berry jam of the world."

Chapter Text

Ontario, Canada. July 4th - Martina's POV

Dinner was considerably less tense, and with Lena busy playing some game with her cousins, Marti snagged a seat next to Hayden and actually got to chat with him here and there.

After dinner, they all played a few fun rounds of Uno cards. But Marti could feel Lena's eyes on her, filled with the burning determination to get what she'd been asking for since the very first moment they met: singing with her.

Eventually, Lena couldn't wait any longer, and decided to come take Marti by the hand to lead her to the piano, where Marti sat down and became a live jukebox, for every "play this one" and "play that one" Lena requested, until everyone else joined them in the living room.

"Play us something new," Hayley teased, "We want the insider treatment."

"Oh! Yes! Something new, Marti, something new!" Lena cheered, clapping.

"Well I do have something...new". So new, in fact, that she had just finished it that morning, a song that had almost written itself after yesterday.

She tried a few chords to recall the progressions as the room grew silent with anticipation. She took a deep breath, and began.

Stuck in winters where the cold winds whispered,

Idle dances in the shadow of the night

Chasing fleeting sparks that always flickered,

Burning fast and fading out of sight.

She noticed out of the corner of her eye Lena grabbing her mother's phone, holding it up as if she were filming and then, Hayden reaching over, turning it off and face down on the table.

Your love, breaking through the night,

Pure and untainted, a beautiful daylight

You touch me and I forget all that I knew,

Don't want one night without you,

You light me up golden, I only see you.

Her fingers were dancing lightly across the keys, but the moment her eyes locked with Hayden's, her heart almost beat out of tune and out her chest.

Lovers playing in the dark,

hide and seek with the truth,

Now we're bathing in blinding light,

golden and ever bright.

She faintly registered the blurred motions around her—Lena resting her chin on her hands, and Hayley leaning against her husband's shoulder as she listened—just subtle glimpses in her peripheral vision.

But the room might as well have been empty, the whole state of Canada, for that matter.

She could only see him, and he could only see her. No else existed.

And maybe nothing lasts forever

And the wheels of time still turn,

But if it's not too much to ask,

Will you promise not to go?

She repeated the chorus twice, then hit the final chords to wrap up the song.

Everyone stood up to applaud, but Hayden hadn't moved an inch or spoken a single word. He remained seated, his eyes so intense she could feel them melting her insides, playing every chord in her heart from a distance.

Lena, Hayley and even her husband came over to compliment her—everyone except Rachel, who hung back with a hesitant, unreadable expression.

"Well, we're going to head home and put the kids to bed" Hayley said, "thank you for the show Marti—it was amazing! Goodnight, everyone! Come on, kids."

Lena gave Marti a big hug, thanking her for singing with her, then ran into her father's arms, before disappearing upstairs with him.

Rachel waited until everyone had left the living room before tiptoeing toward Marti with a tentative, almost conciliatory expression.

"Thank you for letting us ride together today," she began, breaking the ice.

Marti got up from the piano, "Oh, no problem. I could tell Lena needed it. Even if I'm not in my 'kids era,'" she said, air-quoting Rachel's earlier comment laughing.

"About that," Rachel said, nervously scratching her forehead before blurting out in one breath, "Look, I was a dick today. I'm sorry. I was biased and prejudiced. Also, Lena's been talking about you since we told her the two of you were dating and I felt jealous."

Jealous? Marti felt something surge through her blood, not really sure if it was anger, fear, possessiveness or all of the above.

Rachel must have noticed whatever unconcealed expression she had on her face because she rushed to clarify, touching Marti's arm, "No! Not jealous of him, heavens no! Just jealous of my kid not shutting up about you and wanting to meet you."

Oh. Marti smiled at Rachel's confession and felt the icy barrier that had been crystallizing all day slowly beginning to thaw. "Kids' passions are fleeting. Ever changing. Or so I've heard."

"Yeah," Rachel confirmed, taking another deep breath that told Marti another mouthful was coming. "Also, I think my mama bear instincts kicked in. I get really protective—of both of them. They're my life. My family. They have been for a long time. So... sorry about that."

"I understand...I'd probably be the same." Marti said. Maybe a tish less bitchy, she thought, but it didn't matter. "What do you say we hit the reset button?"

Rachel took her hand and shook it back, "I'd love nothing more."

***

Marti had been patiently waiting for half an hour in Hayden's bedroom when she finally heard his footsteps coming down from the attic, where Lena had her room.

He stopped in the bathroom outside for another ten interminable minutes, leaving her to pace up and down in his bedroom, not sure if there was anything to feel anxious about.

Was singing to him too much? She sat at the foot of the bed and popped her knuckles. Was singing about love too much? Her knees bounced to the rhythm of her undispelled tension.

She listened closely to the sound of his footsteps nearing the bedroom door, and the moment it opened, she shot upright, rushing to catch his expression—like a child savagely unwrapping a gift on Christmas morning.

It was...illegible, but his eyes drew her in like a magnet as he took drawn-out, slow and measured steps toward her.

When he reached her, he stood in all his height towering above her, for a few moments, saying nothing.

She swallowed, the silence driving her insane.

Drawing in a breath, she parted her lips to say something—anything—but before she could utter a word, he moved in a split second, his large hands cupping her cheeks and his lips claiming hers with a raw, fierce urgency that was more intense than ever before.

Their tongues tangled in a needy, messy kiss. His warm, tough body pressed into hers and she let out a small whimper that he swallowed with his open mouth.

What was this? What did it mean? It had to mean he wasn't angry, at least, she surmised. But it wasn't enough. She didn't want to be left guessing, filling in the blanks herself about where all this eagerness was coming from.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, made a small, barely audible throat-clear, and asked, "So, does this mean you liked it?"

"I..." He hesitated, tilting his head slightly to the side, as if searching for the right words, but finding none, then gave up and pulled her back into a kiss.

She'd written a goddamn love song for him and sang her heart out in front of his whole family. Selective mutism wasn't going to cut it, tonight.

The least he could do was find a few words stringed together to tell her how he felt about it. About what the song said, not about her chord progression.

She pulled back again, this time with a little bit more resolve. "Hayden, I want to know if you liked it."

"Yes," he said, the word landing like a log crashing against the rocks, blocking everything else from flowing. He tugged at her night t-shirt, slipping it off, and pushing her back onto the bed.

His clothes were gone in a second, tossed carelessly on the floor. The second later, he was climbing on top of her, kissing her neck with his hot lips.

"I liked it. A lot," he said, and there was something in his voice she had never heard before, like a slight quiver on the surface that seemed to vibrate from something deeper within.

His hands found their way down her panties with desperate need, fingers rubbing at her clit with a smooth, deliberate touch that was already making her breath shorter and her mind hazier.

At this pace, she was going to fold far too soon.

She nimbly flipped on top of him.

"What did you like?" She insisted.

He tried to shift back on top, but she pressed her weight down through her hands on his chest and planted her thighs firmly on the mattress, pinning him in place. Good to know all those squats were finally paying off.

"I asked, what. Did. You. Like," she repeated, her voice steady as she slowly began to move her hips back and forth, her legs spread wide, rubbing against his cock beneath her.

She could tell he was bothered, she just didn't know by what more—her trying to top him or her trying to force actual words out his mouth.

Maybe he needed a little more encouragement. She reached behind her back, slipped off her bra. His eyes dropped on her breasts, his brows furrowed like he was burning to touch them.

The moment he lifted his hands, she intertwined hers with his and gently placed them back on the bed, on either side of his head.

He was clearly struggling, with his labored breaths and his cock twitching under her as she continued to grind herself against it.

She slowly leaned down, trailing a line of teasing, lingering kisses along his neck. "Talk to me, please," she whispered softly. Then she released his wrists and straightened back up on top of him.

He placed both hands on her hips, took a deep breath, and looked at her, surrendering. "I felt every word," he murmured, and for a moment, time stood still.

His grip on her hips tightened as his fingers dug into her skin, guiding her to move against him. "You're carving yourself into me," he breathed, "and it's the most excruciating and heavenly thing I've ever felt."

"Oh god, Hayden," she gasped. The way she was sliding on his hard cock, even with her panties still on, was making her insane. The friction was incredible, but it was his words that were driving her completely wild.

"And you have no idea how badly I want you, every fucking second," he growled, leaving marks on her hips as he pulled her in more on on his cock. "So if I do have your permission, I'd really like to fuck you now."

She was high, on pleasure, on his touch, on his words, everything. "Say please," she teased with a ragged breath and a testing smile.

A mischievous grin played on his lips. "That's cute. But that's now how this works sweetheart, and you know it. So can I have it back?"

"Yes," she whispered, knowing exactly what he was referring to. Before she knew it, he had flipped them, and she was lying flat on her stomach on the bed as he tore her panties off.

"Did you enjoy being in control for a moment?" he grunted, gripping her hips and pulling them toward him as he ran the tip of his cock along her pussy, aligning himself at her entrance from behind.

"Yes," she whimpered, her face pressed into the pillow. "But I like it better when you are."

"That's fucking right, you do," he growled, driving into her in one hard thrust. "Because you love it when it's me who's in charge, me who tells you what to do, me who's fucking you."

"Oh god, yes, I love that," she moaned, her voice breaking and her breath catching as he increased the pace, driving into her with a rhythm that struck her g-spot mercilessly, over and over, making her head spin and her muscle melt.

"Me who tells you to keep fucking quiet before someone hears," he panted as he slammed himself into her, his voice low and gravelly.

He placed his hands in the crease between her thighs and hips, angling her higher as she leaned on her elbows for balance.

"Do you remember your safe word, M?" he murmured, his thumb circling her asshole. She hummed a soft yes. God, why did it turn her on so much every time he said that.

"You call it if you need to," he murmured, pausing for a few seconds before slowly pressing his thumb inside. A wave of unfamiliar pleasure ran through her body, completely taking over her body and mind.

He was sliding in and out of her and fingering her asshole at the same time, and for a moment it felt like her brain had melted into everything and nothing, like it was too much or too little at once.

He kept up a steady pace and grunted, "Is it green?"

All she could think of was that she needed more. She definitely needed more. "God, yes," she moaned, trying to keep quiet.

She'd been riding a high of pleasure for so long it hardly felt real anymore—all she could feel was the heat and friction between her legs and the fullness inside her.

The rest of her senses were struggling to keep up, so it didn't immediately register when he pulled out and reached into the bedside drawer.

She looked over her back just to realize he was rolling a condom on his cock and the next thing she felt was the tip pressing against her rim.

He began to slide the tip in—it wasn't exactly painful, just foreign and strange... and even with just the tip, it felt so big that she couldn't imagine how he was going to fit it all in. Her muscles instinctively tensed up at the thought.

He gave her time to adjust, his palms stroking the sides of her waist. "Relax," he whispered, his voice soft. Then, he brought one hand forward, between her legs.

His fingers brushed over her sensitive clit, pushing her higher and deeper into a state of unraveling pleasure. "Oh," she moaned involuntarily.

"Yeah, I know. Relax," he repeated, his voice nearly hypnotic. She felt her body giving in to the sensations, her muscles softening as her ass relaxed and throbbed around him.

He eased himself in, almost imperceptibly, pushing just a little deeper and working himself steadily in and out slowly, moving only within the length he had already entered.

"Fuck, you're so fucking tight," he groaned, and whimpered in the sexiest way she'd ever heard.

Her belly clenched tightly at the realization that she was the one driving those strangled moans—she was unraveling him just as much as he was unraveling her.

With his fingers swirling harder on her clit, and the obscene sounds escaping his throat, she felt herself relax even further. Her back arched softly, hips bucking into him. She wasn't just easing into it anymore—she was starting to utterly, greedily enjoy it.

"Can you take more?" he panted, his voice strained and broken by the way her tight ass gripped him. Waves of heat sparked from her lower stomach, coursing through her whole body. She felt hot all over—her cheeks, her ass, her pussy—everything was fucking ablaze.

She hummed desperately and nodded, blinded by how much she wanted him, needed him. If it was going to hurt, she didn't care. She'd pay the price to feel him as deep as she craved him.

She cursed, letting out a broken cry as her mind blurred the lines between pain and bliss. It burned like hell, it hurt, and it stung. Yet every drop of pain was like gasoline poured over the flames of her pleasure, and she was fucking ascending into heaven.

He began thrusting in and out, and after a few strokes the pain was gone, leaving only all-consuming ecstasy in its wake. She clutched the pillow and whimpered deeply.

"Is it red?" he asked. It was so fucking far from red. His steady, strong pace driving in and out, was making her belly twist in the most delicious ways, rapidly pushing her to the edge, making it nearly impossible for her to find the words to respond.

"Red?" he asked. She moaned out a 'no', hoping he'd hear her, but it came out muffled by the pillow she was biting into, trying to keep quiet. "Is it red, M.? I gotta know," he asked again, his voice laced with needy urgency.

She lifted her head from the pillow just enough to gasp, "No, it's fucking amazing," her voice breathless.

He pulled her up against him, bringing them both upright on their knees, with his hand wrapped firmly around her throat.

"You are fucking amazing," he whispered in her ear, his voice drenched in lust as he kept hammering hard into her. "Fuck, if I'd known you'd take me this good, I would have fucked your pretty ass the moment we met. Not that I didn't want to anyway."

Was there anything he could say that wouldn't make her knees buckle, her eyes roll back, forget her faith and make her mind explode in a heroin-like rush?

There was no god but him. This was outright, utter, god-honest paradise, and she never wanted it to end. "Oh God, Hayden. Please, fuck me forever."

Then it was either the sound of his savage moans in her ear, the hot friction inside her, or the way he knew exactly how to press on her clit that finally tipped her over the edge. She came hard, melting in his arms.

He gave a few more thrusts, then cried out in a strained voice, "Fuck, oh fuck," as he came too.

They both collapsed onto the bed, panting. Her mind was blissfully blank, savoring the sensation of being suspended into a nothingness that was starting to feel more like everything-ness.

"Are you okay? Did it hurt?" Hayden asked.

"Just for a moment. But then it didn't anymore," she replied, resting her head on his chest.

"I love you, Hayden." She spoke softly.

There. She said it. And she could really give a damn about it.

In her mind, she laughed at all the times she'd held back from saying it, for whatever reasons.

She didn't care now. She just needed to say it. She didn't even if he wasn't ready to—.

"I love you too," he said.

Without hesitation.

Chapter Text

LA. July 17th - Martina's POV

Marti grabbed her purse, ginger shot in hand, and headed down the stairs for the start of what—she was sure—was going to be a hell of a day.

She found Sara and Lex standing in the kitchen, their faces colored with anticipation and a little bit of edginess.

"There's something we wanted to tell you," Sara said, gesturing toward a strip of four photo booth pictures on the table.

Marti walked over to where the photo strip lay, doing her best to look like she wasn't expecting any particular news from them. But the fact that she knew what this was probably about didn't make her heart race any less.

In the first picture, they were sitting close with a plush frog squeezed between their faces, the kind you win at an arcade.

In the second photo, they were making funny faces—Lex pushing her nose in with her finger while Sara stuck her tongue out, eyes crossed.

The third photo showed them laughing, suspended in a lingering gaze, completely captivated by one another.

It was about at this moment that Marti realized she wasn't going to be able to keep her shit together.

She didn't even try to. When she looked at the fourth one and saw them kissing on the lips, she burst into tears, her voice squeaky with emotions she couldn't hold back, as she cried, "Oh my god, I love you guys so much!" She threw her arms open wide, to pull them both into a hug.

When they parted, she looked at her Sara, who had been quietly sobbing just as much as she had.

Marti cupped her sister's face in her hands.

She pulled her in for another tight hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "I will always love you, and I'll always have your back. I hope you know that."

"I do," she whispered softly.

"Thank you for telling me," Marti said, looking at them both. Lex wrapped a hand around Sara and kissed her on the forehead.

"Perfect!" Lex chimed in, clapping her hands before pouring everyone a glass of water. "I feel so much lighter already! I'm gonna get back on shift now," then quietly slipped out the door to stand guard.

Sara grabbed some tissues, passing one to Marti so they could both wipe their tears. "We'll keep it professional when she's on duty and I'm working."

"No kidding," Marti blew her nose and chuckled. "Didn't seem all that professional at my Bleeding Cherry release party."

"Oh god, you saw?" Sara groaned, covering her face with her hand. "I knew it was risky!"

"It was." Marti nodded. "And since she's technically my 24/7 when I'm in LA, maybe we should think about bringing in someone else to cover for her, to give the two of you more time together."

"We'll see," Sara said, taking a full breath, "Hopefully today's a success and you won't be needing her as much."

"Fingers fucking crossed," Marti muttered, twisting her fingers for emphasis as they stepped out the door.

Today was a big deal—so much so that she'd taken a few hours off from rehearsing for the LA Forum concert.

Considering it was only three weeks away, and her schedule was packed with rehearsals and workouts, taking any time off was saying something.

But she just couldn't miss whatever was going to happen today.

After requesting—and receiving—a dedicated audio recording and a picture of her hands, which was already plenty creepy, her stalker had grown even greedier and more unhinged.

His third request had been a lock of her hair.

Deranged, yes, but not shocking.

After all, he'd stolen her underwear while she was asleep, so the request felt disturbing but very on-brand.

The longer they played this twisted game of bait and lure, the more he seemed to be cut from exactly the same cloth as serial killers.

This had been too much though, even for Thomas, who decided it was time to turn the tables and set the final trap.

A message had been sent from her number, agreeing to send him her hair, on the condition that they wouldn't meet in person for the delivery.

They had selected a UPS access point out of town, dropped the package there, and texted him the pickup details.

The package, of course, didn't contain a real strand of her hair, but a fake one. More crucially, it hid a tracking device, as thin as a sticker, inside the box.

The plan was to wait for him to pick up the package, then have security coordinate with the police to tail him and send a squad to his destination.

She popped her knuckles and chewed on the inside of her cheek during the car ride to her downtown office. She had no idea what to expect—it seemed far too easy to catch him this way.

He'd been nothing but careful and smart, so she doubted he'd simply show up.

At the very least, she expected him to send someone in his place, with as many degrees of separation as possible to make it harder to pin him down.

Someone had called the pickup point the day before to confirm the collection for today at noon, so something was definitely about to go down.

Despite her fears and skepticism about the outcome, she wanted to follow everything live, as it was unfolding.

"Here we are Miss Marti," Nick said as he pulled up in front of her office building.

"Ready?" Sara asked, intertwining their fingers and squeezing her hand to reassure her.

"Yeah," Marti said, taking a deep breath as she braced herself, waiting for Lex to come around and open her door.

After the longest elevator ride ever, Marti and Sara stepped into the boardroom.

It looked nothing like it did during the usual roundtables—no colorful M&M's at the center of the table, and no Katy rushing in and out, juggling phone calls and delivering Sara her endless stream of detox water or cold-pressed juice.

Two police officers stood where the snack table usually was, next to a smaller table, cluttered with electronic pads and machines with long cables-devices Marti couldn't even begin to identify.

The seat usually claimed by Jessie—where Marti had watched her whip up endless PR schemes and call many publications 'a carnival of journalistic incompetence'—was now occupied by a scrawny, red-haired man in his 50s furiously typing on his laptop.

Marti guessed he was their IT expert.

Thomas stood beside him, setting up an iPad on a stand in the middle of the table, its screen mirroring her phone.

It looked like something straight out of a random office at Quantico.

Never in a million years did she think she'd say this, but oh, how she wished her stylist would walk in, brows furrowed, bitching under his breath about having to loosen her dress—again—because she'd packed on a few more pounds—again. Like it was just a normal day, one of many.

Thomas greeted them both and introduced them to the officers in the room, who were coordinating with the ones already stationed at the pickup location. He then introduced Mike, the red-haired IT expert with a thick German accent.

A quarter to noon and she felt her stomach churn.

Despite her best efforts to stay positive, she couldn't shake the bad feeling gnawing at the edges of her thoughts.

The underlying, eerie soundtrack of Sara biting her nails, orders crackling through the two-way radios, the constant blips of the computers in the room wrapped around her brain, making the tension worse.

Ten minutes to noon.

The police squad leader on location was connected to the speaker, and the body cam feed streamed live on the big screen. Marti bounced her knees up and down, trying to shake off the anxiety eating her up from the inside.

Five minutes to noon.

Not a word in the room.

A cold, tense silence had settled, thick enough to cut with a knife. Marti glanced at Thomas, usually so composed, now leaning over Mike's equipment, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Noon.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at the pickup point.

The body cams showed a few people moving through the area: a large guy pulling a massive box from a locker and walking off, and an old lady meticulously wrapping a stack of cat photos before placing the envelope into a locker.

Marti swallowed the knot forming in her throat.

Everything was so still and quiet, she could feel time moving—second by second of this interminable, nerve-wracking stasis.

Five minutes past noon.

No one else had entered or left the post office.

One of the officers in the room gave the order to the team on-site to start gathering every detail about the call that had booked the pickup—phone records, data, anything they could dig up.

Thomas sat down next to her and Sara, looking perplexed. "It's possible he set this up as a diversion, while his real intention was to—"

Suddenly, a loud crackling noise of signal interference pierced through the room, cutting Thomas off mid-sentence, like the static of an old radio struggling to tune into a weak station.

Her muscles tightened with a jolt of tension as everyone in the room snapped their heads in different, tentative directions, nervously trying to pinpoint where the intrusion was coming from.

The image from the body cams abruptly disappeared from the TV screen, replaced by random bars and symbols that made no sense.

Then, the hissing sound ceased without warning, just as it had started.

Her phone's screen and the iPad mirroring it at the center of the table went pitch black, as if they had a life of their own.

For a split second, there was nothing. Then lines of text began to appear, letter by letter, read aloud by a distorted, metallic voice.

Little bird, did you really think I'd be so naive as to fall for that?

Did you think I didn't know you were only complying with my requests, hoping I'd fall into your silly trap?

I know everything. I am everywhere. I am above you. And I am always, always, one step ahead of you.

You can keep playing, little bird, but I'll always outsmart you. That is a promise.

By now, you should know I don't bluff, but if you have any doubt, box 16 is waiting for you.

An icy wave of terror froze her. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't utter a single word. There was just fear, from the shivers overtaking her fingers to the cold sweat breaking out across her skin.

She felt Sara's hands taking hers but it felt like they belonged to someone else.

Her phone screen had returned to normal, but the TV screen connected to the body cams was still black. The only link to the scene was through the police radios.

Box Sixteen. Her favorite number. Her birthday.

Again, disturbing, yes. But not surprising.

"Marti, did you hear him?" Sara's voice was soft but sounded like someone who had already repeated themselves more than once. Marti blinked, glancing at Sara, then at Thomas, realizing she had probably ignored him the first time as well.

"What?" she asked, as if jolted awake from the stupor of a nightmare that had seeped into reality.

"They're opening the box now. Do you want to be here when they do?" Sara repeated Thomas's question. "Or do you want us to go outside for some air?"

"Go ahead," Marti said, gripping the arms of her chair tightly. "Open it."

The noise of an electronic lock disengaging echoed through the receiver, followed by a soft click. "What do you see, officer?" asked the one in the room.

"It's...empty?" the officer at the scene replied, confused. "Wait, hold on... there's something here. It's just... a piece of paper. Let me grab it."

Marti gritted her teeth and gripped Sara's hand.

"It's just a string of numbers. Two sequences: 782772 and 563441. Do they mean anything to you?"

Marti glanced at Sara, her mind racing as she desperately searched for a connection, a link, a meaning—anything that made sense.

Mike's face went blank. He flipped the laptop toward them and opened two HTML source codes on the screen.

"It's the tracking pixels we put in the files to track him. He cracked them. He's known all along."

Chapter Text

LA. July 24th - Hayden's POV

Hayden stood in his kitchen, with messy hands and ground beef up to his elbows, but a satisfied grin plastered across his face.

Looking at the tray on the counter, lined with dozens of neatly arranged meatballs, he had to admit to himself that the final result wasn't half bad at all.

Well, they weren't perfectly round, and he was sure he'd made a few mistakes along the way. Maybe he'd added something that didn't belong in the authentic Italian recipe—or forgotten something that did.

But all in all, he had really given it his best effort, and he hoped she'd like it.

Since when had he started cooking? And for his dates? Well since now, apparently.

And it wasn't even a particularly special occasion. It was no one's birthday, not an anniversary, not even a specific number of months they were dating. He wouldn't even know where to count from.

It was just... a Wednesday. With her. And meatballs.

He shook his head and laughed at how ridiculous he was, an inch away from playing the Lady and the Tramp. Somebody save him.

Was that what normality felt like?

He didn't know, and it didn't matter. He knew what she felt like. She felt like a force of nature that had barreled into his life, knocking every door down and sweeping everything away. Changing everything and nothing at the same time.

Even though there was an unmistakably clear line between before and after her, she somehow felt both new and like she'd always been there.

He glanced up at the clock. 7:30 PM. She must have finished rehearsal by now and should be home to him soon.

The phone rang, her name flashing on the screen. He rushed to the sink and washed his hands clean as quickly as he could.

"Hey baby," he answered. "How was the rehearsal? Are you going to be long?"

Silence. He could hear her breathing—irregular, shaky, like she was holding something back. "Marti? Is everything alright?"

A faint, tear-choked voice muttered, "No," and then she started sobbing.

"Hey, hey... are you alright? Are you safe? What happened?" His heart burned at the sound of her crying, the worry pounding in his chest like it was about to burst.

"There's pictures of me going around on the internet," she struggled to get the words out. "They... I don't know...someone must have leaked them...they're naked pictures, Hayden..."

His hand clenched into a fist as anger shattered through his brain—blinding and useless.

"Marti I'm..." he paused, groaning with frustration, "I'm sorry... so sorry this happened to you. Do you want me to come get you?"

"No, I'm already on my way," she said, sniffling through the phone, her small voice twisting his gut. God, if he only knew who did this, he had no idea what would stop him from beating them to a pulp. "I'll be there in 10."

He gripped the edge of the kitchen counter and took deep breaths. He hated that this had been done to her, hated that he was powerless to stop it, and hated most of all that she was hurting.

He started cooking the damn meatballs, if only to make sure she had something to eat if she got hungry. Grandma Rose always insisted the secret ingredient in her cooking was love—love for the food and love for the people she was cooking it for. All he felt now was rage, and his blood boiling in his veins.

The last thing she needed now was to deal with his anger on top of everything else she was already going through, so he made a conscious effort to calm himself down.

How was she able to keep going through this, anyway? It seemed a never-ending string of bad luck—the track leaked, their relationship outed and now this, all within just a few months?

How she was still standing was beyond him.

Juggling album writing, rehearsals, TV interviews, and the whirlwind of events that her life entailed—it amazed him she hadn't crumbled under all the weight already.

After a few minutes, the doorbell rang, and he opened the door.

There she stood, her tiny silhouette framed in the doorway, carrying a bag that looked almost bigger than she was, with her bodyguard close behind.

She looked disheartened and drained, her reddened eyes marked by crying and exhaustion. "Is it ok if Lex stands outside?" she asked.

"Of course, come in," he said, taking her bag and pulling her into his arms. Then he glanced at Lex. "Hey, Lex, you already ate? I made meatballs."

"Already ate, Hayden, but thanks," she replied, taking her place by the door. "See you tomorrow, Marti. Call me if you need anything."

Marti nodded, and sniffled, thanking her and dragging her feet inside.

"You made meatballs..." she murmured, a thin hint of surprise in her strained voice. "My stomach's all messed up, I'm not sure I can keep anything down right now."

"Yeah, Grandma Rose's recipe," he said with a small smile, trying to lift the mood. "Let's sit for a bit, and then if your appetite comes back, I can warm them up for you. Ok?"

She shuffled to the couch, collapsing onto it as she wiped away a silent tear with the sleeve of her hoodie. Lying down, she curled into the cushions, and he joined her, wrapping her in his arms and holding her close.

He gently stroked her hair as she rested her head on his chest, her leg draped over his. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

"There's not much to say," she sighed. "They're old pictures I sent to my ex a few years ago. Pictures I was dumb enough to send with my face in them."

He tensed suddenly, "Was he the dickhead who leaked them?" Intrusive thoughts of violence he wasn't proud of flooded his mind.

"No, they were leaked from my iCloud," she explained, her voice heavy with frustration. "I thought I'd deleted them, but apparently, they were still sitting in some trash folder I was boomer enough not to clear. This is all my fault."

"Don't do that, Marti," he said, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. "Don't blame yourself."

"Why the fuck not? I really should've known better," she said defeated. "It's pretty basic, right? Don't stick your finger in an outlet if you don't want to get electrocuted, and don't send nudes if you don't want them all over the internet."

"By that logic, don't have money if you don't want it stolen. Look, the only victim here is you, and the guilty one is the person who leaked them. What's your publicist saying?"

"She says they caught it early, so they're doing as much damage control as possible. They're working with the media to steer the narrative toward the breach of privacy and the crime behind it. Most outlets are cooperating," she explained, though she didn't sound convinced.

"That's good, isn't it?" He asked.

"Doesn't stop anyone who knows exactly where to look from finding them. And, to top it off, a few brands have already called with 'concerns' about continuing the partnership. So no, it's definitely not good."

"That's ridiculous," he remarked.

"If your brand catered to underage teens, you'd be concerned too. They can't afford to be associated with this shit." Her voice broke as she started crying again. "I feel like I've let everyone down."

"Come here," he hugged her closer, pulling her in tighter.

"Jessie says we should reach out to other celebrities for public support, to raise awareness..." her voice was choked by the tears. "Awareness of what? My stupid ass? All I want to do is disappear. And I can't even do that because I've got a show in three weeks. I don't know how I'm going to show my face... I just can't do it."

He held her wet checks in his hands. "Marti, listen to me. You are one of the strongest people I know. There's no doubt in my mind you'll get through this, and you'll come out even stronger. And you don't have to face it alone—you've got your sister, your team, your fans, and me. We'll get through this together."

His voice grew stronger, more determined. "What happened to you fucking sucks, but it doesn't define you, and it sure as hell doesn't limit you. Don't let them win. People love you for your talent, your heart, the way your music touches their lives. You're gonna get up on that stage and remind them why they love you. Remind them that you're a fighter."

He gently wiped a tear from her cheek, noticing the faint light returning to her eyes. "You're going to shine even brighter than before. I believe in you, and I love you. Everyone does. It's impossible not to."

She burst into tears again, but this time, they didn't look as desperate. He could feel it in the curve of her lips as she kissed him and in the way her arms wrapped tightly around his back.

"Are you upset that basically everyone out there can see me naked now?" she asked, her voice muffled as she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck.

Damn right he was. Every time he thought about how many "boys being boys" out there would think they had the right to get their hands on those pictures and do whatever they wanted with them, a fit of blinding rage ignited inside him—enough to drive him borderline insane.

So, he was trying his best to not even go there.

"I am," he replied. "But this is not about me. Besides, I'm more concerned about you and how you feel."

He kept caressing her hair and they stayed like that for a few minutes. All his right side, his arm and leg, was going numb. He wasn't sure if she was drifting off to sleep or just resting, but he didn't move an inch. Just in case.

Then he heard her let out a deep sigh, and with the same muffled voice as before, she said, "Can I have the meatballs now?"

***

LA. Same night - Martina's POV

She woke up in the middle of the night, parched and still on edge, with Hayden peacefully asleep beside her.

Somewhere between the meatballs and his words, she'd started to feel a little bit better, but there was a lingering restlessness that just wouldn't leave her mind—or her body—alone.

In the darkness, she wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. She paced back and forth, trying to shake off her agitation, but it didn't help.

She stopped by the window, taking a few calming breaths as she gazed at the moonlight spilling over the valley, but nothing seemed to calm her.

Hayden's arms wrapped around her from behind. "You're awake," he whispered in the dead of the night. "Are you okay?"

Turning slowly to him, she nodded, then rose up on her tiptoes, resting her arms on his shoulders, and pressing her lips to his.

It started like a soft, sleepy and languid kiss, but her heartbeat quickened as he responded, his tongue meeting hers with hunger and urgency, as his hands slid firmly up her waist.

Him, that's what she needed to calm down.

As soon as he heard her whimper in his mouth, he grunted and lifted her pajama shirt just enough to dip his hand in her panties, and touch her where she needed it bad.

She threw her head back as his fingers worked her clit, the tension already melting away from her body, relaxing and unwinding under his touch.

More—she needed more of him. She clung to his t-shirt and tore it off him.

He stopped touching her for just a second, just enough to hastily slide her panties down and pull out his cock.

He lifted her legs by the back of her knees, reclining her against the windowsill and she gasped as he ground his cock against her pussy, teasing her by slowly pressing it over her clit.

She looked up at him, and even with the darkness enveloping them, she could see his eyes—burning with lust as they locked onto hers.

He groaned as he steadily pushed himself in, all his length, and she cried out.

"Fuck, I want you so bad," he growled, pulling back just enough to slam into her harder, making her eyes roll back in pleasure and her head hit the window pane behind her.

She could feel little sparks from the friction of each thrust and that sweet heat sensation building between her legs.

She was there, she was with him and she was in the moment.

And then, suddenly, she wasn't anymore.

Out of nowhere, a slithering, muted noise of distant voices from some dark corner of her mind, began hissing at her, calling her nothing but a whore.

Flashes of her leaked photos suddenly flooded her mind, along with a stream of judgmental comments of presumptive blame, as shame washed over her in a drowning wave.

She felt cold out of nowhere, distant, as if she were watching herself from outside her body. The sudden disconnect had stolen her comfort, her ease, her pleasure. And now, instead of enjoying it, she felt pain creeping in.

"Marti, are you okay?" Hayden's voice echoed like it was coming from miles away.

"No, please stop. No... RED!" she cried out, her voice trembling.

He immediately stopped. "I got you, I got you. You're safe."

Cold sweat began to bead on her skin as slight tremors ran through her body. Her vision blurred, leaving only shimmering spots in her sight.

He quickly put his clothes back on before pulling her into his arms a moment later. "I'm here," he whispered. "Talk to me, baby. Are you alright?"

There were a hundred things she felt right now, and "alright" wasn't one of them. It was like a storm of pins was stabbing her from every angle, as dark, oily stains of shame tarnished her every thought.

And none of it could be explained, because it all felt trapped in her throat, too heavy to speak.

So she just clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her from going under. Him and the warmth of his body against hers.

"You're shaking," he whispered gently, noticing her trembling. "Do you want me to run you a bath?"

"Yes," she nodded, clinging to him even tighter. "Don't leave me here."

"I won't." He scooped her up in his arms and brought her to the bathroom, carrying her like a baby. As he seated her on the edge of the bathtub, he turned on the water and flicked on the dim light above the mirror.

Slowly, her vision started to clear, warmth returning to her cheeks, and bit by bit, she felt herself coming back to her senses, though her breaths were still altered.

He crouched down, cupping her cheek with his hand as he looked up at her. "What happened back there?" he asked.

"I don't know," she looked down, "I think... I just got in my head. I was there with you. I was into it. And then I wasn't. I started thinking about the pictures again, and all I could feel was shame. I had this voice inside my head blaming me for everything and I just...couldn't turn them off. I'm a mess...I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Marti," he said firmly, dipping his hand into the water to adjust the temperature.

She knew he was right. Probably not. But in one stupid moment, she'd stolen from herself the one thing that was making her feel better. And she was already missing it. Dumb bitch.

He stood up in front of her and tilted her chin up. "Did you hear me?" It was a question, but it didn't sound like one.

"Yeah," she sighed. "I'm just waiting for my mind to catch up to that."

"We can work on that," he replied, turning off the faucet as the tub filled to the brim. "Now, get in."

She hesitated. "Can I keep my t-shirt on?"

"You can do whatever makes you feel good," he said, offering his hand to help her into the tub.

"Are you coming in too?" she asked, her hopeful eyes glancing up at him, wishing to get back what they had going on just moments ago.

"I don't think that's the best idea," he said with a sweet smile, like he was appealing to her better judgment—a judgment that had obviously left the negotiating table. Never even showed up.

She slipped into the tub, letting the warmth of the water wash away the lingering chills on her skin. As the heat enveloped her, she leaned back against the bath's backrest, finally starting to relax.

He grabbed a soft cloth from under the sink and knelt beside her, reaching for the soap on her side.

"Close your eyes, M. I need you to focus on my voice and repeat after me," he said, taking her left hand from the water and holding it in his as he ran the soaped cloth down the length of her arm. "And I need you to believe every word you say."

"I'll try," she whispered, closing her eyes.

"What happened to you doesn't define you," he said, his voice steady and sure.

She fought the temptation to rebut it, both inside and out. "What happened to me doesn't define me."

He must have sensed the undercurrent of skepticism in her words, because he added. "Great. Now say it again, and this time, actually mean it. You are so much more than what happened to you. It doesn't define you."

She repeated it, slower this time, trying to convince herself of the words. She didn't know that it was working, but she did start to feel a strange soothing effect.

With hypnotic, deliberate movements, he glided the cloth over her other arm, the feeling of the soft fibers against her skin anchoring her more deeply in her body and the moment.

"You are so much more than what anyone else thinks of you," he said, his familiar gravelly voice both lulling her and awakening something just beneath the surface.

She repeated it. Maybe, deep inside, there was a part of her that agreed—a small part that wanted to yell "fuck off" and flip the middle finger to anyone judging her.

She wasn't sure what was happening to her, but with this newfound, delicate sense of self-protection came a sudden wave of warmth from within her chest, up her neck, and flushing her cheeks.

"You are so strong. You have the courage and resilience to fight back," he continued rubbing the cloth over her neck, his voice deep and reassuring.

A hesitating second or two passed, like she was instinctively checking if she was really strong enough.

"Say it." His tone became more commanding, unleashing familiar tingles down her spine, just as it always did.

She repeated it, trying to absorb each one of the words and sifting through her memories for moments when she had been brave and strong.

"Good, you're doing so good," His voice came out breathy and smooth. This definitely wasn't the point of the exercise, but she felt her lower belly clench in response involuntarily.

He dipped the cloth in the water and slowly ran it underwater along her left leg, starting at her ankle and gliding up to her thigh. God help her, as if she wasn't already doing her best to stay focused.

"You are worthy of love, and pleasure, whichever way you want to find it," he said, moving along her other leg. With her eyes closed she could almost visualize his fingers grazing up her thigh, with only a thin layer of cloth separating his touch from her skin.

Her breath hitched slightly as the word pleasure left her own lips.

"That's right. One more time," he urged, his voice firm.

She breathed out, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her cheeks. She said the words again, her breath ever more shallow than the first time.

Then, she broke from the script, and keeping her eyes closed, she pleaded under her breath, "Please...touch me, Hayden."

"Are you sure?" he asked, keeping his hand perfectly still on her upper thigh where it had stopped, only intensifying her torture.

"Yes, yes, please," she whispered, desperate to feel him again, to reclaim what was hers and what her own sabotaging thoughts had traitorously taken away.

"But you have to keep focusing on my words and repeat them like you mean it, alright?" he said, as he pushed the cloth away, letting her feel the touch of his hand against her skin.

"You are smart," he whispered, his fingers slowly slipping between her legs. The lightest touch had her aching so desperately for him that she immediately arched her back, moaning harder and more freely than she had all night. Heck, maybe ever.

She followed his words and repeated them. There was something so healing, safe, and powerful about this moment he had created for her, and the way her body was responding to it was like nothing she had ever felt before.

"You are beautiful," he said, as the pads of his middle and ring finger began rubbing her clit, moving up and down. She threw back her head and gripped the edge of the bathtub, dutifully saying the words.

"Good girl," he said in a low, gravelly voice that sent a pulse straight to her swollen, sensitive clit. "You're so talented."

"I am so..." she sucked in a breath as he pushed a finger inside her, "...Oh fuck..." she said in between moans, "so talented."

"You fucking are," he confirmed, his voice controlled and steady, "And you are caring."

He slid another finger in, "Oh god...I am caring."

She was panting hard, heat surging through her like fire, but her mind was on a fucking trip of its own. It was the highest pleasure she'd ever felt—almost metaphysical—so intense that if she didn't know better, she'd think she'd been drugged.

"You are so goddamn sexy," he said, with his thumb now on her clit in the slowest circular motions but with just the right, demanding pressure.

She could tell by the way his voice, though still controlled, had grown shallower and more breathless that he believed every word.

And in that moment, she believed them too. She repeated it, faintly, melting away into the pleasure of his ministrations.

"Louder," he commanded and she almost came on the spot.

"I am so goddamn sexy," she cried out. And so goddamn close.

"And I'm so proud of you," he continued thrusting in and out of her at a faster pace, increasing the pressure on her clit and it was just too much.

She opened her eyes to look at him staring back at hers and she came in his hands, giving all of herself to him in a way she'd never done before.

Because that was it.

Because she was his.

In a way she'd never belonged to anyone before.

Chapter Text

LA. August 4th - Martina's POV

Marti lay on the bed in Hayden's bedroom, her eyes half-closed. After seven hours of rehearsing and two more at the gym, she was utterly drained, to say the least.

Not to mention, her personal trainer had introduced a new stamina-building plan that leaned more toward Navy SEAL training than concert prep, and it was absolutely kicking her ass.

But at least, putting all her efforts into dance routines, and hitting her marks during the sets meant she had no time to stress herself to death over anything else.

And if she was busy rehearsing each song, running through them ten times in a row until every note was flawless, she had no time left for self-sabotage.

That had been her routine, and it would continue to be until the show.

Rehearsing, staying at Hayden's house, and power napping on any given surface whenever she got the chance—these were the only things keeping her sane.

This one had started as a power nap as well. When she woke up, Hayden still hadn't come home from picking up Lena, who was spending the weekend with them.

Marti had planned to get up a while ago, but she was too exhausted, so she just lay there some more, waiting for them to come home.

She rolled over to his side and eyed the bedside drawer. Lena's words echoed in her mind. He kept my drawing in the bedside drawer in his house in LA.

Could she open it? Have the smallest little peek. No, she should wait and ask him.

But maybe... Her fingers hesitated, then she lightly tugged the drawer forward, just an inch.

She squinted, trying to get a better look through the small crack she'd opened. Inside, she spotted a small, folded piece of paper stained with colorful Sharpie marks.

Slipping her thumb and index finger inside, she gently pulled the paper out and unfolded it. And there it was—Hayden kissing her hand, and her blushing. The bright red scribbles made it clear a deliberate attempt had been made to emphasize the flush on her cheeks.

Her first thought was that Lena was incredibly talented—definitely above average. If she had attempted to draw something like this at nine, it would have looked more like two boiled carrots dancing around than actual people.

But this was good. It reminded her of the drawings Sara used to make when they were little—precise, with colors carefully and evenly spread across the paper.

Her second thought was how she could nonchalantly tell Hayden that she knew about the drawing's existence—so they could hang it up somewhere together.

If they ever got a house together someday, that was. A house where security cameras didn't outnumber the light fixtures, maybe.

And feeling safe didn't require a panic room or escape routes.

Maybe one day.

***

LA. August 8th - Martina's POV

Marti looked at the framed drawing now hanging in Hayden's living room, her face all satisfied.

Luckily, all it took was Lena mentioning it at dinner for her to jump in, flashing Hayden her most pleading eyes and asking to see it. From there, it was easy to casually suggest how nice it would look framed.

The day before Lena insisted they go buy a frame together so she could paint and bedazzle it, and they did. It ended up being the only three-hour break Marti had taken all weekend.

Her body was beginning to feel more sore and fatigued than usual in the days leading up to a show. No matter how many hours of sleep she tried to bank, it felt like she was always in debt.

As she stood in front of the drawing, her phone buzzed in her hand. Sara's name appeared on the caller ID, but it wasn't her personal number—it was the office conference line. It couldn't be a good sign.

"Whatever this is about, Sara, I'm not sure I want to hear it," she skipped the formalities. "I'm holding it all together with duct tape and spit right now—one more bump and I might fall apart."

"Have you checked your emails?" Marti could hear the tension in Sara's voice and in the way she was rushing through her words.

Of course she hadn't. Like she said, she was barely hanging on without any outside pressure making it even harder to keep it together.

"Hi Marti, Thomas speaking. I'm here with Sara," he cut in, his voice a bit more controlled than Sara's, but still clearly on edge. "You might want to see this."

She headed into Hayden's bedroom to grab her laptop, then returned to the kitchen counter. Sitting down, she flipped it open and braced herself.

"It's up to you Marti, but the last time I kept something from you, you got really mad," her sister said, trying to justify herself.

"I'm opening them," she interrupted, cutting the conversation short.

Her eyes were instantly drawn to the email marked from 'Unknown'.

Subject: A nice family portrait.

A familiar chill swept over her as she clicked the mousepad to open the email, her sweaty fingers leaving prints on the surface.

The message continued:  Not much of a family woman yourself lately, huh? Maybe these will help you get your America's sweetheart image back.

Attached were three photos from the day before, when she, Hayden, and Lena had gone to the store together.

Her heart sank.

She thought she'd been careful.

She had stayed in the car, not even stepped into the stores to avoid drawing attention, especially with Lena there.

On the way back, though, they had stopped for glazed donuts. Lena had gone for the triple chocolate with peanut brittle, and Hayden had insisted they eat outside the car to avoid getting chocolate smeared all over the seats.

It was an open parking lot, but it was deserted. She'd looked around, seen no one, and figured it was safe to get out of the car for a few minutes.

Evidently, she'd been wrong.

"We think it's clear that whoever took these must have followed you all the—" Thomas began his usual, pointless debrief, but she couldn't hear him anymore.

All the panic she'd been holding back since her nudes came out hit her like a brick to the face, shattering the calm she had worked so hard to keep these past few days.

It wasn't even just about herself anymore.

This was devouring every shred of normalcy she had left, tearing apart the one thing she should've guarded and protected from all of this.

Marti hastily ended the call, feeling like she was suffocating. She fanned herself and tried to focus on her breathing, counting each inhale and exhale, but none of it wasn't working.

She hurried to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet, the cramps in her stomach hurting like hell and intensifying the soreness of her body. Struggling to get back up, she grabbed the sink, rinsed her mouth, washed her face, and brushed her teeth, and the effort left her weak body shaking with cold shivers.

Then, she stepped out into the garden for a few deep breaths of fresh air. It wasn't a miracle cure, but at least it helped her breathe a little easier.

Thomas and Sara would have to wait. Unless they had the full name of her stalker to hand over to the police for an arrest, she didn't want to talk to them now. Nothing they could say would make her feel any better, anyway.

Most importantly, she needed to call Hayden and tell him. That's what mattered right now, she thought, noticing how her fingers shook as they gripped the garden sliding window to head back inside.

She stepped into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the counter for her phone—until she saw him, standing there, staring at the open laptop she'd left behind.

His eyes shifted from the laptop to her, and for a brief second, she saw exactly what she'd never wanted to see in them—confusion, hurt, disbelief, disappointment. Then, they shut.

When he reopened them, they were so distant and cold they could've convinced her that they were complete strangers meeting for the first time—if not for the searing anger behind them, which spoke of the deepest betrayal.

"Hayden, I was just about to tell you..." her voice trembled.

"Tell me what, exactly?" he snapped, carelessly flipping the computer's screen toward her. "That you were planning to use my daughter's image to save your reputation?"

"No!" Her heart shattered into a million pieces at the thought that he believed her capable of something like that. "Hayden, I would never do that to you or her... How could you even think that?"

"Because that's exactly what it fucking says right here!" he erupted, his voice so loud it echoed off the walls.

"It's not what it looks like," she muttered, feeling trapped in the worst possible cliché, mortified and full of regret.

He slammed his hand down on the counter, making her flinch. "Then tell me what it's fucking like!" he shouted again. His voice was so forceful it came out coarse and raw. His face was tense, veins bulging at his temples.

Oh god, she swallowed, where was she even going to start? She should have told him about this long ago and now it was hard even to pinpoint exactly why she hadn't.

In the beginning, when things had been touch and go between them, she'd thought sharing something like this would've only pushed him further away.

After that, she wasn't even sure why she hadn't told him—sometimes it was too overwhelming, even for her, to the point where she'd rather just pretend it wasn't real, to stay in the happy bubble she'd created for herself. With him.

Other times she felt completely numb to it.

Somewhere along the way, she had gotten lost, convincing herself it was her burden to carry alone, as if facing it by herself would somehow make it easier.

None of it didn't matter now, though. If she had told him when she should have, she might have had the chance to explain all the shades of her thoughts and feelings.

But it was too late—every reason she could possibly share felt like a weak excuse, but she gathered all her strength anyway.

"I've had a stalker... for a few years now," she began, her voice shaky. "They think it's someone from my team. It started in New York, but it's gotten worse since I moved here."

"Worse how?" he asked, the arteries in his neck still bulging beneath his skin.

"Breaking in while I was asleep. The leak of my nudes, the track, our photo—maybe even the news of you starring in Ashoka. I think it's all him," she admitted, remorse tightening her chest as she realized how good it felt to finally tell him, and she cursed herself for not doing it sooner.

"What?" He looked baffled, betrayed. "Breaking in?? Jesus Christ, breaking in? And you didn't tell me?!" he shouted, his voice booming through the room.

"I was scared," she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "I thought if you knew, you wouldn't want to deal with it...me. And I'd lose you."

"You wanted this to be more than casual..." he shook his head, letting out a bitter, quiet laugh. "You wanted it to get serious. You made me trust you while you were keeping all of this from me? I let you get close to my family, only to let you endanger them?"

Her throat burned as she forced the words out through the crushing pain in her ribs. Guilt was eating her up from inside, and there was no excuse that could make this right—or one that she could believe herself.

She swallowed hard, the words sticking in her throat. "I just wanted to keep you out of this mess... I didn't want to make it your burden too."

"You don't get to decide that," he said, shaking his head, his voice low and intense. "That wasn't your decision to make. Not with my kid involved."

"You're right, I'm sorry... I—" tears streamed down her face, her voice breaking.

"I need you to leave," he cut her off, his expression hard as stone. "I'll have your things sent to you in the next few days."

She stood there, watching him leave, frozen and hollow.

She felt the insurmountable dark wave of panic, guilt, and shame that had been chasing her all this time, and she surrendered, letting it sweep her away and bury her alive.

***

LA. August 10th - Hayden's POV

How the hell was he supposed to pack up her things?

It would've been so much easier if she weren't this messy, leaving a million of those stupid peaches and cream lip things scattered all over his house.

This was his third time making the rounds, and new ones kept popping up in every damn corner.

Mostly, and more honestly, this would have been a lot easier if he actually wanted her out of his house, or his life, for good.

His instincts were torn in two opposing directions. On one side, he was hurt over the fact that she hadn't told him about this whole stalker situation, as his partner.

But that anger had quickly subsided.

He wasn't sure he could blame her entirely for that. Maybe it was because of how things had started between them. Perhaps she felt he was only going to be there for the good times.

But that was before he let her radiant, sparkling light pull him out of the utter numbness he'd been living in for years, before he realized how natural it felt to be there for her when she needed him, and before he found himself cooking meatballs just because on a Wednesday night.

A year ago, dealing with a stalker in one of his dates' lives would have been an unnecessary inconvenience he'd wanted nothing to do with and certainly not something he would have considered his problem as well.

Now, there was no line of separation between her problems and his own.

But there were also no boundaries between problems involving his child and himself. That was the part he still couldn't forgive her for, and the reason he was begrudgingly stockpiling six damn tubes of peach and cream lip things in the box of her things that he promised to return to her.

He opened one. It smelled like her lips, like memories he didn't want, and it only made the box he was holding feel heavier. He snapped it shut and tossed it into the box with one harsh movement.

Looking up, he felt Lena's drawing staring back at him from its prominent spot in the living room where they'd hung it. Where it was impossible to ignore.

He would have thrown it away if he had been sure he wasn't going to miss it. He would have put it in the box with her things if he hadn't known it wasn't going to make her feel even guiltier than she probably already felt.

But he couldn't keep it there, staring at him every time he wanted to get a goddamn beer. Could he? He took it down and put it back in the bedside drawer where it had come from.

Lena would definitely notice, and ask questions. And what was he supposed to say? He would just buy some time. Because it was complicated and he didn't want to upset her.

He wished his introspection would extend to admitting to himself that he also hoped he wouldn't have to explain anything at all because things would go back to the way they were. Somehow.

Besides, he didn't know where his introspection was these days.

He was too damn busy trying to put together the few details he had about Marti's stalker without losing his mind with worry.

He started the car and began driving towards Marti's house, with the stupid box as his shotgun rider.

He just couldn't leave it alone. He needed to find out more and ensure that they were doing everything that was possible to keep her safe.

Especially since calling Sara for details hadn't clarified much or calmed him down for shit.

He wasn't sure if she was withholding information because her team had instructed her to keep things tight or if it was because of the breakup.

But the few details she had shared were embarrassingly scant, only making him worry even more.

It seemed to him like they were lost in the dark.

She said they thought he was inside the team. Fantastic. So, how about they fire everyone and hire a new team? She hadn't even been able to tell him if they were tracking the people closest to her personally or if they had individual access codes for the house after the break-in.

He got out of the car at Marti's gate and handed the box over to security, who immediately got busy running whatever checks they deemed necessary on a bunch of clothes and a few lip products.

Sara had brushed him off, saying the people responsible for handling it were already on the job.

Well, clearly not good enough, he thought.

Taking advantage of the moment when security wasn't watching, he pulled out the few tracking devices his security guy had given him and attached them to every car parked in her driveway that he could put his hands on.

***

LA. August 12th - Martina's POV

Twenty-four hours to the show. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, wrapped up in a towel that she was holding close with her teeth, so that she could keep her hands tucked inside.

She hadn't stopped feeling cold since about a week ago, when she had dragged herself outside of Hayden's house, taken Lex's hand, and waited for Nick's car to take her back home with whatever was left of her.

Ever since then, it had been all about survival mode and going through the motions.

From 7 AM to 8 AM, it was power yoga followed by a five-minute visualization exercise that always ended with tears streaming down her face and into her ears.

Then, working out in the gym to work on her lungs resistance and muscle endurance until noon, which she pushed through without feeling any pain.

Afterwards, it was time for a scorching shower to make sure she wasn't stuck in some numbing purgatory but still in her own body and on this earth.

Any meal was just circumstantial. She couldn't eat, but she had to, so under Sara's and her doctor's close watch, she forced herself to consume at least 80% of her nutritionally balanced meals to avoid collapsing on stage. Even then, she still couldn't taste a single thing.

After lunch, she went straight to the Forum for rehearsals on stage until 8 PM.

As long as it was just her with her piano, or her guitar, everything was fine.

After the 50th time her voice cracked on the songs she'd written for him, she had managed to disassociate enough to maintain the face she'd practiced in the mirror and keep her voice in check.

Rehearsing the whole choreography with her entire dance team was harder to do.

She had to pretend she was a completely different person for two or even three hours at a time, flashing smiles like she was having the time of her life when, in reality, she wanted to die inside.

Sara was worried about her. She could tell by how she hovered around her  like a hummingbird, uncharacteristically quiet and discreet, studying Marti's face and mood, anticipating every need she might have before she could even voice it.

The only thing she insisted on was that Marti see the doctor once more before the show. Marti had agreed, though she doubted it would make any difference.

He couldn't give her anything to cure the hurt she'd felt the exact moment he saw Hayden's heart shatter before her eyes. Or the guilt she carried knowing he was right—she had been selfish enough not to think about all the people she was putting at risk.

Including Lena, who adored and trusted her, and whom she had exposed to this fucking psycho.

The doctor had nothing to ease the burn in her stomach and the sting in her eyes every time she thought about it.

She had destroyed what she loved the most with her own hands, and no amount of Bach flowers or aconite could undo the damage or make the pain go away.

She was nothing but cold skin, aching bones, tearful eyes, and a forced smile.

Nothing inside her but wrenching pain and devastating remorse.

Despite her ridiculously high tax bracket, the hope that everything could be fixed was too high a price to pay, one she couldn't afford if it didn't guarantee the happy ending she so desperately wanted.

When the doctor asked how she was feeling, she naturally responded with a simple "tired." Despite Sara's exasperated sighs and coughs at her dismissive answer, the doctor recommended taking it easy and avoiding rehearsal on the day of the show to conserve her energy.

Marti finished drying her hair and changed into her pajama pants and sweater. As she looked at them, she was sure she had worn this exact pair the last time she was at Hayden's house.

Did that mean he had already come to bring her things and hadn't told her? She hadn't even had one last chance to see him or say she was sorry. He had deliberately chosen not to see her.

She felt a dagger twist in her heart.

So, that was it. She'd been erased from his house, gone as if she had never been there. Was she gone from his mind as well, she wondered. Were all his memories of her now tied to anger and resentment?

She went downstairs to the living room and found Sara waiting with The Office playing and a whole bucket of ice cream on her lap.

"It's the one with the fire drill cold open," she said with a warm smile. "Screw a balanced dinner?"

Marti half-smiled and walked over to the couch.

She scooped out a spoonful of ice cream as big as her face and turned to her phone, lighting up beside her.

Lena: Can't wait to see you tomorrow!

The cold dagger twisted again in her stomach.

Did Lena know? Had his dad told her? She didn't want to let her mind wander, contemplating how he had chosen to handle this with her and what it might mean.

Angela's cat flew through the ceiling on the TV screen in front of her. It was the funniest part of the entire scene for her and Sara, but neither of them laughed.

Sara's eyes were fixed on Marti's phone. Marti began to type with teary eyes, "Can't wait to see you too!"

On second thought, she realized she probably wouldn't see her.

She was pretty sure Hayden wanted her anywhere near Lena, and she couldn't make the same mistake twice. So she deleted everything and just wrote, "I hope you have the greatest time!"

Then, as another silent tear streamed down her face, she leaned her head on Sara's shoulder while the cheerful theme song of the show filled the room.

Chapter Text

LA. August 13th - Martina's POV

It was obvious that Sara's laid-back attitude after her breakup with Hayden had been purely out of empathy.

Clearly she'd made a conscious effort to hold herself back in the lead-up to the concert, but now, with just four hours to go, she couldn't restrain herself any longer and was back in full-on hyper-controlling mode.

"Nick, can you head to the underground garage by the loading docks?" Sara said, aiming to steer clear of the most crowded entrance.

"Sure thing, Miss Sara," Nick's voice echoed from the driver's seat.

Sara turned to Marti and snatched the ginger shot she had just grabbed from the car's mini fridge. "I don't think so—not four hours before the show," she scolded her.

The only thing making her sister bearable was the adrenaline that had finally—and thankfully—kicked in that morning, now pumping hard through her veins as Marti heard the chanting crowds from fans already gathered outside the venue, dying to see her show.

If she was lucky, the adrenaline rush would keep the pain at bay for a few hours and allow her to give her fans the show they wanted and that they deserved.

The last thing she needed, on top of everything else, was to feel like she had let them down.

"Here we are, make it unforgettable, Miss Marti!" Nick said, wishing her luck.

"Fingers crossed, Nick, thank you!" she replied, stepping out of the car. "See you later!"

The first thing she did was the soundcheck.

She took a moment to enjoy the view from the stage while the seats were still empty. It was one of her favorite moments—the calm before thousands of people, the lights, and the music transformed it into something completely different.

Equally beautiful, just on opposite sides of the scale.

Then she went to check the piano. It was already positioned below the stage, set to appear as if by magic at its marked spot during the show.

She sat down on the stool and played through the two songs she had planned for the acoustic section.

It wasn't the melody she was worried about—she could play them with her eyes closed by now.

What she really needed was to make sure she could get through them emotionally unscathed, and that her dissociation technique was still holding up.

It was, she thought, going through both of the songs without crying.

Was it really that effective, though? Her hands hovered over the piano, fingers curling slightly into her palms in a moment of suspended hesitation.

Closing her eyes, she let out a barely audible breath before her fingers began to hit the keys, playing the chorus of the song she'd played for him back at the farm.

She melted in the melody of the song she'd sung to him just weeks ago, now finding herself dancing with the ghosts of memories that had once been so vividly alive.

She made it through the first two lines before her pitch faltered, her fingers slipped on a chord, and she stopped singing altogether.

A tear welled up at the corner of her eye, and she let it fall, indulging in the release. A bitter smile tugged at her lips—dissociation could only take her so far, after all.

She turned to Lex, who had been quietly waiting a few feet away. If Lex had recognized the last melody as something new and different from the show's setlist—which she probably had, given that they were together almost 24/7 and Marti suspected her music was ingrained in Lex's brain as much as her own—she didn't say a word.

And she was immensely thankful for it.

Marti dutifully sat through two seemingly endless hours of hair and makeup.

By the end of it, no one could have guessed that crying had been her most frequent activity in recent days. She looked like the polished, beautified version of the corpse she'd seen staring back at her in mirrors.

In the background, she could hear Sara barking out orders with her usual drill-sergeant tone.

"I need wardrobe," she snapped in her earpiece, "Wardrobe, hello? It's 30 minutes to showtime. Where's the first dress? I need the first dress ready, STAT!"

Sara tapped her earpiece to switch channels, "Philip, we're heading to Dressing Room A in ten minutes."

Marti watched her sister's demeanor shift like a chameleon as she caught her reflection in the vanity mirror, approaching her with slow, measured strides. "How are you holding up?" Sara asked, her voice soft and gentle.

"I'm holding," Marti smiled faintly. "I got this. I can do it." She repeated the words, more to convince herself than anyone else, as the distant roar of the crowd echoed through the walls, rising and falling like waves.

"You've been so strong, Marti, and I'm so, so proud of you," Sara lowered her voice as she smoothed a loose curl from Marti's hair, "Let's get through tonight's show, then we'll figure out the next steps together, and maybe take a breather, okay? For now, just focus on the show. You're going to be incredible tonight."

Marti reached up to Sara's hand and squeezed it, with a tight-lipped smile.

"Can I come in?" Jessie called, knocking at the makeup room door. She stepped in, tablet in hand, and flashed Marti a proud, warm smile. "There she is...our Queen! Our Slayer! Our Star! You look absolutely stunning, honey!"

Marti couldn't help but notice how extra kind, supportive, and encouraging everyone had been, especially over the past week.

Not that they weren't always, but it was clear they were all going the extra mile to wrap her in a cocoon of safety, positivity, and affection.

"Sara, I've got Perez Hilton and Bonnie from Hollywood Life in the VIP press area," Jessie said, double-checking the seating arrangements on her tablet.

"Perez?" Sara whipped her head around so fast, Marti was certain her ponytail had just given her whiplash. "Didn't we have to warn him three times to stop reposting about the... you know what?"

Marti saw her sister in the mirror mouthing the word 'nudes', before she continued. "And then that other thing he did this year! And last year! Why is he even here?"

"Keep your friends close, and your bad press even closer. I'll have lunch with them in the next few days. Trust me, they'll come on our side." Jessie winked at Marti, who was passively listening like she wasn't even there.

"Besides," Jessie added, "we've got all the reporters here on a tight leash—no surprise interviews, nothing but coverage of the show. They won't bring up anything else."

"They better not," Sara agreed, her tone sharp. She then tapped her earpiece again and nodded to the communication she was receiving. "First look is ready, Marti. Let's go."

Shit, here we go, Marti thought, getting up from her seat. She followed Sara out the door, where Lex had been standing guard, her pulse quickening with each step.

They made their way through the backstage corridors, where the tension was thick in the air, palpable and visible. Assistants darted around with props and costumes, while sound technicians hurried past, juggling cables and microphones.

Sara snapped her fingers at a passing crew member. "Jake! Double-check mic 5, the red-studded one. It was acting up during soundcheck, and we can't afford any problems tonight, got it?"

They continued toward the dressing room, arriving just as Philip and Thomas approached from another direction, deep in conversation with each other.

"Oh good, you're here," Sara said to Thomas. "Let's keep a close watch on the barricades near the pit. The crowd's amped up tonight, and I noticed a lot of people squeezing into that space. I don't want any bottlenecks or issues over there."

"I've already been over it with the venue staff," Thomas said. "Made sure there's plenty of space, and the emergency exits are clear if we need them."

Jessie held the door open for Sara and Marti, with Lex trailing behind.

As soon as Marti stepped inside, she gasped, her eyes widening at the sight of flowers everywhere—on the desk, the couch, and even on the floor. "Oh my God! Look how many!"

It was easily twice as many as usual. "I'll get you the full list, but you have no idea how many there are," Jessie said, gently brushing her hand over a bouquet of white lilies before moving on to a cluster of pink peonies. "I had to put some in the other dressing room because there just wasn't enough space in here. Just to name a few—Michelle Obama, Celine Dion, Paul McCartney, Stevie Nicks, Lady Gaga..."

"Wow..." she whispered, marveling at both the names and the stunning display in front of her. She looked down, trying not to feel ungrateful for wishing there was just one bouquet—or anything, really—from the one person she truly wanted it from.

Sara and the wardrobe assistant helped her put on the first dress, ensuring no tights were harmed or irremediably tore apart in the process.

It was her favorite dress of the entire set: a silky, flowing blue gown. It had a big dramatic effect, perfect for choreography. The cameras and lights adored it—plus, it was still easy to move in.

Sara glanced around, and looked at the big box with 'Shoes, First section' written on it, then turned her head slowly like a praying mantis, piercing the wardrobe girl through and through with her eyes, "Tessa, why aren't her shoes out of the box and lined up as they should be?'"

The girl looked both terrified and mortified, stammering, "There weren't any shoes when I came in to bring the dress."

"Well, get them now!" Sara snapped, anxiously glancing at her watch.

Marti gave Tessa an apologetic smile. "You'll have to excuse my sister—she's had one too many Red Bulls today," she said, shooting a scolding look at Sara.

The girl rushed to open the box, and what followed was a piercing scream that nearly gave Marti a heart attack.

"What the hell, Tessa—" Sara said, hurrying over to the box herself.

Marti's anxiety spiked as she watched her sister dry heave, hand clamped over her mouth, stepping back from the box.

Despite her better judgment yelling at her to just stay away, she found herself rushing forward to see for herself—just as Philip and Thomas barged into the room.

Marti vaguely registered Philip shouting "Marti, no!" But it was too late, she had already leaned over to look inside.

The box was packed to the brim with lifeless little bluebirds—far too many to count. Little birds, just like he called her. Blue, like her dress.

This couldn't be real, she thought, as a gut-wrenching wave of horror and guilt wrapped around her, squeezing like a poisonous vine.

All those poor little creatures—killed because of her. Tears spilled down her face, her breath quickening as panic started to take hold.

Her vision blurred in and out of focus as blood pounded in her ears, an incessant whistle piercing through them.

The room seemed to close in on her, then pull away, shifting back and forth like she was on a disturbing acid trip.

She gulped, fighting the cold sweats and the trembling in her legs just long enough to read the note, gracefully placed atop the horrific pile of cruelly killed carcasses.

You should have known I'd got rid of this one, just like I did with the one before.

And now you're all mine, little bird.

She couldn't breathe, move, or think.

Lex's strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her away from the box. A wave of nausea hit her—she wanted to throw up, scream, disappear, and never to wake up again.

Without hesitation Thomas made two quick signals at Lex and Philip, before speaking into his two-way radios, with sharp authority. "Team Bravo, we have a 103. Converge on Dressing Room A, now. Prep for immediate evac. Get the car ready at the underground exit. Moving Harmony out."

"WHAT?" Sara shouted, snapping out of her momentary shock. "Thomas, what are you doing? The show starts in fifteen minutes! We can't cancel it now!"

Jessie shook her head in disbelief, eyes wide with shock as she clutched her tablet tighter, already anticipating the fallout of the impending PR disaster. "No. We absolutely can't," she confirmed what Sara had just said.

"Location's compromised. I can't let her go on. She needs to be out of here NOW," Thomas said, like an unyielding robot. "Sara, you can either come or stay here."

Sara quickly turned to Jessie. "I'll send you the statement brief," she said hurriedly, before joining Lex, Philip, and Thomas, all around Marti, and ready to move.

It all felt so ridiculous and unnecessary.

They were escorting her like she was under attack, but everything around her seemed so ordinary, so calm, so far from threatening.

Just a bunch of crew and staff members, exchanging confused glances as they watched her surrounded by a small army, like she was a politician at risk of being shot at a pep-rally.

They quickly made it to the security car, with Thomas and Philip in the front seats, and Marti squeezed in the backseat between Lex and Sara, who was already furiously typing out some hints for the statement to send to Jessie.

When she was done writing her email, Sara leaned forward in her seat, gripping to Thomas' headrest. "I don't understand," she said baffled, "How did that box get in?"

Thomas cut her off with a quick hand gesture, pointing at the interior of the car and signaling for silence. No one said another word for the rest of the ride, filling the car with even more tension than there already was.

It wasn't a short ride, either. What should have been a brief drive stretched into an hour, thanks to the traffic and the swarm of cars surrounding the Forum.

Marti had yet to regain the ability to speak. Her mind was blank, haunted by the image of all those tiny bodies, with their ruffled feathers and beaks slightly open.

She couldn't begin to comprehend what kind of fucked up, devious mind would do something like this—disposing of living creatures as if they were mere props in a horrific display only meant to scare her.

She had been so shocked by the sheer cruelty of the act that she had almost overlooked the note that it carried.

You should have known I'd got rid of this one, just like I did with the one before.

She already knew her stalker was behind the photos of her with Hayden and Lena. She had no idea how he'd managed to send them just at the right time for Hayden to find out about them like he had, but at this point, it didn't even matter.

Her stalker had always made it clear he didn't want her with him and he was determined to drive them apart. There was no need for further proof.

Everything that had happened in the last few months—making it seem like she had spilled confidential news about Ashoka, the leak of their relationship, the nudes, the photos with her daughter—she had always suspected it was all just him taking repeated shots at her, at them, to break them up.

And in the end, it looked like he had finally succeeded.

But the rest of the note didn't make any sense.

Her stalker was taking credit for getting rid of the one before. For getting rid of...Trevor?

How? Trevor had basically taken himself out of the equation when TMZ had released pictures of him partying like it was the end of the world on a yacht at the Hamptons, hammered as shit and with his tongue halfway down someone else's throat.

What could her stalker have to do with that?

She had always been too hurt and shocked, too focused on the following media scandal, to even reflect on how he managed to get caught.

Admittedly, it was strange, considering it was a private party at an exclusive Yacht Club in Montauk, well off the radar.

Now that she thought about it, whoever had gotten the pictures and sent them in to TMZ must have either been incredibly lucky to be in the right place at the right time or had extraordinary inside knowledge about the party, its location, and Trevor's whereabouts.

Not only that. The pictures were too close and clear to have been taken from outside the Yacht Club. They must have been shot from the docks or somewhere inside the marina—which meant the person who took them would have needed to be either a guest with a membership or part of the staff to access those areas.

So what was her stalker saying with that note? That he worked for the Marina? That he had a membership to the same Yacht Club as Trevor?

Something wasn't clicking. Something was still missing, she thought, as Thomas pulled up to her gate.

It felt close—like she could almost grasp it, but not quite.

Lost in thought, she stepped out of the car as Lex held the door open for her, still trying to piece it all together.

Thomas took a couple of steps onto the driveway, motioning for them to regroup just past the car.

"Philip and I are heading back to the Forum to pull footage from the cameras," he said, his tone firm. "Marti, you've got two guards at the entrance, and Lex is staying with you, alright? Keep all conversations as far from any devices as possible and—"

Suddenly, they were blinded by two glaring headlights from a car parked just up the driveway that they hadn't noticed before.

The engine roared twice, interrupting Thomas mid-sentence and drawing everyone's attention as it revved up a few feet away.

"What's that Tesla doing up there?" Marti asked. "Is it one of ours?"

Before anyone could answer, the engine roared again, louder this time, as the car suddenly sped down the driveway, heading straight toward them.

"No," said Thomas.

It all happened in the blink of an eye.

Lex scooped her up and pulled her closer to the gate, away from the road, while Thomas, Philip, and Sara instinctively ran or jumped out of the car's path.

The next thing she heard, along with the screech of tires speeding past, was a heavy thud followed by Sara's cry of pain as she clutched her own arm.

Philip and Thomas exchanged a look that said it all—this wasn't random. "It's him," Thomas muttered under his breath, already moving swiftly back to the car. "Phil, let's go," he commanded.

Philip followed without a word, and in an instant, they were pulling out the driveway, disappearing after the Tesla.

"Sara!" Marti screamed, rushing to her sister's side. "Oh my God, you're hurt!"

She could see the blood pooling from Sara's arm, dripping onto the pavement. It was torn open, the flesh split wide with a sickening glimpse of bone showing through.

"Sara, talk to me. Can you walk?" Lex rushed over, kneeling beside her, his voice laced with concern.

Sara shook her head in visible agony, unable to speak, every muscle on her face twisted in pain.

"Okay," Lex said, her voice steady as always, though Marti could see a flicker of worry in her eyes that wasn't usually there. "I need to get her to the hospital. It's just a short walk up to the door. Can you go inside and text me as soon as you're safe?"

"Of course," Marti nodded, feeling gutted for her sister's pain. She wanted to go to the hospital more than anything, but she knew her presence would only complicate things for Sara—and probably the whole hospital. "Call me as soon as you're admitted, okay?"

She helped Lex get Sara into another car parked outside the gate, then sprinted up the small hill. As she was getting on top, her bodyguard Steven was already coming down to meet her.

"I got Lex's message. Are you alright, Marti?" he asked, as they walked to the house.

She nodded, though her voice trembled, "I'm fine, but I'm worried sick about Sara."

When they reached the door, she greeted Spencer, the other guard on duty that night as well, exchanging a few words with him too, before saying goodnight and closing the door behind her with her own code.

She walked upstairs, overhearing Steven on his two-way radio, "Harmony is in place. The organ is locked down."

His voice faded behind her as she made her way to her room.

She locked herself in her bedroom, shutting her eyes tightly as she whispered a prayer to whoever above, hoping it had really been her stalker in that Tesla and that Thomas and Philip would finally catch him.

It wasn't in her hands now.

She could only wait. He had slipped up tonight. Maybe he thought security would be lighter with most of the team at the Forum, not expecting them to return so soon.

But they were after him. Surely, she'd hear from Thomas soon, she told herself, stepping into the shower.

She slipped into comfy pants and a hoodie, wiping away her makeup. She felt ridiculous, still in her opening show look, with glitter all the way up to her ears, with everything that was going on.

Minutes ticked by, but still no word from Thomas or Sara.

Marti sat on her bed, her phone clutched in her hands. She wanted to call Hayden, to hear his calming voice. To tell him how terrified she'd been before the show, about Sara, about the Tesla.

Or maybe even to ask him to come over, hold her, and wait together for the news that they finally got him.

But she couldn't call him. Besides, the thought he might not even care anymore sent a heart-stopping punch to her chest.

Thankfully, Lex's name lit up her screen. She answered immediately, her voice trembling with worry. "Lex! What's happening? How's Sara? Did you get in yet?"

"Sara insisted on stopping by Urgent Care. She said she'd get pain meds faster and skip part of the wait compared to the ER," Lex said, her tone resigned.

"Sounds like she's already doing better," Marti half-laughed, picturing her sister still trying to stay in control, even with her radius bulging out of her arm.

"They gave her the meds, she's on her way to being alright," Lex reassured her. "Are you ok? Steven confirmed you got in. Did you lock the doors with the code?"

"Yes, yes I did. Don't worry about me, I'm fine," Marti said, fidgeting with the string of her hoodie.

"Good. We'll be back as soon as we can. Hang tight, Marti. Hopefully, this all ends tonight," Lex encouraged her before ending the call.

Hopefully, she thought.

....just like I did with the one before.

Her mind kept revisiting those cryptic words that still swirled in her head. What the hell did they mean? What was he trying to tell her? She chewed the inside of her cheek, riddled and dumbfounded.

Tension gnawed at her insides as another attempt to piece together the puzzle fell apart, and the possibility that this wouldn't end tonight crept into her mind.

No. She stopped herself. She couldn't let herself go there.

"Alexa, play some chill music that won't drive me insane," she said to her speaker.

"I'm having trouble understanding right now," was Alexa's predictable response.

"Of course you are, you dumb fuck" she bad mouthed the little robot and rephrased her request. "Alexa, play a feel-good playlist."

Alexa did not respond. It stayed silent for a few seconds. Marti repeated the command, annoyed and exasperated.

A few more seconds of silence. Then, the speaker buzzed and crackled—the same eerie interference she'd heard back at the office, the day they'd tried to trick her stalker.

Her body went rigid as a freezing chill crept down from the nape of her neck, spreading all the way to her legs, dangling off the bed.

Another crackle of interference, followed by a metallic, bone-chilling voice coming through the speaker: "Looks like you're trapped, little bird..."

A loud crack echoed through the room, like a giant switch being flipped, and the power went out.

Everything went dark.

She immediately tried to scream for the guards outside, but no sound came out of her mouth, as if she had been silenced by a sudden sheer debilitating panic.

She dashed to the door and yanked it open. Bolting out of her room, she screamed again for the guards. This time the sound actually came out, but there was no response. Nothing.

No one opened the front door. No one rushed to help her. She ran downstairs, her chest heaving with panic, her heart pounding so hard in her throat she could only manage quick, terrified gasps for breath.

She tried to unlock her phone, but it was so dark it wouldn't recognize her face. Her hands shook so much from fear that she kept getting the passcode wrong.

The sudden noise of a window or a door either opening or closing startled her. A second later, the blaring sound of the alarm pierced through the silence, and in her panic, she tripped down the stairs.

She missed a few steps, stumbling hard and falling forward. Instincts she didn't know she had kicked in as she scrambled to grab her phone, which had tumbled a few steps away and quickly retreated, hiding beneath the kitchen table.

Oh god, she breathed rapidly from under the table, clutching her knees and covering her ears in a desperate attempt to block out the deafening alarm.

She took what little time she had to think, keeping her hands over her ears.

What was she going to do? Trying to recall all of Thomas' protocols was useless now.

Her body was locked in a deadly grip of dread, her mind racing but unable to focus on anything except the terrifying, raw certainty that she was trapped—like a defenseless prey, a helpless little bird.

The alarm stopped, and she could hear her thoughts again.

She had to get out. Now. She'd make a run for it—dash out from under the table, out the door, and into the garden. There was no other option.

She took several deep breaths, mentally rehearsing every step of her plan. Then, on the count of three, running purely on frantic, terrified instincts, she bolted out, and flung the door open.

"Oh God," she gasped, as she stumbled upon Steven and Spencer. There was no blood, and they didn't look physically hurt, but both were lying on the ground, unconscious.

She kept running down the front yard, her heart pounding as she sprinted toward the gate. Finally, she saw Nick just a few feet from his car, coming toward her with his usual unsteady gait, and a worried look. "What happened, Miss Marti? I heard the alarm!"

"Nick! Thank God!" she shouted, her voice strained with panic. "Get back in the car!" She kept running, her breath ragged as she raced down the hill. "We need to get out of here! Now, please!"

He clumsily reversed course and scrambled back into the car, with Marti jumping in right behind him. "Where to, Miss?" he asked, fastening his seatbelt.

"Anywhere! JUST DRIVE!" she yelled, her voice cracking with fear. "Send our location to Thomas—just get us the hell out of here!"

He sped off quickly, the tires screeching as they raced away.

"What happened, Miss Marti?," he asked, adjusting the mirror to look at her, "Thomas told me to drive back here from the Forum but wouldn't say why. You look scared. Take some water."

She nodded, her hands shaking as she reached for a bottle from the car's mini fridge. "The stalker, Nick," she gasped, taking a few deep gulps of water. "I think he was here. Oh God, we need to call the police! Steven and Spencer... they were on the floor!"

"They must be on their way already," Nick pointed out, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. "The alarm went off, they'll respond."

She took another gulp of water, then propped herself up, extending her arm to the other seat as she craned her neck to look out the rear window.

No one was following them.

As she turned too quickly, a sudden wave of dizziness hit her. It must have been all the panic still coursing through her, she thought, as a creeping nausea started to rise alongside it.

Maybe it was this smell filling the car. What was it? It was milky, rich, with a hint of something else she couldn't quite place.

She knew she'd smelled it before, something unpleasant that had lingered in her nostrils for more than she'd wished, but she couldn't remember when or where she'd smelt it the first time.

Another wave of dizziness slammed into her, and she gripped the armrest for support. Maybe she just needed some air, she thought, cracking the window open an inch.

"Are you feeling better, Miss Marti?" Nick asked as he kept cruising.

"I just need..." Her breath was slowing, and her voice trailed off, growing weaker. "Some air," she said, reaching for the window switch.

A cool breeze slipped through the cracked window into the car, whipping something out from beneath the driver's seat and sending it flying right onto her lap.

She glanced down, her vision growing increasingly blurred, making it difficult to make out what it was.

She reached out, fingers brushing against something soft.

Bringing it closer, she strained her eyes until it came into focus.

A small, delicate, light blue feather—identical to those of the birds in the box.

Terror mixed with her lightheadedness as the puzzle pieces slowly began to fall into place.

You should have known I'd got rid of this one, just like I did with the one before.

She fumbled for her phone and, with her tingling fingers, managed to compose one single text.

Who took you to the Yacht Club in Montauk that night?

Nick quietly rolled the window back up, and she heard him murmur, "Sleep, Miss Marti. Sleep."

She felt her head slowly droop onto her shoulder, consciousness slipping away as her phone buzzed weakly in her hand.

Trevor: Nick.

Chapter Text

LA. August 13th - Hayden's POV

"Hayden, hi," Rebecca's voice came through the phone, confused and concerned. "Is everything alright with Marti? We're at the show, and they just announced it's been canceled."

"What?" He jolted upright, turning off the TV and the documentary on regenerative agriculture he was watching.

Rebecca's voice continued on the other end, "Yeah...They didn't give us any details. I had to check social media for the full statement, but I don't know..."

On social media, right. The same ones he'd stubbornly refused to join, all for the sake of his peace of mind.

He tried to stay calm. Even with his limited knowledge of concerts, he knew last-minute cancellations for events this big were always a last resort.

It had to be something serious, something like weather, health, or a big safety issue.

The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight, so it couldn't have been the first. And the second? Impossible.

Marti was a stubborn perfectionist—she'd sooner drag herself on stage with a 104-degree fever than cancel last minute.

That left him with the most unsettling possibility.

"What's on social media?" he asked Rebecca, trying to keep his voice steady.

"What do you mean?" Rebecca huffed. "Do I have to read your girlfriend's social posts to you?"

"Just do it, I'll explain later," he quickly cut her off.

"It's a statement from her team," Rebecca explained. "Something about unforeseen circumstances forcing them to cancel the show to prioritize Marti and everyone's safety, or something along those lines."

So, safety it was. His heart stopped for a beat or two.

"Are they evacuating the Forum?" He asked.

"What? No no, nothing like that." Rebecca said. "Why are you asking me, aren't you with her?"

So not everyone's safety. Just hers. His heart jumped out his chest.

"Call me as soon as you and Lena are home," he said, hastily ending the call.

He rushed to grab his laptop, opening it directly to the GPS tracking app.

The screen lit up with the locations of the few vehicles he had placed the tracking devices on.

It showed just one moving car, nearly at her house.

Whatever safety issue had come up, it must have happened at the venue, explaining the concert's cancellation.

And now it looked like they were taking her home. His mind raced as fast as his heart. Safe?

No vehicles were headed to the hospital. A brief wave of relief washed over him, allowing him to catch his breath again.

He stared at the cars on the screen, represented by little dots—green for the ones in motion, red for the ones parked.

The moving car arrived at her house, but only stayed for a minute before leaving again, almost immediately after, and heading back the way it had come from.

He watched as another green dot began blinking on the screen shortly, signaling a second car in motion.

Anxiety gnawed at him, tightening its grip as he tracked the movements, mind racing through every possible scenario this could mean.

He paced back and forth like an idiot. Was this the moment to stop being a proud prick and make sure she was safe, that she was alright? Or if she needed something—anything?

She must have been scared, he thought, reaching for his phone. But then again, Sara had to be with her. And her guards too. He set the phone down, unsure of what to do next.

He sat back at the laptop, watching the first car head up the hills along a route that made no sense to him. Like it was running in circles.

Meanwhile, the second car had turned red, now parked at an urgent care center.

Fuck. It felt like the ground had disappeared beneath his feet, plunging him into a vortex of panic.

Grabbing his phone, he pulled up the location she had shared with him once—thank God she'd forgotten to turn it off. She was still at home.

But who was in urgent care, then? Had someone gotten hurt defending her? It couldn't have been too serious, otherwise, they would've gone straight to the ER.

That's what he told himself anyway.

He stood up, heading for a glass of water, taking a few restless steps around the room.