[EMY]
I didn't know which hotel room they were in, but I had a tracker on Lance's phone, so I know that he was here.
The problem was what I was supposed to do once I got there. Rescue? Confrontation? Dramatic soap-opera monologue? My brain offered conflicting plans and none of them had a permit.
The lobby swallowed me whole the moment I stepped inside — high ceilings, marble that blamed you for walking on it, and a string of potted plants that looked like they judged my wet umbrella.
There were people everywhere: couples with suspiciously small suitcases, businessmen who smelled like expensive regret, and a concierge who smiled like he knew every scandal in town.
I scanned each face like it was a suspect lineup. Lance. Not here.
Lance. Not here.
Lance. Not here.
Panic tapped its foot on my ribs.
If he was already tucked away in a room, then turning up at the front desk like an NBI without an ID and warrant would be useless.
They'd put the reservation under some investor-name or fancy alias — not Lance, Definitely-Not-A-Scandal.
Checking room by room would take forever. By the time I found him, whatever I imagined could be happening might already be done.
UugGH!
There was a stupidly effective Plan B in my brain: hijack the security and trip the fire alarms. It was absurd and theatrical and, honestly, had worked before.
Once, during a meet-and-greet where the boys were collapsing from exhaustion, a well-timed false alarm had given them a window to slip away and breathe without twenty thousand screaming fans touching their faces.
I had never felt more guilty about sabotaging my fellow fans and more proud at the same time. AUREA's health came first, even if it required temporary chaos.
I rounded a corner too fast, adrenaline making my feet betray me, and collided with someone.
"Ah—sorry!" I mumbled, arms flailing like a cartoon character.
"You . . ." His voice cut through the lobby noise and my heart tried to jump out of my throat.
My head snapped up. Lance's handsome face filled my vision — surprised, troubled, and impossibly real. He had that mischievous bad boy look that made me forget safe plans and cunning strategies.
"Lance!" My brain short-circuited into a neon sign that read: DO NOT EMBARRASS YOURSELF. I failed. My eyes went into a heart shape and I was sure that it was drool slipping out of my mouth.
He blinked, clearly as startled as I was. "You . . . what are you doing here?"
Fate, apparently, had an app and it kept sending push notifications: "SAVE THE BOYS — NOW."
I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath for a week. Relief and a new wave of panic collided. He was here. He was okay . . . for the moment.
My face went hot. I looked down at the nearest sign — "TOILETS" — and my brain decided that was the most relevant information in the world. Classic to meet up here.
"Ah. Well," I said, producing the oldest, most obvious lie in the emergency-lie handbook. "I was going to meet a friend here. Dinner. Very normal." I might as well have sold the lie with a polite napkin folding demonstration.
Lance squinted at me like he wanted the full story, or at least proof that I wasn't a stalker.
My eyes darted to the side like a guilty cartoon. "W-what about you? What are you doing here?" I blurted, then immediately wanted to disappear under the lobby's judgmental ferns.
Oh my God, Emy, punch yourself later. How dare you question your idol?
I wanted to smack my own face—but instead I forced a smile that felt brittle as cheap plastic.
Lance shrugged, looking annoyingly chill. "Ah. Meeting a friend, too."
"Mm . . . ," I chewed the inside of my cheek until it tasted like bad decisions. I fought to keep my face neutral, like a TV judge who'd seen it all and had to stay professional while secretly plotting on how to eliminate the contestants.
"You think I'm lying, don't you?" Lance asked, eyes narrowing in that way that made my heart do interpretive dance.
"Well . . . ," I started, then went full defensive-hack mode. "The others said they're practicing, which is why they're not at my house. And—you're the most disciplined member of AUREA. You never skip practice. So . . ."
Lance rolled his eyes—softly, the kind of roll that was equal parts amusement and tiredness. "It's none of your business, Emy."
I would admit . . . that stung!