Page 19 of Rush

I reach for Rio, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Now, what did I do to deserve such royal treatment?”

He presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “Oh, sweetie, you’re fabulous. You’re kind, gracious—you even gifted me that Hermes vintage leather belt because I redid your wardrobe, and I waspaidto do that. Some clients don’t even remember my name. You, my dear, are special.”

Before tears threaten to undo Inga’s masterful work, my phone buzzes—a message from the driver waiting downstairs to whisk us into the night.

Rio was right. The heels are exquisite, but getting them on feels like a full-body workout—both Riley and Rio had to assist. By the time the three of us pile into the town car, we’rebreathless with laughter, perfume and adrenaline mingling in the air. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and violet as we glide toward 1OAK—New York’s glittering heartbeat. A place where fame and infamy intertwine.

When the car stops, I’m the first to step out. The world explodes in light—flashbulbs bursting like fireworks, people shouting my name. My pulse spikes—too fast, too loud—and before panic can take root, Riley’s hand slides into mine, cool and steady.

Don’t trip.

I lift my chin, draw in a slow breath, and step forward. Riley follows, effortless as always.

“Let’s show ‘em how us Aussies like to party,” she says with a grin.

I throw my head back and laugh, the sound carries on the buzz of the crowd. Somewhere deep inside, I know that shot will be everywhere by morning.

Philippa joins us, looping her arm through mine as we stride toward the velvet rope. The bouncer—a wall of muscle and ink—unhooks it with a nod.

“Ladies,” he rumbles. “Enjoy your night.”

Inside, the club glows fuchsia, the bass thrumming through my ribs. It smells of liquor, smoke, and money. This isn’t a dive bar—it’sthespot. Old-school R&B fills the air, smooth and sultry. Bodies sway, lights flicker, and the night hums with possibility.

“We did it,” I breathe, in disbelief and relief—that I didn’t trip, that I kept myself together.

“Alright,” Riley says, eyes bright. “Shall we drink or dance?”

“Let’s do a loop like Kylie said—and then sneak out the back?” I suggest.

“What? We did not spend hours getting ready just to let allthisgo to waste.” She gestures to the three of us.

“I know,” I admit. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this.”

“You’ve been plastered to that couch for days,” Riley counters. “You’re out. That’s the first step.”

“Let’s stay for half an hour,” Philippa offers gently. “If you want to go after that, we’ll go.”

I glance between them—their eager eyes willing me to find my way back to myself.

Part of me knows it’s too soon. The other part knows I’ve spent too long drowning in the quiet ache of sadness.

“Drinks?” I shrug.

They both squeal in unison, their laughter spilling into the pulsing air—and that alone is enough to seal my resolve.

With arms linked, we snake our way through the crowd. I spot a few faces I recognize—people whose songs and movies I’ve admired, others I’ve seen on magazine covers, their bodyguards flanking them.

It’s hard to believe that months ago I was squishing my toes in the sand at Jervis Bay, and now here I am—strung up in a pair offuck-meheels, breathing the same air.

“What’ll it be, ladies?” asks the bartender.

“Three cosmopolitans, please,” Philippa says, setting up a tab for us.

“Coming right up.”

“Philippa Montgomery?” says a voice behind my sister. A tall blond man stands there with a boyish grin—handsome enough—but he reminds me of another blond I really don’t want to think about right now.

My broken heart creaks in my chest.