♫ I don't think you know what I been doing
And what I got on, for you to take off ♪
{Little Mix—Notice}

In the seconds it took for the crowd to praise and applaud her, Coralie had to think fast. There had to be a way to prevent the three intrusive conquests from hurrying up to her all at once. They'd put her in this position—having to scramble to ensure none of them met. But no matter how badly she wanted to run off the stage to avoid her problems, she wouldn't get far before being stopped by Bella and Delilah come to congratulate her, or Nikita. And if any of them took up an instant of her time, it would leave room for Michael, Ryan, and Chester to accost her.

The initial part of the solution hit her as she bent down to shake someone's hand in the front row. One of the three prospects knew about the other two. So to warn him first made sense; and she wouldn't have to filter her words or lie. She could tell him to go, to wait, to leave her alone, and hopefully, he'd comprehend why.

Chester. I have to get his attention.

A few spaces down from where she'd kneeled to greet a guest, he was there—blond locks tied at the nape of his neck, hands clapping in fervent admiration, eyes glistening with pride. Those eyes had been closed, earlier, to her relief; but now, they absorbed her, tugged at her soul, drew her to him. Made her want to reconsider restricting him from seeing her. Flashes of their last elevator ride popped into her mind and she nearly lost track of what she needed to do.

She locked eyes with him for the briefest of moments, and shook her head once, widening her gaze. He squinted at her and cocked his head, not understanding. She turned and jutted her chin towards the backstage area, and returned to him to shake her head again.

"Do... not... come... find... me," she mouthed, articulating each word as best as possible. It was too loud to yell—and she worried if she did, the cheers would suddenly stop, leaving her looking stupid and everyone wondering what the hell she meant.

Luckily, Chester seemed to get it, this time. He nodded, and the glow of pride in his expression dissipated. Though others remained standing, still cheering, he fell back into his seat and huffed.

Coralie wanted to growl at him, to ask him to not be a child about this; but did he understand why she didn't want him to meet her backstage? Did he have any clue that his competitors were here, both of them, and she still had no clue how to manage them? And in any case, hadn't they agreed to be distant? Hadn't he received her message that he was blocked, that she needed time?

Why would he do this?

His behavior was a discussion for another time, and she dreaded it.

One down, two to go; she redressed herself and began waving at the throng of people, inferring that she was on the way out.

"Thank you, Coralie," said a voice behind her. She spun to find the announcer from earlier, decked in his plush velvet suit, standing before the microphone, where she'd left it. "Anything you want to say to our guests?" He motioned for her to join him.

She gulped; there might be a means to communicate with Ryan, here. If she could somehow convey a message to him, let him know that he wasn't alone in coming to support her, then she'd at least have him and Chester out of the way.

The announcer tipped close to her and whispered loudly in her ear. "Say whatever you want, but end it by hyping up Mellie, okay? She's running a few minutes behind, and we don't want to lose this great vibe you started with."

With a quick nod of agreement, Coralie took the microphone. "I'm so stoked to have been given this opportunity," she said, shaking, teeth clattering. A singer she might have been, getting used to belting out tunes for a willing audience. But public speaking was never her thing. "I want to thank you all for giving me a chance, though you didn't know me."

Someone whistled, and a girl from the rear—Coralie assumed the one with the sign—whooped. "We do know you, Coralie! You fucking rock!"

Coralie's cheeks heated as she beamed down at them, the lights too bright to view their faces clearly. But their reaction was genuine; they had enjoyed her performance. She hadn't blown it. Her career might take off after tonight, like Nikita had implied. Many things were about to change.

But her love life was two millimeters from collapsing if she wasn't careful. And she wanted it all—shouldn't she have been allowed it? A thriving career and a loving relationship? Why did one have to cancel out the other?

Keep Ryan at bay, figure out why Michael is here. Then I can keep this charade up until I'm ready.

"I want to thank my girls; Bella and Delilah." She peered at the seats where her best friends were, but they'd vanished. "Oh? Well, I have no idea where they went, but girls! Wherever you are in the room, thank you!"

She then made sure to locate both Ryan and Michael—the back left, the back right—and took a deep breath in preparation. She had no choice—the only way to inform Ryan was to speak to Michael directly.

"And to you, back there," she winked, "I see you, Michael. Thank you for coming."

Her heart hammered in her chest as Michael inclined his head, offering her a weak, barely noticeable smile in acknowledgment. His cheeks were flushed, and she imagined she'd sprung this on him, and he wasn't pleased about it. Singling him out as someone she cared about, when only days ago she'd made it clear how much of an asshole she'd been? She wouldn't have liked that, either. But what other option did she have?

If pissed, though, Michael remained calm as ever, taking a sip of his drink as a few attendees twisted towards him, anxious to see who this mystery man was.

Grateful for the distraction, Coralie focused on Ryan. He'd flipped sideways, in Michael's direction, tipping left and right to get a glimpse of his enemy—then grimaced and slouched when he saw him. Bringing the rim of his cup to his lips, he returned to Coralie, eyebrows scrunched, his grip on the glass so tight he might have shattered it.

Coralie winced at him, hoping he witnessed the apology in her expression, the I-didn't-have-a-choice look she was trying to give him. She mouthed, "I'm sorry," and watched as he glowered at her and trudged out of the show area, hopping over the rope. He disappeared into the group of people who'd been watching from the other side, and Coralie lost sight of him.

If he left, it would be easier, she knew; and yet to see him storming off was like a nail scratching at the surface of her heart. She loved him, she couldn't help it—but Michael was here, and Michael was the one she'd hurt the most. He had priority tonight, if he'd come to talk to her; Ryan and Chester were local, and they could wait their turn.

But why was Michael there? Why did he show up? He knew the truth now, or so Coralie believed; why would he wish to confront her in person, after what she'd confessed to? Did he need to view the pain in her features, gauge the legitimacy of her guilt?

"Guys, I hope you're as excited as I am for Mellie's performance!" She raised her arms and waved them about, drawing the crowd's attention to her. "Get ready for an outstanding show! She'll be out soon and she'll knock your socks off!" She cringed at her cheesiness, but the announcer seemed happy enough and ushered her off.

"Coralie Amber Watson, everybody! Look out for this one!"

Holding her breath, Coralie waved one last time at the attendees as she hastened behind the black curtain and down the steps. She was wobbly, and something was slowly sliding up her throat and making her nauseous. She saw stars—no, spots, in her vision and teetered side to side, unsure if she'd make it to her dressing room in one piece. Would Michael come to her now? Did he know how to get backstage? Would he be allowed to?

Eerie visions of confrontations clogged about in her brain, and as she wavered down the hallway, pausing at a junction behind the bar, she smacked a hand to her forehead.

"Fuck, get it together, Cora," she said, her lips prying apart with difficulty.

"Why?"

Cora started at the sudden voice and clapped one hand to her heart, the other harder onto her forehead. "Huh?" She peered ahead—she'd come inches from jamming into someone who'd been walking towards her.

As she came to, she realized it wasn't any someone—it was Mellie Murray in all her early two-thousands splendor, tall and beautiful and intimidating as ever.

"Oh!" Coralie all but dipped into a curtsy—this woman was royalty. The Queen of YouTube, the representative of all indie singers, the one who paved the way for struggling artists like Coralie.

Her jeans clung to her curvaceous figure, and one hip swayed to the side as she set a hand to it and reached out her other, towards Coralie. "Coralie, yeah?" She extended the hand closer, insisting Coralie take it.

"Uh, yes, I'm Coralie." Coralie's voice had grown high-pitched and scratchy, and she frowned at the unpleasantness of it. She accepted Mellie's hand as a string of shivers ran down her spine.

But if her surprise and annoying voice bothered Mellie, she didn't mention it, shaking Coralie's hand with vigor. "So why do you need to get it together, Coralie?" Her eyes were large and round like oversized chocolate candies in a Valentine's Day box. Her lips were so glossy Coralie had a hard time focusing on anything else but the sparkles and the bright bubblegum shade.

"I, ah..." Coralie wrung her hands and let her chin dip. "I wasn't sure about how I performed, so I was coaching myself."

"Oh, right." Mellie slung her now free hand through her bushy mane of scarlet and mahogany curls and smiled. "I do that all the time. But hun," she leaned forward and took hold of Coralie's chin, lifting it, "you were amazing! Someone in the crowd was live-streaming, and I watched from my dressing room. You killed it." Her fingers were soft, not too tight on Coralie's skin, and her gaze was warm, comforting. She smelled like she'd fallen into a pool of cotton candy and vanilla, and the scent infested Coralie's nostrils—but otherwise, her presence wasn't as imposing as Coralie had expected.

"I... thank you, I needed that." A snake seemed to uncurl itself in her belly, unwinding from her intestines. Her three conquests had shown up unannounced, her best friends were missing—but she'd put on a good show and Mellie, Mellie Murray told her she'd done well.

There's one accomplishment for the night, regardless of how the rest of the evening goes.

"Look, I gotta get out there." Mellie motioned towards the stage.

Coralie gasped as she slid sideways, to let her through. "Oh, shit, duh." She flattened herself to the wall, as if Mellie were wearing an exquisite gown that took up all the space in the hallway. "So sorry for keeping you."

Mellie grabbed her shoulder. "You're not, sweetheart. I just mean I've been keeping them waiting, you know?" She fixed her top—a tube top with see-through straps to help hold up her fairly large breasts—and shook out her hair. "But I'd love to chat with you after, okay? Once I'm done and this place goes back to being a regular bar, and stuff. I'll find you, or send someone from my team to you. Don't leave." She placed a glossy peck on Coralie's cheek. "We definitely have to discuss a possible duet, you and me. Your voice and mine? Fuck yes. See you later, doll."

Coralie rotated to watch Mellie dash down the hall, almost in slow motion. Her perfect tresses swished with her movement, and her rounded ass bounced, and she had no trouble running while wearing ridiculously high platform shoes. She was fit—her grip had been strong when she'd seized Coralie's shoulders, and her arm muscles were defined, toned. Not that Coralie had anticipated otherwise; in truth, she hadn't anticipated meeting Mellie at all.

It had been such a random chance that this star had invited her to be in the show, and Coralie didn't dare dream she'd get an opportunity to talk, let alone bump into the woman. But she had—and not only had she done a decent job with her first major performance, but now there was a possibility of collaborating with Mellie.

A collaboration with Mellie Murray?

Despite the woes that had been plaguing her minutes before, she jumped up and down and fist-pumped the air. She squealed, danced around, and allowed a giant grin to grow over her mouth. This was huge, huge, and she'd prevailed against the odds. She'd scored big, and Nikita would be ecstatic. The label would be excited.

"You seem pretty chipper," said someone to her left; a voice she flinched at, recognizing it at once. Dapper but dull, dimmed, disappointed.

She whirled towards its source, standing near an exit into the bar area. Though he'd appeared somewhat calm and unfazed earlier, he no longer had a single ray of positivity about him. Michael was mad—his body was tense, his lips thinned, his gaze narrowed. He maintained a certain composure, but looked like a kettle about to blow out streams of scorching steam.

A broad-chested security guard stood watch, barring Michael from getting into the hallway. "Can you call this guy off, so we can talk?" Michael gaped at the bulky man, who peered down at him without interest.

Coralie swallowed, and strode up to tap the security guard on the arm. "He's good, I know him. Can you let him in?"

The guard took one glance at Coralie and snickered, but allowed Michael through.

And as Michael squeezed into the corridor, bathed in a musk of disappointment, Coralie composed herself, created sentences in her mind, preparing for the confrontation to come. The insults to be thrown at her face, the tears to shoot down her cheeks.

I deserved this, but I wasn't ready for it. Not tonight.

♥♥♥