Page 304 of Rush

“We’re shooting the music video for “Touch” in a couple of weeks,” I say, angling slightly toward the camera beside her. “It’s a fan-favorite, so this one’s for them. Thank you for sticking with me.”

She nods. “We can’t wait to see it. Best of luck tonight—you’re a star.”

I thank her and step down from the platform just as Kylie catches my arm and guides me toward the next camera line.

They sweep me off the carpet before I can even blink. One minute I’m waving at fans; the next I’m in a freight elevator, Rio unzipping my gown like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Don’t smudge the makeup,” Inga warns, already blotting my forehead, lipstick brush in hand.

“Okay, breathe,” Rio mutters. “This next one’s going to make peoplefeelthings. I need your hips loose and your eyes intense. Think fire. Think siren. Think?—”

“Lava,” I say.

Because that’s exactly what the dress looks like.

Red at the top, bleeding into orange and then gold at the hem. Beads and sequins stitched in motion. Like someone dipped me in liquid flame and told me to ‘dance, monkey’. My hair is pulled into a slick ponytail, lips blood-red, skin glassy under the lights.

Mark stands near the monitors, arms crossed, nodding. “You’ve got four minutes. Then you’re up.”

I roll my shoulders back. Mic pack clipped. Earpiece checked.

Then the lights dim.

And I step out.

I don’t remember singing the first half of “Sparks”.

The lights blind everything. I move on instinct—every beat etched into my bones, every lyric a piece of my soul. My voice hits the last note, and I hold it just long enough to hear the crowd cheer before it breaks and falls into applause, thunder cracking open the roof.

Then I’m whisked off backstage again—breathless and sweating, the dress clinging to me.

“Get her water,” Kylie snaps. “Not champagne.Water.”

There’s no time to sit, or chat or do much else before I’m ripped out of my performance number and shoved into another dress—pink, with geometric cutouts cascading down my body.

I sink back into my seat with Riley beside me as the next few categories pass in a blur. I hear Ava’s name before I register that mine hasn’t been called.

Song of the Year: Ava Edwards,“Crumble.”

I shoot to my feet, already clapping. Ava looks stunned, mascara running as she hugs her producer and stumbles toward the stage. She waves at me as she passes, and I blow her a kiss.

She deserves it. That song gutted me the first time I heard it. I couldn’t be happier for her.

Then—

Best New Artist.

The presenters start going through the list of nominees, each name stretching out like a heartbeat. My name lands heavier than the rest. The camera cuts to me, my face blown up on the jumbotron, and in that moment, all I can think about is how much I wish my mom were here. How, win or lose?—

“And the Grammy goes to…”

I don’t hear the name. Only Riley’s scream beside me.

“Elena. Elena—that’s you!”

Time stills.

Riley grabs my shoulders, shaking me, but it feels distant, like I’m watching it happen to someone else.