“It was just so… sensible,” Megan declared. “It was pretty, sure. But it wasn’t too much. It was all about not being too much. It was about fitting in a box, and Em… You have never really been an in the box sort of person. Sure, you can squish yourself in there pretty convincingly. But you f-king sing opera like a diva, and you shed your bikini top at the drop of a hat on a nice sunny day…”“One time!”“Regardless, you are totally a suppressed drama queen. Your wedding dress needs to be…” Megan shrugged and laughed. “Other level. Like, black, masses of tulle, a train that takes fifteen hundred bridesmaids to keep under control, and a f-king princess carriage to arrive in. Your wedding dress shouldn’t be an apology of politeness, like, I am so sorry, is my lace too loud? Your dress should be a declaration, a trumpet flare, a f–k this shit, stand back and admire the rock glory.”Emily laughed. “Oh, Meg.”“Like you didn’t love every second of your time with Vice and Victor. I have seen t

“Sure,” Emily said. “Do you think you will be able to get Road Assist out here?” “I don’t know. It is not the sort of neighbourhood where I want to wait around forever in either,” he replied pulling the limousine to a stop so that the trunk faced towards a building and away from the street. “I might have to change it myself.” “I have done that a time or two but not on something this big,” she said easily. “I might stretch my legs whilst you do it, and see if there is a discrete spot that I could squat in. Sorry, so embarrassing.” He laughed. “No worries, Emily. I guess you are used to making do with less-than-ideal bathroom situations on the road.” “Yes, there are some places where using a bush is preferable to the toilet,” she replied. “I have learnt not to be too delicate over it.” If she did not call emergency services, and Nathan kidnapped, raped, and killed her, she would be the celebrity who did not call for help. The rock chick bimbo who did not see danger until it was too

“This is a bad idea,” Victor complained, swinging on his chair as the pop artist moved across the screen before them. They had spent the day researching the artist, and a simple internet search had popped up a seemingly endless litany of drama. “She is a live wire.”Vice blew out a breath. He did not disagree with his business partner, but their manager, Aaron, had offered them the opportunity, and they would be fools to turn it down. “She has been in the top ten for pop for six years, produced four multiplatinum albums, and one which went diamond, which is more than we can say,” he pointed out. “She has sold out eight tours in that time as well.”“She has also been on every gossip mag cover for the last twelve months because of her lifestyle habits,” Victor argued. “Drugs, alcohol, rehab, eating disorders.” He ticked them off on his fingers.“So, she is a hard-working screw up,” Vice shrugged. “She is pretty.”Victor laughed out a sigh. “Filters.”“No, I saw her briefly on the red-ca

Victor was lifting weights in the gym when Mirage entered in the morning. She paused in the doorway, as if debating entering and then shrugged and did so.“’Morning,” she said, and stuck a bottle of water into the holder of the treadmill before setting a gruelling pace that had him drooling within five minutes of watching her run.After thirty trialling minutes for them both, he thought wryly, she finished her run and moved to the pull up bar. She had her earbuds in, and whatever she listened to, it certainly motivated her. She pushed herself beyond tolerance, and he grimaced seeing the shake in her muscles as she lowered to the ground after the last set.He followed her into the infrared sauna. She had taken out her earbuds and left them on her phone on the bench outside. They sat together, sweating, and panting, and, in his case at least, lusting, he thought. She seemed indifferent to him. It was not something that he was accustomed to, a woman being disinterested.“So, Vice doesn’t

Mirage drifted on the inflatable pool lounge, one hand holding a mocktail that Vice had mixed for her, and the other trailing in the water, as she watched the two men from behind the shield of her sunglasses. There were worse ways to spend a hot summer afternoon, she thought, and there couldn’t be a better view.If there was a God, she definitely was a woman, Mirage concluded, because only a woman would have crafted Vice and Victor. They belonged on the covers of the romance books her mother used to read. Victor was a sun-kissed idol of a man, all broad shoulders, bronzed skin, strong jaw, and almost white-blonde hair, reminding her of movie superheroes, and Vice was lean, his hair like thick black silk, all sharp cheekbones and smouldering eyes, reminiscent of the models that sulked their way across the billboards, hands in pockets, and moody darkness in their eyes.A man for every taste, she joked to herself, except for hers. She was done with men. She was not into women, either how