Page 23 of Inside the Sun

I did another shoot. Then another. Soon, the bigger brands were calling. They wanted me to wear their clothes. Then, more photographers started reaching out. The DMs flooded in.

And money was never even the plan. It all just… happened. Snowballed.

In the meantime, I dated a few well-connected guys. The algorithm worked in my favor, and suddenly, I was landing lucrative deals, getting flown out for shoots, racking up followers by the hour.

But at the end of the school year, at my parents’ request, I agreed to slow down a bit and go to college. And honestly, I didn’t resist.

All it takes is one glance around a place like this luxury spa, at the polished smiles, the empty eyes, some still glittering with the last line they snorted before lunch, the fortunes built on fraud and laundering, to see what this world is really about.

Vanity. Greed. Hunger for fame. For power. For gold.

Some people fall in love with it, if they squint hard enough and blur the lines. They’re naturals, born to swim through champagne galas and backroom deals. They know how to flash a smile, drop a name, and turn every handshake into a stepping stone.

But me? I’m just here to be entertained. To see what kinds of cheap thrills this flashy circus can offer before it spits me out. It’s just a detour for me, a temporary stop, not a destination.

Martin’s still talking to Mark. I catch bits of their conversation; Mark’s planning to run for Senate after the summer. Tonight’s just PR: a handshake tour disguised as philanthropy. He’s angling for the beta vote, obviously. Smart move, since they make up thirty percent of the population, and they don’t forget who shows up for them.

His opponents? Two omegas, one connected to Lowens. Mark’s got a tough campaign ahead.

I kinda listen, mostly watching Jared sip wine. His eyes are glassy. He’s deep into drink number who-even-knows.

"I saw on Instagram you got into college," Jared says with that fake-friendly smile. "But you tried… a music career, huh?"

I shrug but answer anyway. "Well, half-heartedly. I’ve been playing in a school band the past two years."

Of course, I don’t owe him this explanation, but I give it anyway. Music’s just a hobby. Not some burning dream.

"I saw a clip of you playing the harp. You looked like an angel," he says, all pouty smile, then downs another sip. When he lifts his hand to brush back his long, silky hair, I spot a dark bruise on the inside of his arm.

"Thanks. Yeah, I mess around on the harp, but in the band I mostly played guitar and sang."

"Oh, the second vocalist?"

Does he have to emphasizesecond? Of course, he does.

"So, trying to follow in Bay’s footsteps? Big shoes to fill!"

And there it is again. Mentioning my more famous brother. Another jab. How sweet.

I tilt my head, keeping my tone light, resisting the need to jab back. "Not so much. Doesn’t feel like me. That’s why I don’t post music stuff online anymore."

"You don’t?" He blinks like that’s shocking. "But you’re going to school for music. I figured you were serious. You’ve got the charisma, the presence. Plus, you’re Aiden Nolan’s kid, right? That’s gotta open some doors."

His voice is pleasant enough, but something in it grates on me. Too fake. Too rehearsed. Still, I’m really not in a mood for a jab exchange.

With a slightly bored, aloof grimace, I glance around. The ballroom’s pulsing with chatter, glasses clinking, rich laughter echoing off marble.

A lot of people ask me what I’m planning to do. The truth? I don’t know. Yeah, I like music. I really did sing, played in a band, even wrote a few sobbing songs about being dumped. But it never felt likethething. And every time someone confronts me with that question, it feels like they’re trying to trap me in a version of myself I’m not ready to commit to.

For a moment, I close my eyes, right in the middle of this crowd, and I vanish.

All I remember is the road. Me and Dogger on the bike, wind in our faces, no destination. Just motion. That’s what freedom feels like. Not applause. Not fans. Not contracts. Just a long, open road and the hum of the engine under my body.

And then I have to open my eyes, unfortunately.

"We’ll see how things go," I say at last, and I mean it.

Unexpectedly, I don't want to be fake, trapped in pretense. I need some truth in my life. So I push it out, not thinking what Jared will make of it, whether he’ll laugh, I don’t care. I just need to be free for a second from all these plastic masks.

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