Page 24 of Star Rucked Lovers

Later that evening, George stood near the back of Le Zénith, tucked into the shadows while the crowd pulsed and roared around him. The stage lights burned bright, cutting through the dark haze of the arena, and there she was, hisMyst. A firecracker wrapped in glitter and velvet, commanding the stage like she was born for it.

Her voice soared, raw and electric, wrapping itself around every note. The audience couldn’t get enough of her, cheering and singing along like their lives depended on it. George watched, unable to tear his eyes away, pride swelling in his chest despite the ache that had taken root there earlier.

“Elle est incroyable!” someone nearby shouted over the music, clapping George on the back. He nodded stiffly, managing a polite smile before turning his attention back to the stage. Yeah, she was incredible. But watching her like this, from a distance, surrounded by thousands of strangers, only made him feel further removed, like he was staring at something he could never truly be part of.

When the final song ended, the crowd erupted into deafening applause, and Myst flashed them one last dazzling smile before slipping backstage. George lingered near the wings, waiting as photographers and fans swarmed the area, all clamoring for her attention. She handled it with practiced ease, laughing and posing like it was second nature.

“George!” Her voice cut through the din, and she appeared suddenly at his side, her face glowing with exhilaration, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. “Wasn’t that amazing?”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile as he pulled her into a brief hug. “You were brilliant out there.”

“Thanks,” she said, pulling back to beam at him. But then her expression shifted, her brows knitting together as she studied his face. “Hey...you okay? You seem...quiet.”

“Just tired,” he lied, shaking his head. “Long day, you know.”

“Right,” she said slowly, though he could tell she didn’t quite believe him.

“Come on,” she added after a pause, tugging lightly at his hand. “Let’s get out of here. I need to breathe.”

“Sure,” he said, following her reluctantly, though he couldn’t help but wonder: no matter how close they were, would he always feel this far away?

The bass from the party thumped through George’s chest as they stepped into the glittering ballroom, its crystal chandeliers throwing light across sleek black suits and shimmering evening gowns. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, a loaner Myst’s stylist had thrown his way with a quick, “This’ll do” and tried not to feel like an overgrown kangaroo in a penguin suit.

“Just stick close,” Myst murmured under her breath, her hand slipping into his for a moment before she was whisked away by one of her team. George stayed frozen in place for a beat, watching her navigate the crowd with effortless grace; laughing, shaking hands, leaning in conspiratorially with people who all seemed to talk far too quickly.

“Ah, Monsieur Delacourt!” someone exclaimed nearby, and George turned just in time to see a tall, rakish man stride into the room, his perfectly tailored suit looking like it cost more than George’s entire wardrobe. The man’s gleaming white smile practically reflected the chandelier overhead. Antoine Delacourt, George realized grimly; the French actor he’d seen plastered across tabloids next to Myst earlier that morning.

“Bloody brilliant,” George muttered under his breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. The universe clearly wasn’t pulling any punches tonight.

“Excuse me,” a sharply dressed woman interrupted, tapping him on the arm. “Could you fetch another bottle of champagne for the table? Over there.” She gestured vaguely toward a corner of the room.

“Uh…” George blinked, glancing down at her. “I don’t…” But she had already turned away, apparently assuming he’d comply.

“Bodyguard,” someone else said behind him, nodding approvingly. “That makes sense.”

“Fantastic,” George muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He caught Myst glancing his way, her pale blue eyes lighting up when they met his. She waved him over, but he shook his head once, pretending he hadn’t noticed. This wasn’t his world. It never would be.

“George!” Myst came over, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, but before he could react, Antoine Delacourt had appeared beside her, draping an arm loosely around her shoulders in a way that made George’s jaw clench.

“Ah, so zis is ze boyfriend you mentioned!” Antoine declared, his French accent slicing through the air like a butter knife. His gaze swept over George appraisingly, lingering on his broad shoulders. “You are… how you say… imposing, no?”

“Good to meet you,” George replied stiffly, forcing himself to extend a hand. Antoine ignored it, flashing Myst a grin instead.

“Zey love us together in ze papers, non?” Antoine teased, earning a laugh from Myst that sent a pang of something sharp through George’s chest.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Myst said lightly, though her fingers tightened subtly around the flute of champagne in her hand.

“Of course, of course,” Antoine replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Je plaisante! Only jokes!”

“Right,” George said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. Myst glanced at him again, concern flickering briefly across her face.

“Hey,” she murmured, stepping closer to him. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he grunted, though the word tasted bitter on his tongue. “Look, I think I’m gonna head back to the hotel. It’s been a long day.”

“George…” Myst hesitated, her brow furrowing. “Are you sure? We can leave if you want…”

“Stay,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “This is your night. Enjoy it.” He pressed a quick kiss to her temple and turned before she could say anything else, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses followed him out into the cool Parisian night.

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