Solmyra Vorn’s jaw is set, her sharp cheekbones stained with mascara she didn’t bother to wipe away after four hours of stifling meetings. Now, in the shadowy hush of her office, she stands frozen, back pressed to the glass, arms folded so tightly her navy silk blouse creases. Her stare burns holes in the carpet. Oriane lingers by the door—black jumpsuit, fiery curls twisted up, the glint of a silver lip ring catching the desk lamp. She looks ready to bolt, except her eyes are locked on Solmyra, all defiance and ache.

“I don’t need your pity,” Solmyra manages, voice tight, brittle as old glass.

Oriane shakes her head. “Not pity. I just…missed this. You—when you were real.”

Solmyra’s hand flexes at her side, knuckles pale. She wants to snarl, wants to say something cruel, but all at once, her composure shatters. She laughs, broken and ugly, a sound too loud for the room. “You missed the version of me who ruins everything she touches?”

Oriane steps closer. Every movement is careful, magnetic, the swagger muted by tenderness. “You didn’t ruin me, Sol.”

For a suspended moment, neither moves. Solmyra’s eyes glisten, full of hurt and sharp hope. Her lips tremble as Oriane brushes fingertips—gentle, tentative—against her jaw. The touch undoes her. Solmyra collapses forward, face pressing to Oriane’s shoulder, body shaking silent with grief and relief. Oriane lets it happen, arms circling her, mouth buried in her hair, breathing in the scent of expensive perfume and stress.

“I was always so scared,” Solmyra whispers, barely audible. “Of being used. Of needing one person too much.”

Oriane grins, eyes softening. “Still scares you?”

Solmyra nods, but Oriane pulls her back, thumb at her chin, gaze unwavering. “Let’s be scared together, then.”

The kiss is desperate, a collision. Buttons scatter—Oriane’s hands greedy at Solmyra’s waist, Solmyra’s nails digging furrows along Oriane’s shoulder blades. The desk groans beneath them, paperwork swept aside, gasps dampening the air. Solmyra caves under Oriane’s mouth, her rigid posture dissolving into needful arching, a shuddering moan torn free as Oriane mouths, “I forgive you. All of it.” Skin against skin, anger melting to want, the moment is all hunger—redemption found in heat and noise.

Down the hallway, Lyriin braces her back against a wall, clutching the email she just printed. Her hands shake, but there’s fire in her eyes; pale pink dress clinging to the sweat on her skin, makeup ruined from crying. When Emrin finds her, his shirt untucked, he tries to steady her, hands warm on her wrists.

“He thinks he owns me,” Lyriin spits, waving the paper—her old producer’s threats, the ugly reminders of what she’s owed him. “No more. I’m done hiding.”

Emrin’s certainty is right there in his bright, unblinking eyes. “You’re not alone. I’ll back you—whatever it costs.”

For a moment, she closes her eyes and lets herself lean into his chest. She composes herself, lifts her chin, and strides down the hall, Emrin beside her. Together, they approach the producer’s open door. Lyriin storms inside, voice shaking but fierce. “I’m not your secret. You don’t get to dictate my career—”

“You’re replaceable, Lyriin,” the producer sneers, eyes flicking over her, dismissive.

“Not today,” she bites back, laying the emails on his desk. Her heart’s racing, but she doesn’t flinch. “If you ever contact me again, I’ll go public. I’m not the one who should be ashamed.”

The producer blanches—she can see it, a crack in the smug facade. Lyriin leaves, trembling but proud, Emrin’s arm wrapping around her as if to shield her from whatever comes next.

Backstage, word hums through the crew. Someone whispers about Emrin—rumors of a big offer, a studio job with real power. Lyriin overhears, panic blooming. She finds Emrin packing up his camera rig, rain-dark eyes meeting hers.

“They want me,” he breathes, a tremor in his voice. “But only if I…if I end this. Us.” His hand hovers in air, the plea written in the lines around his mouth.

Lyriin crumples inward, voice raw. “And if you don’t?”

He stares at the floor, torn open and tired. “Then I lose everything I’ve worked for.”

She starts to answer, but a studio exec steps between them, eyes hard as flint. “Decision by midnight, Emrin. Or we cut you both.” The world seems to close in, all noise and static.

In her office, Solmyra and Oriane come apart in each other’s arms, gasping, skin slick with sweat and tears. Every wall between them gone.

Down the corridor, Lyriin’s eyes meet Emrin’s—love and dread mingling in equal parts.

The clock on the studio wall ticks toward midnight.

To be continued…