Page 2 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

I nod. “Hard not to.”

“She’s everywhere these days,” Sam adds. “Big contract, with a company that’s affiliated with Disney. New movie, the whole deal.”

“Yeah,” Vince says, grinning. “And she’s hot as hell.” His current date frowns at him, but he just shrugs unapologetically.

Saying nothing, I drain the rest of my whiskey and set the glass down with a soft clink.

I make my excuses early, ignoring Vince’s predictable jabs about being boring. The noise and crowd are getting to me, and the road is calling. Emily catches my eye as I stand, giving me aknowing nod. She understands—it’s why she’s the best manager in the business. She gets us—all our quirks and needs. She also knows that I’m driving straight from Atlanta to Jacksonville, my home. The rest of the band is taking the tour buses, but after the show, I feel like driving. I’m restless and need the thrill of the drive for now.

The hotel’s service elevator takes me straight to the private garage where my Audi RS7 waits. It’s not flashy like Vince’s collection of sports cars, but it’s fast, reliable, and, most importantly, has dark-tinted windows. The engine purrs to life, and I feel the last of the show’s energy start to fade.

The late-night streets of Atlanta gradually give way to the wide open roads leading south to Jacksonville, Florida. The highway stretches ahead, dark and mostly empty, the hum of the engine the only sound cutting through the stillness of the night. I roll down the window, letting the rush of cool air whip through the car, carrying away the lingering tension from the show. The adrenaline is still there, a steady pulse under my skin, but out here, with nothing but the highway and the endless stretch of stars overhead it starts to settle.

This is what I need. No flashing cameras, no deafening crowds, no constant expectations. Just the steady rhythm of tires on pavement, the occasional glow of passing headlights, and the miles rolling away beneath me. Georgia fades in the rearview, and with every mile closer to Jacksonville, my muscles loosen, and my mind clears. Performing is a high unlike anything else, but this—this quiet solitude is where I find balance.

My fingers tap out an absent beat on the steering wheel. The lonesome highway will give way to the coast soon, and then I’ll be home—just a few more hours of open road, silence, and being alone in my own head. And right now, that’s exactly what I want.

My home sits on a stretch of private beach, far enough from everything to avoid the worst of the scrutiny of the press but close enough for band commitments. The gate automatically opens as I approach, security cameras tracking my car’s progress up the winding driveway.

Home. Finally!

The house is new, has high security, and was built exactly how I wanted it—sleek, modern, and private. The interior has clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows, but it’s the privacy and the view that I love the most.

I punch in the security code and step into the quiet darkness. Motion sensors activate soft lighting as I move through the house, illuminating the open-concept living space. The ocean stretches endlessly beyond the windows, its black waves silvered by moonlight. This view never gets old, and no one can see in unless I let them.

That’s the way I like it. Fame comes with a price, and I learned early on to protect what matters.

My muscles ache pleasantly from the show and the long drive as I shed my leather jacket and boots. The house is silent except for the faint sound of waves breaking on the beach below. Thisis what I crave—space to decompress, to let the adrenaline fade away.

In my home office, the monitors display various stock market data. Even at this hour, Asian markets are active, and there’s always something to track. I’ve made more money here than I ever have from music, though few people know that. The band members do—I manage most of their portfolios. Sometimes, it’s easier to focus on numbers more than people.

An early notification flashes on my phone—the coming week’s schedule. There’s a photo shoot on Monday, followed by a meeting with Family First, a family-friendly brand wanting to partner with the band—with me, and I’m looking forward to it. I scroll through the details, pausing when another notification appears. It’s a news alert about Lacey Monroe, her face smiling at me from my phone screen.

‘New Princess Star Lacey Monroe Spotted at Exclusive Atlanta Hotel.’

I click it closed before reading more, but her smile lingers in my mind. There was something genuine about it, different from the practiced smiles I’m used to seeing in the industry. I shake my head to clear it. I don’t like distractions.

Moving to the kitchen, I pour another finger of whiskey and head out to the deck. The early morning air is cool against my skin, carrying the salty scent of the ocean. Below, waves crash against the private beach, their rhythm as familiar to me now as any drumbeat.

I lean against the railing, sipping my whiskey and letting my thoughts drift. The sun will be up soon, and the week ahead will bring its own chaos—photos, meetings, contracts, appearances. But right now, it’s just me, the ocean, and the quiet.

As I stand there, I think about the future and wonder what it holds. Lately, I’ve been feeling restless, which is unlike me. It’s as if there is something waiting just over the horizon. Something I can’t quite see, but I can sense it. I suddenly shiver as a hint of unease rolls through me—a silent warning that my quiet solitude is about to change.

A shooting star suddenly streaks across the sky, and I almost laugh at the timing, like some cosmic sign. But I don’t believe in signs. I believe in rhythm, patterns, and the predictable rise and fall of markets and music, and in keeping things simple and controlled.

The last of my whiskey burns pleasantly as I finish it—time for sleep. The days ahead are typical in the life of a rockstar—cameras, contracts, and carefully maintained images. I head inside, secure in my quiet sanctuary.

But even as I get ready for bed, that unease flashes through my mind again as I recall that glimpse in the bar. That smile. Those eyes. I’ve seen countless beautiful women and have been pursued by more than I care to remember. So why can’t I shake this one brief moment?

Whatever’s coming, I just hope it doesn’t wreck my carefully ordered world.

Two

Lacey

My running shoes pound against the hotel’s treadmill as Taylor Swift’s latest hit blasts through my earbuds. It’s barely 6 AM, but early workouts are non-negotiable when you’re a Disney-like company’s newest leading lady. Besides, running helps me process, and after last night’s chaos, I need it.

I increase the speed, matching my stride to the beat. My reflection in the mirrored wall shows my ponytail swinging, cheeks flushed. Even at this hour, I can’t help but smile. I’m actually doing it—living my dream. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself to believe it’s real.

---