Beneath The Spotlight

Chapter 1

The red carpet is mine. It always is.

Cameras flash, fans scream, reporters shout my name, but I move through it like I own the whole damn thing — because I do.

Every step I take, every tilt of my head, every smirk... it's all deliberate.

They'll pick apart my outfit, my makeup, the way I blink — and they'll still want more.

I don't rush. I never rush. I walk slow, let them take it all in. Let them see the power they'll never touch.

That's the game, and I'm better at it than anyone else here.

Inside the venue, the air is heavy with perfume and fake smiles. Everyone wants to look like they're winning.

I don't need to pretend — I already won. I take my seat like it was built for me, like this entire night exists just to watch me breathe.

The host is up there cracking jokes, but I'm not listening.

My mind is elsewhere — not because I'm bored, but because I don't have to pay attention to anyone.

People pay attention to me.

A reporter leans forward, mic almost hitting my face.

"Billie! Who are you wearing tonight?"

I let the question hang for a second, adjusting my oversized jacket with a lazy grin. "Custom. Like always," I say, my voice smooth but sharp enough to cut through the noise.

"Did you really think I'd show up in something anyone else could buy?"

There's a burst of laughter from the reporters, but I'm already walking, not bothering to look back.

I don't need their approval.

They'll write about me anyway.

Inside, the room is buzing with stars, but I barely notice. New artists, old artists — they can have their moment.

I know my place here, and it's above the chaos.

I'm not competing. I'm just existing.

And somehow, that's enough to make the whole damn place spin around me.

-

After the event, I head outside the venue, and it's chaos all over again.

Fans are screaming my name, cameras flashing like they didn't just see me five minutes ago.

I sign a few portraits of myself then slide into the car.

We pull away, and for a second, there's peace. No cameras. No noise. Just me and the quiet.

Of course, it doesn't last.

"Alright, we're going home so you can change, then straight to the after parties," my assistant says.

I groan, loud enough to make my annoyance crystal clear. I hate after parties.

Too much alcohol, paparazzi waiting for the perfect slip-up, and new artists flashing their wealth and desperately trying to get my attention.

-

We arrive at the after party, and the moment I step inside, it hits me — the flashing lights, the pounding music, the heavy tang of alcohol.

I ignore it all. I don't have the energy tonight.

I make my way to the bar and slide onto a stool like I own the place.

"Dirty martini," I say. Something with enough bite to match my mood. If tonight's going to be a long one, I might as well start strong.