status (luke hemmings)

one

8:46? Why the hell were they waking him up at 8:46? When on break, Luke never woke up until 11, at least. He needed to recharge from the long months of touring, promo, and life in general.

Luke was about to full-on beg his bandmates to let him sleep longer had not one of them begun to speak first.

"Luke. You'll never believe what party we're going to tonight." Calum Hood, the bassist of Luke's band, said excitedly. "Guess, just guess!"

"Um..." Luke couldn't guess. It was way too early for his brain to function. "What?"

"The Rihvalsky Grande New Year's Party!" Calum exploded, smirking down at Luke. "You're welcome."

"Wait, what?" Luke immediately widened his eyes. The Rihvalsky Grande New Year's Party, nicknamed TRG-NPE for short, was the most legendary New Year's party in Los Angeles, let alone all of the United States. Even Aussies knew about it. "How-"

"-did I score us invitations to the world's most elite New Year's party ever? Well-"

"It was all management." Michael Clifford, another one of Luke's bandmates, cut Calum off. "Good 'ol Modest!-"

"-which also happens to be the complete opposite of Calum right now." Ashton Irwin, the drummer of the band, interjected humorously.

"Shut up," Calum retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I get some credit for it. It was my idea."

"Sure, sure." Michael rolled his green eyes, looking over at Luke for a reaction.

But Luke wasn't paying attention anymore.

He was too busy thinking. And overthinking. And overthinking again.

This was a big deal. No, it was a huge deal. No, it was a hugely big deal.

Attending this party could make-or-break the the band and also could give him the chance to actually meet the girl he'd had a somewhat-creepy obsession with since he was thirteen.

As anxious as he was, he couldn't wait. Tonight was the night he could showcase everything he'd ever done in his nineteen years of living and make it all worthwhile.

Scratch that: tonight, he was determined to make everything he'd ever done in his nineteenth years of living worthwhile.

~

Meanwhile, nineteen-year-old Anna Rihvalsky was dreading the party with every bone in her body.

She couldn't go out there with a huge smile on her face, pretending nothing was wrong when everything was.

But she knew she had to.

Her parents had a reputation to uphold, which meant putting on the "perfect family" facade that she was all too familiar with.

And hated with all her bones.

It didn't seem to matter that her parents were secretly filing for divorce, her sister was struggling with anorexia, and her brother was just diagnosed with a rare tumor in his brain.

His brain. She still couldn't even process that.

However, tonight, all problems ceased to exist. At least in her parents' eyes. Like every single year since her parents got married, they were throwing their annual holiday party like nothing was wrong.

Her father and brother were dolled up in the fanciest suits money could by, and her mother and sister were both donning skin-tight dresses that cut off their circulation.

The black one Anna was supposed to wear hung in her huge walk-in closet, untouched.

She felt sick at the mere thought of wearing it--putting it on meant losing herself and everything she stood for. She didn't want to represent a money-seeking designer; she wanted to represent herself.

A broken girl, forced to keep too many secrets, who really had no idea who she was.

But what she wore and didn't wear was all up to her managers. She really had no say.

The one thing she could control was the music blasting through her black iHome in the corner of her large bedroom; a song that she had heard on the radio one day and come to love.

The song was called "Outer Space/ Carry On" and for some reason brought her happiness.

She loved how genuine the lyrics were, full of passion and love.

It was a pretty strange favorite song for a girl who didn't even know what love was.

As the lead singer continued to hit those impossibly high notes that brought her to tears every time, there was a small knock on her white oak door.

Anna sat up in her canopy bed and blinked as her father called out to her from the hallway, "Anna?"

Her father? This was strange. Anna never really saw her father much; he was always traveling and technically had moved out of the Rihvalsky mansion as a result of the divorce. He had moved into a fancy penthouse suite in the heart of Los Angeles, California, where he could finally be alone.

Actually, he wasn't really alone, but we'll get to that later.

"Yes, Father?" Anna replied politely, immediately turning down the volume of her music with her iPhone 12.

Her father entered her room, looking very sharp in his suit and tie. His eyebrows furrowed when he noticed his youngest daughter's shiny black hair tied into a messy ponytail and her pajamas: leggings, fuzzy socks, and band t-shirt.

"Get dressed. We're taking pictures in an hour." He said shortly, closing the door abruptly.

Pictures? Pictures for what? Anna groaned, finally rolling off her goose-down comforter. She would've stayed in bed, but she couldn't just disobey her father as much as she wanted to.

It didn't take long for her personal stylist, Alessandra, to arrive at Anna's bedroom door, eager to do her hair and makeup. (And whatever else her parents wanted her to do to "keep up appearances.")

Anna had no choice but to obey, making friendly small talk with her stylist and squeezing into that disgustingly skin-tight dress.

No doubt it looked good on her, as everything did. Anna just couldn't bring herself to fake it today.

She couldn't cry, either, because it would smudge her mascara, eyeliner, and blush, and her mom would absolutely lose it if that happened.

So she held it all inside.

And as she exited her bedroom and started walking down the grand marble staircase looking like a million bucks, she felt like fifty cents.