Page 13 of Collide

And a whole lot of dancing!

“So, how was Peru? Did you meet the love of your life?”

“Well,” she drawls, stretching out dramatically. “There was Juan.”

My brows lift. “Juan?”

She grins. “Yeah, guyone, two, and three.”

“Riley!” I snort, shaking my head as she cackles, her curls bouncing with every movement.

She playfully slaps my arm. “What? The world is a buffet, babe. Taste the rainbow.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I laugh, shaking my head.

“You should have seen me—one girl, three guys, it was magical. I was a goddess to be worshipped,” she gushes, hervoice dripping with nostalgia as she recounts her escapade in graphic detail.

If I had pearls, they would well and truly be clutched. I’m not sure whether to be shocked, concerned, or proud, but Riley loves life, and it’s infectious.

Laughing even harder, warmth spreads through my chest. This is what she does—brings light into the darkest places. And for the first time in a long time, it feels really, truly good to have her here. I don’t feel so alone.

When I step out of my room, I notice someone has neatly placed rows of shoes under the window in the lounge; each pair practically begging to be worn. The buffet table is draped in black velvet, adorned with beautiful accessories gleaming like treasures. A rack filled with outfits for the night stands proudly in the center, ready to transform me into someone else—someone more glamorous.

Promptly at three p.m., the doorbell rings. I walk down the hallway, trying to shake off the lingering jetlag. When I open the door, a short man with a striking purple and blond mohawk stands in front of me. From the color of his eyebrows and skin, blond is definitely not his natural color. Next to him is a woman dressed head-to-toe in black, her thick-framed black glasses and sleek brown bun making her look like a chic librarian with a secret.

“The ravishing Elena Montgomery!” the man announces with a flourish. “I’m Rio, your stylist, and this is Inga Price, your makeup and hair artist. We’re here to make you look fabulous!” he sings, shimmying his shoulders almost as if he were performing for a crowd.

I gesture them inside, rolling my eyes fondly at his flamboyance. “Come on in.”

Rio is fabulous, or so he keeps saying. With his ever-present silk scarf and a spritz of expensive cologne trailing him whereverhe goes, he’s impossible to ignore. Though small in stature, he carries himself like a giant, his personality as bold as his wardrobe. He gestures wildly as he speaks, his rings catching the light with every exaggerated movement, ensuring all eyes stay on him.

“Sweetie, you’ll look divine in these!” He holds up a pair of nude pumps. Then he presents a shimmering, skintight navy-blue dress, which looks like the night sky. “We’ll pair these with this! You’ll look so fabulous! I’m a genius!”

I can’t help but giggle at his enthusiasm. It’s completely contagious, and even though I’m not usually into designer goods, I know the drill. I need to look the part if I want to make it as a recording artist.

“And for you, Miss Riley.” Rio sifts through the rack.

“You may call me Miss Fisher,” Riley declares in an exaggerated fancy British accent as she curtseys.

Rio throws his head back in laughter, and I can’t help but giggle, the energy in the room abuzz with excitement.

Rio dramatically pulls out an emerald bodycon dress with geometric cut-outs. He holds it up and runs his hand up and down the fabric like he’s on a cheesy game show, delivering an exaggerated, “Ooh, fabulous! For thee, Miss RileyFishah, I envision this,” he announces in an equally exaggerated British accent, rolling the last syllable of her name with panache.

I clap my hands in approval. “Oh, Rio, I love that!” His taste is impeccable.

“Miss Montgomery,” Inga calls from the dining room, her voice a soothing contrast to Rio’s theatrics. Riley stands from the makeup chair, looking smoking hot. Her usually messy red hair is now tamed into a sleek straight do, framing her oval face. Her green eyes are lined with black kohl, with green glitter catching the light in the inner corners. She looks like a sultry version of herself, more glam than I’ve ever seen.

“Do you like?” she giggles, striking avoguepose.

I nod, laughing, and take a seat. “You look amazing.”

Inga opens another of her metal cases, revealing an arsenal of beauty products: powders, blushes in pinks and rouges, eye shadows of every color, and brushes that could probably double as paintbrushes. It’s an artist’s dream.

“Miss Montgomery, close your eyes, and we’ll begin.” Inga beckons, gently placing her hand under my chin. I close my eyes, letting the soothing motions take over, drifting off as she works her magic.

I stared out at the shadows of the crowd, the bright lights scorching my face. The roar of the audience hummed in my ears, a distant echo beneath the rush of my pounding heart. My hand was slick with sweat, gripping Bella Hunt’s hand—my fellow competitor in the grand finale of Starstruck.

Just moments ago, I had been standing in the wings, waiting, my breath shallow as the world around me slowed to a crawl. And now, here I was, standing under the glaring spotlights, waiting for my fate to be sealed.