Page 5 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Who’s that Chick?

A buzzing awakens me. The distant hum of the city filters through the walls, blending with the faint scent of jasmine from last night’s bath.

My body feels heavy, cocooned in the warmth of the blankets, but the persistent vibration pulls me from sleep.

I reach out to the side table for my phone.

The room is dim, with rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. I answer without looking.

“Hello?”

“Elena. Mark. The team will arrive at three, the courier should have already brought over some outfits for you.”

“Thanks.”

“See you tonight,” he says, ending the call.

Well, good fucking morning to you, too, mate.

I check the clock on the nightstand as the weight of the day settles over me—anticipation, nerves, the thrill of stepping further into this new life.

A deep breath steadies me, but the flutter in my chest remains, a mix of excitement and uncertainty about what lies ahead.

It’s ten a.m., and right on cue, there’s a knock at the door.

Philippa walks in, taking a seat on the end of my bed and crossing her arms. I smile weakly at her.

“Morning.” She beams, straightening her huge pear-cut diamond engagement ring, perfectly propped on her freshly manicured hand.

“The stylist?” I ask, running my hands through my tangled hair.

“Yes, there are clothes and shoes all over my lounge room!” she exclaims, shaking her head. Poor little neat freak.

“Thankfully, they’re all stunning, so you’re forgiven.”

“I’m sorry?” I chuckle, shrugging my shoulders.

“Thought I’d take you around to your apartment this morning, but the contractors are behind schedule, so it’s not quite ready.” She sounds annoyed.

“That’s fine. We can go another time if you want to show me once it’s all ‘perfect,’” I say, doing air quotes with my fingers.

“So, about tonight.” Her face drops. I know she’s bailing.

“No, no,” I groan, dropping my shoulders in frustration and facing her with a pout. “You suck!”

“I know I promised we would hang out, but Father drafted me to do this work engagement. He had to pull out last minute, and we need someone to be there, but…” She pauses, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“But what?” I narrow my eyes at her.

“I’ve pulled some strings and got someone even better,” she teases, clapping her hands together diabolically.

I find myself secretly wishing it’s not a blind date with one of her preppy friends.

“Who?” I hear her scream before I see her. AHHH. “Riley!”

Philippa bursts into a fit of giggles as Riley comes barreling into the room like an animal set loose, wild curly red hair and eyes full of excitement.

“Surprise, bitch!” she shouts, jumping on the bed. I wrap my arms around her in shock, nearly knocking my sister to the ground.

“What are you doing here?!”

Excitement frazzles my thoughts. A moment ago, I slept soundly, and now, I’m caught in a wild hug, a tornado of red and black hair.

Riley is my best friend from back home. I haven’t seen her in months, since she’s been backpacking around South America after graduating from art school.

“Well, I came here to party, like we said—you and me!” She laughs. “We’re going to fuck New York up!”

I can’t help the flicker of suspicion curling in my gut. The timing feels too perfect. Too convenient. A part of me wonders if my father is behind this—if he pulled strings to bring Riley here, thinking it would win me over.

New York has always been our dream.

Every other summer, I would be shipped here for weeks, and I promised Riley that one day, I’d bring her too.

I wouldn’t put it past my father to use that promise against me.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Philippa laughs, heading out of the room.

“When did you get here?” I ask, my brain still buzzing with excitement.

“I’ve been in town about two weeks.” She shrugs.

Oh.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Figured I’d give you a few days to settle in before shaking shit up.” She winks. “Plus, Philippa wanted to surprise you.”

Maybe it was to surprise me…But I can’t help that my earlier thoughts linger.

“I brought cream cheese blueberry bagels,” Riley announces, holding up a paper bag like it’s a trophy.

I shake the thoughts away. Riley’s here, and it doesn’t matter if it’s my father’s doing.

I grin, scooting over on the bed as she plops down beside me. “My hero.”

We settle in, catching up on everything we’ve missed. Having Riley here feels like a piece of home dropped into my lap, wrapped in unruly red curls and the kind of laughter that makes your sides hurt.

We met back in school after I moved to Australia—me, the bug-eyed Yank, and her, teased for being a ‘soulless ginger.’ I punched Cody Richards square in the nose for dumping paint in her hair, and that was it.

We clicked. She saw the lyrics scrawled in my notebook; I saw the sketches filling hers.

She was the artist, I was the musician, and from then on, we were inseparable.

She dragged me out of my shell, out of my comfort zone, into trouble and joy in equal measure.

The best and worst influence I’ve ever had, and I love her for it.

“So, you did it! New York!” She beams, her eyes bright with excitement. “I’m so damn proud of you.”

I exhale, shaking my head. “Yeah…it was dark there for a bit.”

“I know, babe.” Her voice softens, the teasing dropping away. “It was hard seeing you like that.”

Her words stir something deep inside me, pulling me back to those lost years after my mother died.

Riley missed the funeral because she was off the grid at some shaman retreat in the mountains.

The moment she found out, she got the first flight home, but by then, I was a ghost of myself.

A comatose couch zombie who barely left the house, barely ate, barely washed my hair.

I couldn’t even listen to music, let alone create it.

Jack had let me be, at first. He was dealing with his own grief, and maybe he thought I’d figure it out eventually. But I didn’t. Days bled into months, and the light I once carried dimmed into nothing.

Until Riley came crashing in.

She refused to let me disappear. Between her and Jack, they nudged me—inch by inch, moment by moment—back to life.

A morning walk here, a song on the radio there.

Riley would blast music through the house until, one day, I found myself humming along.

Then came the moment I sat at the piano, only for a second, pressing a single key.

The sound was foreign, but something in me flickered awake.

It took time, but music slowly seeped back in—hesitant at first, then louder, until I could finally breathe again.

A reminder that I was still here, that my mother wanted me to live, not just exist. They pieced me back together when I didn’t have the strength to do it myself.

“It’s okay, Riley,” I murmur, grounding myself in the moment. “You’re here now.”

She squeezes my hand, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Damn right I am. And we’re going to have so much fun!”

I burst out laughing, knowing what her idea of fun means.

Boys.

Booze.

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, guy one , 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, her voice 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 wherever he 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.