Page 83 of Fa-La La-La Land
VibeHouse has given me a roster of five celebrities to manage. With Rhys and Georgia already on my client list, plusworking with Piper to launch her line and consulting with Archie about marketing for Bombora, I’ve already had to hire other strategists to work at Stella Sparks Social Strategy.
If my financial analyst is right, I’ll make a million dollars in the next year. But I don’t have any plans to lose it. My fourteen-year-old self was okay with that idea. Twenty-four-year-old me is not.
Rhys’s dressing room is stocked with food, a comfy couch, and a giant TV, so we have nothing to do except eat and relax for the next few hours before the show starts. At least Rhys doesn’t. I have half a dozen posts to put up on his socials—and some for my other clients too.
This fantasy I worked for? It’s real now.
When it’s finally time for Rhys to perform, he walks onstage with no vest, no flashy outfit, just jeans and a simple button-down shirt. The lights flash as the crowd goes wild, but there’s no over-the-top persona. Just Rhys. Just his music. And that’s exactly what people want.
He starts with “December Dreams,” like he planned. It’s the perfect opener—emotional and stripped down, both literally and musically. The kind of song that doesn’t need any introduction. It speaks for itself.
The new “Fa-La La-La Land” follows. The crowd goes wild and sings along at the chorus. Not like they would with the more familiar version, but this one is on its way to becoming just as big of a hit.
But then, to my surprise, instead of exiting the stage, Rhys steps up to the mic again.
“I’m chuffed you like that new version,” he says. “A bit proud of it myself, but I reckoned you might like to hear the original. I thought I didn’t want to sing it again, but there’s a girl by the name of Stella who’s made me think differently about it.”
A spotlight finds me near the edge of the stage, and I realize he’s planned this all along.
“She’s the one who helped me find my way back to music,” Rhys says. “And she once told me she dreamed of crowd surfing. So let’s make that happen.”
I laugh in disbelief, but the crowd catches on quickly. Arms lift. Voices cheer. People chant, “Stella! Stella!”
I walk on stage in front of tens of thousands of people, which in itself is terrifying, but when I look down to the front row and the people waiting to catch me, I’m petrified. Crowd-surfing looks way scarier in real life than it ever did in my daydreams. But it’s on my list, and Rhys is determined I’m going to cross everything off it, so I do what I did when he taught me to swim. I close my eyes, take a breath, and let them lift me up.
They carry me across the top of the crowd—gently, carefully—then pass me back again until I reach the front, where Rhys grabs my hands and helps me the rest of the way onto the stage.
He kisses me in front of the entire audience. We gave up trying to keep our relationship a secret weeks ago. It was too much work trying to hide how we felt in public.
“Stella Sparks Social Strategy,” he says into the mic. “Changing lives. One rock star at a time.”
The crowd cheers.
Rhys turns, waves at the crowd, and guides me off stage. The lights go down, and the crew works quickly to un-mic Rhys, then he grabs my hand. “We’ve gotta go,” he says.
He takes off at a quick jog, pulling me with him.
“Wait, what? Where are we going?”
“You’re not missing Christmas in Paradise. And you’re definitely not missing yourletter.”
“But we’ve got the party tonight, and anyway, I’m not getting a letter this year,.”
Rhys comes to a sudden stop and faces me. “What do you mean, you’re not getting a letter? ‘Course you are.”
Slowly, I shake my head, a thousand conflicting emotions at war in my chest. “Not this year. That’s not what I asked Santa for…and I already got what I did ask for.”
The surprise that fills Rhys’s face quickly morphs to suspicion, and he steps closer. “And what was that?”
I offer him a smile and a shrug. “For you to be as happy with your music as your fans are.”
His whole body softens, like he’s finally shedding the years of pretending. “You gave up your letter for me?”
I nod. “That’s what love is, right? Being willing to sacrifice?” I step into his arms and lift my eyes to his. “There will be other Christmases in Paradise. Tonight we celebrate your performance.”
His hands tighten around my waist as I rise on my toes to kiss him, but instead of the long, passionate thank you kiss I’m expecting, he pulls away only seconds after our lips touch.
“Yeah, nah. There will always be a party to go to, but Christmas only comes once a year.” He grabs my hand and takes off at a quick jog again.
