Page 308 of Rush

A few recognize me for my music.

And then there are the annoying ones who refer to me as Alex’s ex.

When we’re not sightseeing or losing ourselves in the party scene, I’m working—panels, radio and television interviews, endless outfits and glam, photo shoots and smiles that don’t quite reach my eyes.

People love my music. I won a fucking Grammy. That was the dream.

So why do I still feel empty?

Days pass in a blur. Until, it’s the night of the Oscars.

Riley bows out, claiming a “full-body betrayal by tacos,” sprawled horizontally with a ginger ale and determined to watch the ceremony from the safety of our hotel suite. So, it’s just me. Her bout of vomiting kills my appetite, leaving me surviving on pretzels and a few sneaky shots from the minibar to calm my nerves.

Mark and Kylie hover nearby, the suite quiet but buzzing with nervous energy. Inga circles me with a can of hairspray like she’s trying to trap a ghost.

Rio pivots hard for the Oscars, going for something elegant and ethereal. The gown is dove-gray—soft tulle layered and ruffled like storm clouds. Strapless, cinched tight at the waist, the skirt cascades around me in waves. It isn’t sexy. It’s haunting and regal.

My hair is twisted into a sleek updo, every pin locked into place like it’s trying to tame more than just my hair—like it’s holding my thoughts together, too.

I rarely wear it up like this. It feels different.

Mark checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

I nod and stare at my reflection.

I don’t look like someone who was crying in the shower an hour ago. I look like I’ve been carved from glass—smooth, shining, impossible to break. At least from the outside.

We do a quick toast with champagne. It swirls around my empty stomach, but the buzz steels my nerves.

“Okay, let’s go.”

The limos all line up waiting their turn to unload us. I take a moment trying to steady my breathing before stepping out of the car and into a wall of flashes.

Gray tulle swirls around my legs like smoke. I adjust my posture without thinking—head high, arm tucked just right, expression neutral with a hint of mystery. Exactly as instructed.

Rio would be proud.

Mark stays behind ensuring the paparazzi are able to get their shot. Kylie follows, headset on, offering the occasional nod to other publicists.

I move like a ghost through the crowd, all ruffles and restraint. The dress might be soft, but it feels like armor—thick enough that no one can get too close, or see the hurt beneath.

Strangely, it grounds me. I wish Riley were here.

The Oscars’ red carpet buzzes with a different kind of energy—quiet, poised, almost reverent. A calm so sharp it raises every hair on your skin, the kind of calm that settles just before a storm breaks.

Everyone moves like they’ve been choreographed—shoulders squared, smiles preloaded, eyes sharp behind designer façades. Part of me is starstruck, the other part feels like I’m walking on a tightrope.

“Stunning, Elena!” someone calls. “Can we get a twirl?”

I give them half of one which instantly makes me feel unsteady the booze from earlier might have been a bad idea, but I manage.

The first interviewer is polite, clean-cut, smiling a little too much.

“Elena, congratulations on your recent Grammy nomination and win—you look incredible. Who are you wearing tonight?”

“Aww, thank you. You’re very kind. Oscar de la Renta for the Oscars, of course.”

I deliver the line Rio fed me earlier, with the right amount of warmth and polish.