Page 7 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

“You don’t need to line up. Mr. Shepherd called ahead,” he says, stepping forward to usher us past the velvet ropes. “Please, come on in.” A few patrons waiting in the line protest at the preferential treatment.

I give Riley a wry smile, rolling my eyes.

“Shepherd?” she asks, clearly confused.

“Mark.” I laugh. Typical—she flirts with him all night and doesn’t even bother to get his full name.

The Avenue is in full swing. The energy is electric, bodies swaying in the pulsing neon haze.

The music thrums in my chest, heavy bass reverberating through the floors, and the air is thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and spilled liquor.

I take a slow breath, letting the atmosphere sink in.

Nights like these remind me why I both love and loathe the chaos of this city—thrilling, intoxicating, and an overload for the senses.

Go-go dancers in plastic neon tubes and black leather outfits gyrate and dance to the thumping beat of the music, the flashing lights making everything feel like a fever dream.

A waitress approaches, handing us two glowing cocktails in test tubes, their color almost as bright as the club lights.

“Oh!” Riley squeals, taking one eagerly. I chuckle, mostly because her enthusiasm is infectious, even if I’m not quite sure what I’m about to drink.

We dance through the night, moving to the rhythm, letting the music pulse through our veins. After the seventh song, Riley wraps her arms around me like a vine, her grip tight and playful.

“Want more drinks?” she yells over the bass, her breath warm and thick with alcohol.

The bass rattles my ribs as I nod, already a little unsteady.

She disappears into the blur of bodies, and I’m left dancing with a tawny-skinned hottie who’s a little too handsy.

His mouth moves, but the music’s a wall of sound.

I just nod and laugh, pretending to hear.

My vision starts to blur as I continue dancing, and after a while, the man disappears into the crowd.

Okay, bye, I guess.

I can’t help but giggle at myself. Thanks for the dance, mystery man.

Riley is back in no time, handing me a purple drink. I take a sip, immediately realizing it’s more alcohol than cocktail mix.

Great.

Tomorrow’s gonna suck.

“ The hottest guy I have ever seen was at the bar and was totally watching you dance.” Riley giggles, leaning in a little too close, practically yelling into my ear.

I shake my head, not believing her. “No way.”

“I’m serious! He was like, ‘The petite brunette in the dark dress. Watch her.’” Her voice is full of excitement, and then, as if performing, she repeats what the guy allegedly said. “ Look how she moves. She’s sexy .”

I roll my eyes in disbelief, laughing, but I can’t help but feel a little flattered. “Okay, sure.”

Riley grabs my hand and pulls me toward a quieter spot on a raised platform near the stairs. My legs feel like jelly in these heels, but I keep moving.

“No, I swear,” she continues, taking a swig of her drink.

I shake my head, but there’s a small part of me that’s intrigued. “Okay. Which one is he?”

She scans the bar, then points straight at them—one with dark skin and close-cropped hair, standing just shorter than the man who catches my eye. Tall. Blond. A white shirt clinging to his body in all the right ways.

Oh, wow. I can’t really see his face from this far, not with the lights dancing around, but there is something about him. An energy. The kind that makes someone stand out in a crowd.

He’s definitely worth the chase.

Liquid courage making me brave, and maybe a little too frisky for my own good, I decide to find out if he really was watching me dance.

I push through the crowd again, most bodies towering over me, but by the time we make it to the bar, the two men are no longer there.

“Aww, he’s gone!” I whine, louder than I meant to, trying to keep my cool over the blaring Rihanna track.

Riley laughs, grabbing my arm and pulling me back into the throng of bodies. “Plenty of those around,” she announces, clearly more amused by my failure than sympathetic.

After a few hours, I decide I’ve had enough. I pry Riley off a man with his shirt half open and drag her toward the exit. Pushing the doors open, I’m desperate to escape the thick nightclub air, a toxic mix of sweat, booze, and lust.

The cool, early morning breeze greets me like a breath of fresh air, a whisper of summer on my skin.

As we step outside, I spot a swarm of paparazzi huddled around a group of people. Flashbulbs erupt in chaotic bursts, illuminating their faces in sharp, blinding flashes.

And then, I see him—sort of. My vision is blurred by too much liquor. The tall blond man steps into a sleek black car, the crowd of photographers clamoring after him like a tidal wave.

My breath catches, a strange sense of recognition prickling at the back of my mind.

Was that the guy from the bar?

I squint, trying to focus, but my height works against me, the shifting bodies in front of me blocking my view.

A fleeting pang of frustration twists in my chest. Something about him feels…intriguing. The back of my neck tingles, but before I can piece it together, the car door slams shut, and he’s gone, swallowed by the night.

“Don’t they ever sleep?” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

As I’m about to walk away, Riley stops in her tracks. Before I can react, she heaves the contents of her stomach toward the curb in front of me.

“Ugh!” I protest, dodging the near miss.

“Oh, God,” she gasps, clutching her body. The color drains from her face, and she turns greener than her dress. I hold her once-straight hair, now a frizzy, matted mess, back, watching her empty the liquor from her body into the streets of New York.

Wow, Riley, classy.

I hail a cab, shoving Riley’s limp body into the backseat before we make our way home.

My phone buzzes aggressively on the nightstand, jolting me out of my haze. Everything in me sinks as I reach for it, my fingers hesitant, dreading what I’ll find. The harsh glow makes my already throbbing head worse. The screen is flooded with notifications, but one message stands out.

Kylie

Call me. Now.

I don’t even have the energy to roll my eyes before tapping her contact. She answers on the first ring.

“You’re all over Page Six ,” she blurts out without preamble.

I groan, rubbing my temple. “That bad?”

“They’re calling you ‘The Long-lost Heiress.’ And, the airport photos? Not your best. Also, apparently, some anonymous source thinks it’s hilarious that you flew coach despite being ‘worth millions.’”

I let out a dry laugh, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. A bitter knot twists in my gut. It’s not like I asked to be born into wealth. As far as I’m concerned, I’m not worth anything. Yet here I am—reduced to a punchy headline.

They don’t know about the rejected demos, the failure that was LA.

They didn’t see the years I spent away, carving out a life of my own, trying to be more than my last name.

Trying to be more than a constant disappointment.

And now, with one drunken night, I’m back under their magnifying glass, scrutinized and dismissed in the same breath.

“Great.” I shift under the blankets.

Riley rolls over beside me. “Babe, you’re famous again.”

“Perfect. Just what I ordered—public humiliation with a side of hangover.” I sigh, sitting up.

“We need to strategize our next steps. We need to control this narrative STAT. Do you have time today?” Kylie asks, not mucking around. I groan mentally.

“Sure,” is all I can muster, my head pounding like an elephant is tap dancing on my temples.

“See you at eleven.” Kylie ends the call.

After we sluggishly get ready, Riley staggers to the bathroom and, with a groan, empties what’s left of last night into the toilet. I wince at the sound, shaking my head.

“You good?” I call out. A weak thumbs-up emerges from the doorway before she disappears back inside.

Riley and I emerge disheveled but showered and dressed.

Philippa, bless her sweet heart, is in the kitchen making bacon, eggs, and pancakes.

The smell alone makes my mouth water, despite the lingering hangover fog.

I watch her, moving between the stovetop and the counter, humming to herself as if she didn’t spend the night out like the rest of us.

I shake my head, both impressed and slightly envious of her ability to function like a normal human being.

“You woke up half the building with your cackling. Figured you’d need the hangover cure,” she says, preparing us a plate.

Riley presses her head to the cool countertop and mumbles, “My bad.”

“Coffee?” I ask, and Philippa points to the rather fancy coffee machine.

“Grab a cup and press the button, it will make whatever you want.” Philippa places the plates in front of us on the kitchen island.

I take an empty cup, placing it under the machine as it whirls and beeps, the smell of coffee instantly filling my nose. Clutching my cup like I’m Gollum from Lord of the Rings , I take a sip of the sweet precious nectar, letting the warmth fill me.

“How was last night?” Philippa asks, sipping her coffee.

“Awesome,” quips Riley with a mouth full of pancakes.

“It was great.” I snort, less than enthused, already dreading the eleven a.m. crisis meeting. The thought of sitting through another round of damage control makes my gut knot.

It brings me back to the contract renegotiations. After I bailed on promoting my first album, the label was less than thrilled. At the time, I didn’t care. Most of it was a blur. I was promptly abandoned by my previous manager before Mark swooped in.

But the idea of being dissected, packaged, and sold as a palatable version of myself doesn’t sit right.

“Except I’m on Page Six .” I sigh, taking another long sip of coffee. “And it doesn’t look good. Kylie’s coming over today to strategize.”