[LANCE]
Lance watched Emy's silhouette wobble through the rain like some stubborn, soggy fluffy creature—water bouncing off her like the universe couldn't dampen her spirit.
For a second he forgot to be angry. Warmth bloomed in his chest, ridiculous and stubborn as mold on forgotten bread.
She looked ridiculous, of course: hair plastered to her face, coat half inside out, umbrella doing an embarrassing impression of a surrendered flag.
And yet—there was something about the way she moved, fierce and clumsy at once, that made her feel like a permanent fixture in his life rather than a new, invasive thing.
He had only known her a month, but it already felt like she'd always been the background music to their rehearsals, the one who'd steal a fry and argue about harmonies while wearing socks that definitely didn't match.
He smiled despite himself and let out a soft huff.
Emy was weird. She acted like she'd known them forever and carried these uncanny little powers—someone who could hack a schedule, inventory a snack stash, and somehow keep their worst scandals from ever seeing daylight.
She wasn't a runway model or a glossy magazine cover; she was soft at the edges, a little chubby, a little loud, and 100% genuine. Which, if he admitted it, was a terrifyingly attractive package.
Lance shoved his hands into his pockets, the rain making the fabric heavy like his bad decisions. He couldn't go back to that hotel—not tonight.
Whatever Jerry had booked, whatever handshake had been expected, it was over for now.
Lance thumbed his phone and typed out the hollowest, most corporate-sounding reschedule message he could: Meeting pushed one week. Confirm? He hit send before he could think of a better lie.
Was he actually going through with this? Did he really have to be the one to take the hit?
The thought made his stomach clench in a way that felt both noble and ridiculous. He'd rather be the sacrificial lamb than watch someone else get chewed up.
Preferably him—famous or infamous—rather than any of Eric, Ren, and Kai.
That line of reasoning sounded noble until he pictured himself on some tabloid cover, captioned, "AUREA's Devil of Compromise." Not great PR, but effective.
His eyes drifted upward and stopped. There, blazing on the side of a building like a modern deity, was V.V. on a wide screen—songstress, trendsetter, billboard queen—smiling down at the city.
The sight tightened something in him. The industry was a hungry animal. One soft misstep and the light under their name could flicker out.
"One big break," he muttered to the rain, the words disappearing into the noise. "That's all we need."
His jaw set. He would grab it if it bit him. He would harp, hustle, lie, or laugh his way to that one shining chance.
He turned and walked back the other way, rain slicking down his hoodie, thoughts steeled.
Whatever came next, he would face it. For AUREA. For the debut. And yes, quietly, for the weird, wet guardian who had just saved him from a very corporate cliff. For now.
====
[EMY]
I'd promised one week, but reality and ambition had an argument and ambition won.
One week was a polite suggestion; what I actually needed was a sleep schedule that didn't exist on any calendar.
Plan A was brutal but simple: sleep four, no—two—hours a night, punctuated by thirty-minute power naps that would turn me into a caffeinated raccoon for three days straight.
I told myself it was doable. I told myself all kinds of comforting lies.
Of course, my body threw a tantrum at the idea. I have PCOS; sleep deprivation wasn't just inconvenient — it threatened to meltdown my hormones and turn me into a crying volcano on the third night.
But this was war.
Debuts don't wait for balanced endocrine systems. This felt like life or death — or at least AUREA-or-death — and so I squared my shoulders and made a terrible choice.
Loans were ugly but practical. With the loan and what little cash I had left, I took out enough to buy four laptops — one for each ridiculous, caffeine-fueled battlestation I was about to assemble.
My dining table became command central: tangled chargers like urban vines, sticky notes that looked like sticky confetti, and an emergency stash of instant coffee that could likely be used to prime a small engine.
"After I'm done with you," I told the empty room and the pile of energy drink cans, "you'll beg them for that debut."
I laughed so hard at my own borderline-delusional pep talk that I choked on my saliva and nearly nearly launched an impromptu spitball across the kitchen.
Glamorous.
Then I got to work. I switched from sentimental fangirl to keyboard warrior in zero seconds flat — a one-woman PR storm with a questionable browser history and a heart full of righteous fury.
I wasn't about to wait for STAR Entertainment to do their job. If they wouldn't fund the debut, I'd create demand loud enough that they'd have no choice but to notice.
Viral storms start with one obnoxious gust, and I intended to be a hurricane.
I didn't detail the exact how — that's for spy novels, not romance genre — but imagine a montage: late-night typing marathons, ridiculous playlists for "focus" that included one too many dramatic ballads, frantic message drafts, and social posts that smelled of desperation and genius in equal parts.
I fed the internet crumbs of curiosity — a behind-the-scenes clip here, a shadowy rehearsal shot there — until people started asking questions.
Sleep? Optional. Sanity? Flexible. Moral clarity? Debatable. Results? Promising.
It was messy, it was reckless, and it was probably illegal in three jurisdictions — but it felt like doing the right thing. Time to make some noise, bend a few rules, and turn AUREA from "maybe" into "must-see."
Time to get to work.