ASHLEY
"Are you okay? You're sweating."
Ashal's fingers brushing my forehead snap me out of the daze I have been drifting in. For the past minute or two, I've been staring blankly at the online buzz building around Noxx's collaboration with Rollins Fashion. The ache from the biting comments and jabs comparing me to Noxx, calling me washed-up and irrelevant, should hurt more than it does. But it doesn't, only because shock has dulled everything else.
Who the hell is on my account?
Ashal snaps his fingers in front of my eyes, then snatches my phone from my hand.
"Noxx, huh," he says lightly, scrolling. "Great work, Ash. Father would be proud you clinched this talent."
My fingers tug at my neckline, trying to ease the tightness crawling up my throat. The VIP room suddenly feels stifling, the air too thick to breathe properly. I surge to my feet and start pacing, raking my hands through my hair.
