"Okay, I might not know what just happened out there or why you did that," Grace said, her voice still breathless as they slipped past the velvet rope and into the mysterious VIP lounge. Her tone fell into a stunned hush, a grin tugging at her lips. "But I'm just gonna say—that shit was awesome."
Precious glanced sideways at her roommate, her own heart still pounding from the chaos moments earlier. Her eyes sparkled, a quiet storm of pride and adrenaline simmering beneath the surface. She smiled, soft but knowing. "Well, I do," she said simply, brushing invisible dust from her dress like a queen after battle. "And it was still awesome."
The two of them burst into soft giggles, half-stunned by what they'd just pulled off. Neither of them had even taken in the room yet, too giddy from the confrontation at the gates.
And then they looked up.
The space around them was nothing short of breathtaking—a shrine built for royalty. The VIP concert lounge was a sleek, ultra-exclusive sanctum carved out from the main arena, cloaked in rich velvet tones and champagne gold lighting. Plush leather lounges framed the room like thrones. Onyx-black tables shimmered under soft halos of spotlight, scattered with hand-delivered flutes of bubbling champagne and gold-leaf desserts untouched by mortal hands. Glass walls overlooked the stadium's stage far below, offering a god's-eye view of the performance space—soundproofed, of course, because silence was a currency here.
This was not a green room. This was a temple.
And if the temple had a high priest, it was Mark.
Say what you want about the man—brash, loud, absolutely allergic to subtlety—but the 40-something tour manager, hired by Jessica herself, knew how to put on a damn show. Mark didn't just plan events. He orchestrated experiences. You could give the man a grey parking lot and a week, and he'd give you the Met Gala. If he quit touring today and opened an event company, he'd be booked solid until the next century.
Mark had transformed this space into a polished oasis of glamour. Velvet ropes. Crystal trays. Digital screens looping exclusive behind-the-scenes visuals. Ice sculptures shaped like platinum microphones. It wasn't just luxury—it was declaration.
And it was in this space, tucked near the central champagne island, that Jack stood.
Early twenties, razor-fade haircut, a jaw so sharp it might cut diamonds, and a suit so clean it had to cost more than a semester at Harvard. He was the newly appointed personal CFO at UMG—young, smart, efficient, and completely allergic to the influencer crowd. He had no time for the screamers, the clingers, the hangers-on. In his mind, half the people in this room were "flashy liabilities." But being here was his job.
Jack turned his head, already muttering mentally, Why do we keep letting these party-chasing Fake ass celebrity types in? What happened to proper vetting?
And then—he froze.
His eyes caught a glint of blonde across the room.
There she was.
A girl laughing.
Not posing. Not filming herself. Not pretending to laugh for the camera.
Actually laughing. Head tilted back slightly. Shoulders loose. Joy unfiltered.
There was something magnetic about it. The way her lips curved. The way her hand brushed her collarbone mid-laugh. The way the light haloed around her like she was a walking memory he hadn't made yet.
Jack's grip on his champagne glass loosened. Just barely.
The base of the glass slipped against his palm.
He caught it—just in time.
But not before the rim tilted… and a single droplet of the golden liquid kissed the toe of his shoe.
"Ooo, Precious is here!"
Jack turned his head slowly, drawn by the voice like a thread tugged through space.
The speaker was a man—late fifties, thick-rimmed glasses, bald on top but with an ageless charisma that made him look like he'd been in a thousand green rooms and survived every one of them. Bill. Ethan's manager. A name Jack had just committed to memory minutes earlier during their brief handshake and introductions.
"Wait—" Jack's voice caught halfway between surprise and alarm, the gears in his head churning quickly. "You know her?"
Bill was already strolling past, eyes glinting with familiarity as he said casually over his shoulder, "Of course I do. That's Ethan's little sister."
And just like that, Jack's drink paused mid-air.
Ethan's. Sister.
Jack blinked. A slow ripple of disbelief washed through him. He turned again—subtly this time—and stared across the room at the girl. She was talking to Bill already, that loudmouth manager who somehow managed to make his presence felt even when he was whispering. She didn't look rattled. She looked like she belonged.
His fingers tightened slightly around his glass.
Ethan Jones.
The name alone felt like glitter forced into his mouth. Not because Jack had anything against Ethan personally—no, he'd never even met the man. But the idea of Ethan Jones? That was the real irritation. That was the trigger.
Jack didn't hate Ethan.He hated entertainers.
The popstars. The actors. The TikTok fame-chasers. The YouTube motivational frauds. All of them. People who danced in lights while others pulled the strings. People who got rich singing into microphones while finance guys like Jack cleaned up the mess they left behind.
Jack didn't exactly know where the hate came from. Maybe it had something to do with his childhood. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his father, a stone-cold business titan, had walked out on Jack and his mother for a 24-year-old soap opera actress with two failed sitcoms and a shampoo ad.
Whatever the origin, the disdain was real.
To Jack, entertainers were all the same—narcissistic, chaotic, image-obsessed, and dangerously unpredictable. They lived on whims and soaked up praise like plants on steroids. No matter how talented they were, no matter how big the numbers looked on a spreadsheet, Jack never saw them as serious people.
He wasn't even supposed to be here in the first place. This entire role—this tour shadowing gig with Universal Music Group—was a trial by fire orchestrated by his father. A test to prove he could handle a high-revenue, high-drama division before stepping into the family's global investment firm.
And Ethan Jones?
The company's crown jewel. The global phenomenon who had crossed $500 million in tour revenue faster than any artist in history. Jack had heard the name a thousand times in the past few months:
"We need to increase Ethan's marketing budget.""Push Ethan's merch drop.""Ethan wants custom tour buses. Ethan wants full stage LED floors. Ethan wants Eminem and a digital lion on stage."
Jack had read every invoice. Seen every excess.
Sure, the guy made the company more than he spent. But to Jack, he was exactly the kind of person he'd always hated.
Rich—by musician standards, not real wealth(his).Handsome.Famous.Probably a diva.Probably raised on praise and stage lights and the sound of screaming fans.
So, to now find out that the one girl who had caught his eye just so happened to be his sister?
Jack sighed and forced himself to look away.
She was now in conversation with Bill and that his boring son, her head tilted slightly, golden hair cascading over her shoulders. There was warmth in the way she moved, like she didn't know how bright she was burning. Forget it, Jack, he told himself. Just forget about her.
And then suddenly—
The lights dimmed.
Like a wave rolling over the room, the entire lounge was cast into a rich darkness, lit only by the faintest purple backglow of LED strips along the glass walls.
Jack straightened up in his seat, eyes narrowing.
"Is it starting?"
"What's going on?"
"Was that the cue?"
Murmurs filled the room, voices rising in a growing tide of anticipation.
People craned their necks toward the stage view. Champagne glasses froze mid-air. Even the influencers paused their selfie angles.
Jack leaned back slightly, taking a slow sip of his drink. His eyes flicked lazily over the crowd, and he let out a breath as he rested his arm on the lounge chair's edge.
Finally.He thought.Let this damn show begin.
It began with silence.
A colossal hush swept through the 60,000-seat stadium like a curtain falling over a feverish dream. Just moments ago, the venue had been a roaring coliseum—people screaming, lights flashing, the air trembling with bass checks and last-minute crew announcements. But now?
Darkness.
A velvet-black silence. Thick, uncanny.
Even the LED borders went dim, and for a second, people thought something had gone wrong. Had the lights failed? Was there a glitch? A power cut? A dramatic delay?
Whispers flickered across the massive sea of people like sparks in dry grass."Did something break?""Is this part of the show?""Wait… what's going on?"
And then…
A voice.
Soft. Gentle. Tender.
"Hello."
Two syllables. Barely audible. But for every single person in that arena who had spent hundreds—or even thousands—of dollars to be here tonight, that voice was unmistakable.
Ethan Jones.
It was him. And as if heaven itself had pressed a single spotlight through the clouds, a solitary beam of pale gold light descended and pooled at the center of the stage.
There he stood.
Motionless.
Bathed in light.
Like a vision.
Ethan Jones, dressed in crisp black layered with velvet and silk, stood with his head slightly bowed. His curls gently tousled like he'd just walked out of a dream. The soft glimmer from the spotlight caught the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet curve of his lips, the stillness in his eyes. And in that moment—he looked almost angelic. Not human. Not real. Just… him.
Somewhere in the arena, a scream broke the silence. Then another. Then another.
Not the chaotic kind of screams that usually erupt at a pop concert. No—these were reverent. Shaky. Emotional. A sound that lives halfway between hysteria and heartbreak.
The lights stayed dim. The music hadn't started yet—not fully. Just faint piano notes. Ethereal chords drifting across the sound system like mist. Soft enough to shiver your spine. Loud enough to hush your breath.
But Ethan didn't move.
He didn't raise a mic.
He didn't speak.
He just… stood there.
People began whispering again."What is he doing?""Is he okay?""Why isn't he singing yet?"And then, from somewhere behind the pit barriers, a guy's voice cut through:"Y'all clearly ain't been to an Ethan Jones concert before.""Just shut up and let him cook."
The crowd giggled nervously, but they listened. They waited.
Fifteen seconds passed.
And then—another voice.
But this one didn't come from the stage.
No.This one came from among them.From within the audience.
It was soft… husky… familiar.
"It's me."
Heads turned.Necks craned.The camera drones swiveled midair.
Then people began noticing her—standing calmly among them. A woman. Middle-aged. Wrapped in a long black cloak with her head slightly bowed. She was holding a microphone. Quietly. Gracefully.
She hadn't been there before.
As she lifted her head, the cover slipped from her shoulders.
And then someone screamed."IT'S ADELE!"
The crowd erupted.
It was not just chaos—it was rapture.A wave of ecstatic disbelief surged through the stadium like thunder ripping through sky. Phones shot into the air. Mouths gaped. Tears filled eyes. People screamed so hard they couldn't hear themselves.
In that moment, it wasn't just a concert anymore.
It was history in motion.
A connection. A moment. A universe folding in on itself.
Adele. Among them.
Ethan. Alone in the light.
Two voices. Two stages.
And the night hadn't even begun yet.