The package on my doorstep is small, glossy, and suspiciously light.
I open it and blink.
A vial.
Pink.
Shimmery.
Labeled CelebSerum.
It takes me a second to realize what this means.
“Oh,” I whisper. “It’s a subscription.”
Of course it is.
Of course fame comes with monthly mystery potions.
I set it on the counter and stare at it like it might explode. I’ll deal with it later — maybe. Probably. Eventually.
Fourteen tracks.
Fourteen.
That’s basically an album.
A whole era.
And suddenly I feel… done. Not with music forever, but with the grind of it. With the constant pressure to release, release, release. I’ve said what I needed to say for now.
So I make a decision:
Acting gets the spotlight. Music can breathe.
I’ll release tracks when I need to — when the story calls for it — but for now, I’m shifting lanes.
The Commercial
The studio lights are bright, but not blinding.
The script is simple.
The energy is good.
And I’m better than good.
I hit every mark.
Every line.
Every smile.
Every comedic beat.
By the time I’m walking home, still buzzing from the shoot, the notification hits:
Promoted to Guest Star.
I stop on the sidewalk and laugh — loud, startled, delighted.
The studio left feedback too:
“Natural talent. Book her again.”
I read it twice.
Three times.
Well Suited Talent Agency
I’ve been waiting for them to notice me.
Waiting for the moment they decide I’m worth the investment.
And tonight, they do.
Just like that, I’m represented by one of the best agencies in Del Sol Valley.
And they already have an audition lined up:
The Urbz.
A real role.
A real chance.
A real step forward.
My heart is still racing when I get home.
Instead, I open my studio and start working on a track — something loose, something fun, something that feels like a victory lap.
Track 15: Simoleons for Nothing (released)
But when it’s done, I can’t sit still.
So I head to Orchid.
The place is packed — tourists, locals, rising stars, people who want to be seen, people who want to disappear, and everything in between.
I grab a drink.
Then another.
Someone’s doing comedy on stage, and I think, Why not?
So I try it.
It’s messy.
It’s chaotic.
People laugh anyway.
Then I sing — just a little.
Just enough to feel the room shift toward me.
And then I see him.
Thorne.
I don’t mean to serenade him.
I really don’t.
But the music starts, and my voice follows, and suddenly I’m singing to him like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.
He smiles and my heart does something stupid.
We have a couple of drinks together.
And when the night winds down, I head home — warm, buzzing, steady.
The audition results come in while I’m still brushing my teeth.
I got the role in The Urbz.
I nearly choke on toothpaste.
The agency sends over the prep notes:
- Work on comedy
- Practice being flirty
Comedy I can do.
Flirty… well, I’ve had some practice lately.
So I head to Orchid — again — because apparently it’s my second home now.
The place is buzzing tonight.
Tourists, locals, rising stars, people pretending not to stare at me — the usual.
I hop on stage and tell a few jokes.
They land.
Mostly.
Then I spot Thorne.
And suddenly “practice being flirty” becomes a lot easier.
I flirt.
He flirts back.
It’s subtle at first — a smile, a look, a brush of his hand against mine — but it builds, warm and electric.
When I finally say I’m heading home, he walks me to the door.
And then he kisses me.
The paparazzi are so stunned they don’t even lift their cameras.
For once, the universe gives us a moment that’s just ours.
I’m still floating when I turn around and see her.
Standing in the middle of Orchid like she teleported there.
“Mom?” I blink. “What are you doing here?”
She crosses her arms — not angry, but definitely mom‑concerned.
“Noelle, you haven’t called. You haven’t answered emails. You disappeared after the meet and greet.”
“I didn’t disappear,” I protest. “I’ve just been… busy.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Busy enough to forget you have a family?”
I open my mouth to argue — and then she drops the bomb.
“I have a baby now,” she says, like she’s announcing she bought a new blender. “And another on the way.”
I stare at her.
“What?”
She shrugs. “Edwin’s an infant. His father is Kaiden Kelsey. And Jagger is a newborn. His father is Guillermo Nash.”
I blink again.
“Mom,” I say slowly, “that’s… a lot.”
She nods. “Yes. And you missed all of it.”
I feel the guilt hit me like a wave.
I didn’t think it had been that long.
But the math doesn’t lie.
I hug her — tight — because I don’t know what else to do.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to disappear.”
She softens. “I know. But don’t forget where you came from, okay?”
I nod.
And for the first time in days, I feel the weight of everything I’ve been juggling — fame, auditions, tracks, Thorne, my own heart — and realize how easy it is to lose track of time when your life is changing this fast.
Wren leaves with a promise to visit again soon.
Thorne squeezes my hand before he heads out.
And I walk home alone, the night air cool against my skin.
Track 17: Sul Sul (released)
For once, I make a responsible decision.
I have a 9 a.m. call time tomorrow, so instead of heading to Orchid or scrolling social media until midnight, I stay home. I shower, I stretch, I drink water like a responsible adult, and I actually go to bed at a reasonable hour.
The studio is buzzing when I arrive — lights, props, makeup artists, people shouting directions across the room. It feels big. Bigger than the commercial. Bigger than anything I’ve done so far.
And I’m ready.
I hit my lines.
I hit my marks.
I charm the director.
I make the crew laugh.
I miss one requirement — one tiny, stupid, easily‑forgotten task — and the agency scolds me for it the second they get the report.
But here’s the thing:
I still get promoted.
Supporting Actress.
That’s how well the day went.
I don’t know why, but I feel pulled back to where it all started — the Salty Suds commercial. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s superstition. Maybe it’s the fact that I want to prove I can do it even better now.
So I schedule the next audition.
Then I grab my bag and head to Orchid.
It’s becoming a pattern — a rhythm — the place I go when I need to shake off the day, when I need to feel the world around me instead of just the world inside my head.
The agency’s scolding still echoes in my mind, but the promotion echoes louder.
Thorne isn’t here yet, so I settle at the bar with a drink — something bright and fizzy that tastes like citrus and ambition. The bartender gives me a smile that’s half “congratulations” and half “I saw you kiss a married celebrity last night,” but he doesn’t say anything.
My phone buzzes.
Reputation: Pristine.
I laugh into my glass.
Only in Del Sol Valley could you kiss a married man in front of paparazzi and somehow come out looking better.
Whatever the reason, my reputation is sparkling.
Thorne walks in like he always does — quietly, confidently, like the room rearranges itself around him. He spots me instantly, and the smile he gives me is small but warm, the kind that hits me right in the chest.
I slide off the barstool and meet him halfway.
“I have an idea,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably,” I grin. “Come on.”
I drag him toward the open space near the stage — not on it, but beside it, where the lighting is soft and the crowd is loose and curious.
“Let’s do a scene,” I say. “A romantic one. For tips.”
He blinks. “A street performance?”
“Yes.”
“Noelle…”
“Thorne.”
He sighs — the kind of sigh that means I’m going to say yes and we both know it.
We take our places.
I project my voice.
He matches my energy.
And suddenly we’re performing — a dramatic, over‑the‑top, swoony little scene that feels half scripted, half dangerously real.
The crowd gathers fast.
People cheer. People laugh. People swoon.
Someone throws simoleons into the tip jar like we’re the hottest show in town.
And when we hit the final line — the one where our characters confess their feelings — we each take a bow.
The applause is loud.
Warm.
Genuine.
Thorne leans close, voice low. “You’re trouble.”
“You love it,” I whisper back.
He doesn’t deny it.
The crowd disperses slowly, still buzzing.
A few people ask for autographs.
Someone asks if we’re dating.
Someone else asks if we’ll do another scene.
We laugh it off, but the energy lingers — bright, fizzy, electric.
Thorne and I finish our little street‑performance‑for‑tips routine, and the applause is still buzzing in my ears when we drift back toward the bar. It’s still early — early enough that the night feels wide open, like anything could happen.
So we hold court.
Fans drift over.
Paparazzi hover.
People ask for selfies, autographs, jokes, songs, advice, gossip — everything.
And I give it all.
I’m warm from the lights and the attention and the juice in my glass.
Then another glass.
Then another.
I lose track of how many.
The room gets softer around the edges.
The laughter gets louder.
My smile gets bigger.
My limbs get looser.
I don’t realize how far gone I am until Thorne steps in front of me, gently taking the glass from my hand.
“Noelle,” he says quietly, “you’re done.”
I blink up at him, trying to focus.
He’s warm and steady and not spinning at all, which feels unfair.
“I’m fine,” I say, which is the universal sign of someone who is not fine.
He gives me a look — soft, patient, a little amused, but mostly concerned.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you home.”
By the time we reach my house, I’m exhausted — the good kind, the warm kind, the kind that comes from a night lived fully.
He helps me inside.
Helps me to my room.
Helps me sit on the edge of the bed.
“You’re safe,” he says softly.
And I am.
He tucks the blanket around me — careful, gentle — and turns off the light.
I think I mumble something like “thank you,” but it comes out slurred and sleepy.
He pauses in the doorway.
“Get some rest, Rising Star.”
Then he leaves quietly, locking the door behind him.
I wake up expecting the worst.
Dry mouth.
Pounding head.
Regret.
The usual consequences of drinking enough juice to drown a llama.
Instead?
I feel… great.
Like excellent great.
Like slept‑twelve‑hours‑on-a-cloud great.
Like my-skin-is-glowing-and-my-soul-is-hydrated great.
I sit up slowly, waiting for the world to tilt.
It doesn’t.
“Okay,” I whisper. “That’s suspicious.”
But I’m not about to question a miracle.
Feeling invincible, I head straight to my mixing station and start a new track. Something silly. Something chaotic. Something that sounds like a kitchen appliance having an emotional crisis.
By the time I’m done, I’m laughing at my own nonsense.
Track 18: Don’t Go Breaking My Dishwasher (released)
A masterpiece. Probably.
Even though I feel amazing, I decide not to push my luck.
I check my email.
I scroll social media.
I nap.
I hydrate.
I nap again.
It’s a slow, quiet day — the kind I never let myself have, but desperately need.
Evening rolls around, and I head to the studio for the Salty Suds audition.
I’m calm.
Rested.
Clear‑headed.
And I crush it.
The casting director barely finishes saying “thank you” before the notification hits:
You passed the audition!
I grin all the way home.
Track 19: Juiced (released)
I can feel it — that subtle hum under my skin, the one that tells me I’m close to something big.
Star number three.
It’s right there, just out of reach, like a spotlight warming the air before it hits your face.
I’ve started live‑streaming my days when I’m home alone.
Cooking.
Practicing lines.
Mixing tracks.
Talking to chat about absolutely nothing and somehow gaining followers for it.
People like the behind‑the‑scenes stuff.
They like seeing me in pajamas with messy hair and no makeup.
They like the real parts of me.
And then there’s Thorne.
Sometimes he comes over.
Sometimes he spends the night.
Sometimes he doesn’t.
There’s no pattern, no schedule — just a quiet rhythm we’ve fallen into without naming it.
I like having him there.
The warmth.
The steadiness.
The way he makes my house feel less empty.
But I also like the nights when it’s just me — the quiet, the space, the freedom to breathe without anyone watching.
It’s a strange balance, but it works.
For now.
Track 20: Eye of the Llama (released)
It’s early — too early to go to bed, too early to start another track — so I head to Orchid for a quick drink.
Just one.
Just to unwind.
Famous last words.
The place is lively tonight, buzzing with that particular Del Sol Valley energy that makes you feel like anything could happen. I grab a drink, chat with a few fans, and then someone asks me to sing.
So I do.
One song turns into two.
Two turns into five.
Five turns into me staying way too late, riding the high of applause and juice and the warm glow of being exactly where I’m supposed to be.
But I’m getting used to this rhythm — late nights, early mornings, long days on set.
My body knows the drill now.
Despite the late night, I’m fine for my call time.
Better than fine.
I hit my lines.
I hit my marks.
I charm the director.
I make the crew laugh.
And then it happens.
Star number three. B‑Lister.
I stare at the notification like it’s a dream.
My new perks:
- Established Name — no more auditions. I can walk into any role I want.
- Giving Back — charity work boosts my fame and reputation.
I didn’t get a promotion, though — still a Supporting Actress.
A third star feels like a promotion all on its own.
I leave the studio glowing — tired, proud, buzzing with possibility.
I meant to go home early.
I really did.
But becoming a B‑Lister does something to you — it puts a spark under your skin, a glow in your chest, a rhythm in your steps that says celebrate now, sleep later.
So I celebrate.
Thorne and I end up drinking with fans, chatting with paparazzi, posing for pictures, signing autographs, laughing until our sides hurt. It’s one of those nights where time stops behaving — where hours slip by like minutes and the whole world feels warm and bright and a little unreal.
By the time I finally stumble home, the sky is already starting to lighten.
I collapse into bed and sleep like the dead.
When I wake up, sunlight is pouring through the window.
I stretch, yawn, check my phone—
Harvestfest.
“What?” I croak. “No. No way.”
But the calendar doesn’t lie.
And neither do the gnomes.
They’re standing in my living room like tiny judgmental holiday guardians, staring at me with their little painted eyes. I nearly scream.
“I forgot Harvestfest,” I whisper, horrified.
I lost track of time.
Completely.
I appease the gnomes — carefully, because I’ve learned my lesson — and start pulling myself together. I’ve just changed clothes when there’s a knock at the door.
Thorne.
He smiles when I open it, soft and warm, like he’s been waiting for me to wake up.
“I brought dinner,” he says.
We eat together — quietly, comfortably — just the two of us and the soft hum of Harvestfest decorations. No crowds. No cameras. No chaos.
Just… peace.
And it reminds me of something important.
After Thorne leaves, I sit on the couch and stare at the gnomes until guilt finally wins.
I call Mom.
She answers on the first ring.
“Noelle! Finally!”
I wince. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Things have been… busy.”
“Well, while you were busy,” she says, “Edwin became a toddler.”
“What?!”
“And Jagger is an infant now.”
“What?!”
“And no, before you ask, there are no new babies. Yet.”
I rub my forehead. “Mom…”
She laughs — bright, unbothered, absolutely thriving.
“I’m not settling down,” she says. “I’m just having fun. Sowing my wild oats. Living my life.”
“I’ll come visit soon,” I promise.
“You’d better,” she says. “We miss you.”
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