pinky

summary: Lyra Cohen is the epitome of a nepo baby and Dominic Fike’s biggest fan. But there’s one thing about her: she doesn’t want to meet her idols. So when she’s forced to meet him at a party, her whole world changes.

word count: 5.3k words

a/n: sorry if this chapter is a little too long guys!!! I used to be a wattpad writer and for this first chapter I really wanted to introduce a bit of Lyra’s personal life. I promise I’ll try to keep the next one shorter. This will probably be a 5–8 chapter series. Hope you enjoy it! tw: drugs

There are very few efficient ways to become someone considered relevant in New York. Method one: work relentlessly, push yourself to the limit, and build strong connections, effective, but complicated. Method two: date someone famous. I like that one. Powerful, but it can go terribly wrong within a few months, especially if you're a young, beautiful, reckless girl. Method three: be the child of someone important, my personal favorite.

I throw myself onto the rock bench the moment I step out of the marketing and communications building, feeling it sink beside me as Brooklyn takes up the remaining space. I give her thigh a light tap while scanning the campus with a quiet sense of resentment. Maybe for the thousandth time this month, I find myself thinking that everyone in their twenties faces the same dilemma: am I where I actually want to be, or where others wanted me to be? Because I don't think I should want to be in a sick place, but I do. I fear that growing up inside this industry may have given me a somewhat distorted view of its glamour. I romanticize it. A lot. Maybe that's just a coping mechanism my brain came up with to soften all the terrible things I witnessed throughout my adolescence and now early adulthood. So I romanticize everything, the terrible things, the toxic habits, the people with no real character. It's easy, because despite how awful everything is, everything is still so, so beautiful. So, at twenty, two years ago, I decided that professionally inserting myself into this industry and sentencing myself to live in it forever was a brilliant choice. After all, why wouldn't I study something related to it and follow my parents' footsteps to the letter, exhausting as it may be? Despite everything, I already have everything one could possibly need to make it in this world, and that most people spend their entire lives chasing, good taste, money, and the right last name.

— Hey, are we good for tonight? — Brooklyn asks as I stand up.

I smile, almost devilishly, before answering my best friend. There are a lot of fun things to do tonight.

— Yeah. I just need to make sure Mia doesn't try to follow me.

— Great. Are we getting ready together? — Brooks asks as we walk toward my car, tucking a strand of her long blonde hair behind her ear.

There are people scattered all over campus, and the late-morning sun isn't nearly enough to keep the cold from getting to all of us. I pull my leather jacket a little tighter around my body while searching for the Mercedes keys. For a second I almost think I lost them, then let out a relieved sigh as soon as I spot the keychain.

— As we always do — I wink.

The drive to Brooklyn's house, and then to mine right after, is long. The awful midday traffic and the radio's terrible taste in music seem to be in a serious competition to see which one can get on my nerves first. Eventually I give up, use the traffic jam to connect my phone to the car, and put on something on Spotify. A Dominic Fike song starts playing. I fucking love him, it's kind of concerning, actually. I keep driving and almost cry with relief when I finally walk through my front door, hit by the cold air of the ac. I toss my bag onto an armchair and head to the kitchen, where I find Mia sitting at the island eating something out of a colorful pot. I walk over and kiss her on the cheek.

Mia is my younger sister, seventeen. When you're an extremely rich, beautiful, popular, and mildly awful teenager living in New York, it's basically the same as having the world at your fingertips, but there's something funny about Mia: she barely speaks. Not in a shy way. In the way of someone who simply doesn't see the point. Doctors called it selective mutism when she was seven, landing on a combination of factors: an already withdrawn personality, our parents' absence, a more melancholic temperament. My parents were relieved to have a name for it and moved on. I spent weeks trying to figure out what had changed, and eventually concluded that nothing had, she'd always been like this. The diagnosis just came later. What no doctor put in any report is that Mia gets into more trouble than anyone I know. She just does it in complete fucking silence. 

— Plans for tonight? — she asks, eyes still on her phone.

— Not sure yet. Why? — I lie.

— There's a party tonight in SoHo. Going with some friends. — She holds up her phone.

It's the same party. The exact one Cash sent in the group chat this afternoon with a forty-second voice note explaining why it was unmissable. Absolutely not.

— No — I say.

— Why not?

— Because it's not a party for you. How were you even going to get in?

— I put my name and my friends' names on the DJ's guest list.

I'm not interested in knowing how, though maybe I should be. Still, for a few seconds, not even concern can hide the flicker of pride I feel. It's good to be reminded that Mia has bizarrely good social skills. 

— Still no — I say.

Mia rolls her eyes.

//

Brooklyn arrives at seven with a garment bag over one shoulder, a backpack on an the other, which means she's planning on staying over after the party, and her makeup case in the other hand, I open the door wider to let her in. 

— So Mia's still mad? — she asks as she walks inside.

— She will get over it.

Brooklyn laughs.

— What did she do this time?

— Got herself and three friends onto the DJ's guest list.

She stops walking up the stairs and turns to look at me.

— Okay that's actually impressive for a teenager.

— I know.

— Are you going to tell her that?

— Absolutely not. — I burst into laughter and she joins me.

In my room Brooklyn unzips the garment bag and pulls out two options. One is a Miu Miu dress, sequined, short, the kind of thing that looks even better in person. The other is a pair of wide-leg trousers from The Row with a Khaite top,

She holds them both up simultaneously with a funny expression while she stares at me with her big brown eyes.

— The Miu Miu one, you will be like smoking hot in that shit — I say as I light up a cigarette 

— Obviously. — She smiles 

She tosses the trousers back in the bag without ceremony. I pull out what I'd already decided on before she arrived, a Courrèges black miniskirt I bought in Paris last spring, a simple black Saint Laurent top and an oversized leather jacket from ERD that I've got after hiring a exclusive shopper uniquely for him to get me this single clothing piece. And of course, a pair of sleek black knee-high boots.

We get ready the way we always get ready, Brooklyn is doing her eyeliner on my side of the mirror, the light is better there, she decided this since the first time she ever came here and has never once acknowledged that my side of the mirror exists for me.

— Stop moving — she says.

— I'm not moving.

— Your arm just touched my arm.

— Shut up.

— I'm almost done.

At some point, I give up waiting for the bathroom and take my wine out to the balcony. The october air is cold enough to matter, and I light another cigarette, lean against the railing in my skirt and bra, and watch the city do what it does. Brooklyn appears in the doorway two minutes later, her eyeliner done and her hand already out.

I pass her the cigarette without a word. She takes a drag, passes it back, and leans next to me on the railing.

— How do I look? — she asks.

— Devastating.

— Good. That's the goal.

We stay out there for a bit, passing the cigarette back and forth, not really talking, just existing. 

— We should finish getting ready — Brooklyn says eventually.

— Probably.

Neither of us moves for another minute.

Then Mia appears in the doorway behind us, already in her pajamas, looking at the two of us with her poker face — The room smells like smoke — she says.

— Goodnight, Mia — I say.

The corner of her mouth moves. Almost a smile. She disappears without another word.

Brooklyn looks at me.

— I love her — she says.

— I know. Me too.

We go back inside.

By the time we're done it's past ten, which is exactly when we planned to leave.

//

The place doesn't even pretend to have a sign. No name, no light, nothing. If you gotta ask, you don't belong, and everybody inside already knows it. My best friend, Cash, has been crawling through these doors since he was sixteen, which pretty much tells you everything you need to know about him.

— Name? — the bouncer asks. 

I look at him, confused. I don't recognize his face, which explains pretty much everything.

— Brooklyn Saints and Lyra Cohen — I say, smiling at him.

— I'm sorry, girls. New here. — he lets out a nervous laugh. 

— No problem, baby — I say in return.

I step in and the room shifts around me, that low animal recognition. Heads turn half an inch. Eyes linger. The air gets a little thicker, a little nastier. Just how I like it.

People are bent over the scarred wooden bar like it's an altar, credit cards scraping out generous lines, noses diving in quick and greedy, heads snapping back with that wet, chemical smile. A girl with black lipstick and torn fishnets has her back against the wall while some guy with a half-shaved head grinds into her like they're already mid-fuck, tongues sliding, teeth scraping, her hand down the front of his jeans working him slow and shameless. They don't care who watches. They want you to.

Cash materializes out of the haze like he was born from it. Same wired, half-feral energy he's always had. He throws one arm around my neck and the other around Brooklyn, yanking us both hard into his chest. His grin is all teeth and dilated pupils.

— Finally — he says, voice rough, already half-lost in the noise. — Took you long enough, you beautiful bastards.

He smells like sweat, cigarettes, and whatever he just did in the bathroom. I breathe it in deep.

My friend Carter spots me and tips his glass once. I tip my head back.

Brooklyn peels off toward another friend of ours, Mason, almost immediately, and within thirty seconds she has her arms around him from behind and he hasn't missed a beat, just covers her hands with his and keeps going. That's them. I grab a drink from the bar, something cheap and mean that bites the back of my throat just right. Cash leans in without asking and steals a long, slow sip, his mouth where mine just was.

— C'mere — he says, low and playful, already pulling me by the waist toward the edge of the bar where the light barely reaches.

He fishes a little baggie from his pocket like it's the most natural thing in the world. No big deal. Just another friday night in paradise. I laugh under my breath as he taps out two lines right on the scarred wood, quick and practiced. The club noise swallows everything else.

Cash goes first, then it's my turn. He steps behind, his fingers brush my hair out of the way almost tenderly. I press one nostril shut and inhale hard. The burn hits fast, I let out a soft, breathless laugh as the rush floods my system, warm and electric. We're somewhere in the middle of that buzz, words dissolving into the noise, when the whole room tilts. Then something happens, It's subtle, but I feel it immediately, that charged little shift in the atmosphere, like the air suddenly got heavier, thicker, hornier.

I don't turn around to look at my surroundings right away, Cash of course, spins immediately, Cash always does.

— What? — I ask.

I turn. 

Dominic Fike just walked in.

There's something about me I haven't told anyone: I don't like meeting my idols. I don't even talk about my idols with anyone, besides my sister.

Not because I think they're untouchable, but because I know they aren't. If I wanted to meet almost anyone badly enough, I could. A phone call, a favor, my father pretending it was casual. But that would ruin it. I liked being a fan in a way my last name couldn't buy. On top of that, looking starstruck is fucking embarrassing when you've spent your whole life perfecting the art of looking bored by everything. 

And now Dominic Fike is standing ten feet away in this sticky, sweat-drenched hellhole, real, breathing the same thick air as me, hair messy like someone just ran their fingers through it, that lazy half-smile playing on his lips while the red lights drag across his face like they want to fuck him too.

It's extremely inconvenient.

Before I can process what just happened, organize a single coherent thought, or even attempt to get the embarrassingly devoted part of me under control, I feel Cash gently pulling me through the crowd. I try to protest, uselessly. There's no way he can hear me over the absurd noise anyway. Hell, Cash probably wouldn't be able to hear his own voice in the middle of all this.

Less than a minute later, I'm standing in front of Dominic Fike. For a second, my brain simply stops. I glance around and realize he isn't alone. There are two other guys with him, one of whom I recognize almost immediately as Evan Mock. Then my eyes find Dominic again, and I realize he's already looking back at me. He isn't smiling anymore, not really. He's just looking at me. The brief exchange of eye contact seems to stretch for hours, probably because of whatever the cocaine is currently doing to my brain, turning seconds into something slow, sharp, and strangely unbearable.

Cash breaks the moment first.

— Yo, man — he greets Dominic, clasping his hand before pulling him into a loose side hug.

I cant even comprehend how can Nikolas Cashwell know every fucking person.

The two of them fall into one of those effortless male greetings made of tangled hands, low laughter, crooked embraces. Dominic pulls back first, his eyes flicking briefly to Cash before returning to me.

Cash turns slightly toward me, still relaxed.

— This is Lyra —. then he looks back at Dominic. — Lyra, Dominic. Dominic, Lyra.

I force myself to breathe like a normal person.

— Hi — I say. It comes out steadier than I expected, which is honestly a miracle.

Dominic looks at me for a second before answering.

— Hi, Lyra.

And, God help me, I hate how good my name sounds coming from him.

Cash takes a sip from his drink, already half-distracted by someone calling his name from behind us, as if he hasn't just placed me directly in front of one of the very few people on earth capable of making me forget how language works.

— Lyra's in marketing and communications — Cash adds, casual. — And her dad works in music, so don't say anything stupid about the industry unless you want to be roasted.

Dominic's mouth curves slightly.

— Good to know.

— Don't encourage him — I say smiling at him.

Cash disappears the way Cash always does, one second he's beside me, making some lazy comment to Dominic about a guy near the bar who owes him money, and the next he's gone, and this time Dom's friends are gone with him too.

Which leaves me standing beside Dominic Fike with absolutely no emotional preparation, dilated pupils and a drink I suddenly don't know how to hold.

— You good? — he asks, voice smooth, a little amused, like he already knows the answer is no.

I nod too fast.

— Yeah.

— Do you want to get out of here for a second? — he asks, tilting his head toward the balcony, that sly little smirk playing on his lips.

I raise an eyebrow, suddenly finding my confidence again.

— That was fast. 

— I meant outside.

— Sure you did.

He chuckles, not embarrassed at all. If anything, he looks more entertained.

— It's loud in here.

— Very convenient.

His smile comes back, small and quiet.

— Okay.

We move through the party without touching, which I notice against my will. He doesn't put a hand on my back, doesn't grab my wrist, doesn't do that thing men usually do. He just walks beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him in the cold spaces between bodies. 

Am I crazy?

The hallway is narrower, darker, lined with framed photographs I doubt anyone has ever looked at sober. Someone is making out against the wall near the bathroom. A girl is crying into her phone by the stairs. The air is sharp outside. The balcony isn't empty, but it's quieter. A couple stands near the far corner, whispering into each other's mouths. Someone left two empty glasses on the railing. 

The city stretches out beyond us in glittering pieces.

Dominic looks at me suddenly, eyes dark under the dim light.

— I like your eyes — he says, voice low and teasing. — Especially those big, pretty pupils.

Oh, he noticed.

I can't help but smile.

— You want some? — I offer, half-joking, half-serious.

— I quit a while ago — he answers, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket instead. He offers me one like a gentleman.

I take it. He places one between his own lips, watching me the whole time.

— You are a very predictable person — I say. 

I don't know why I said that.

He lights his cigarette, then brings the flame closer to mine, stepping in so close I can smell him, warm skin, smoke, and something sweet. For a second, the only thing between us is the lighter, small and warm against the cold air.

— Why's that?

— The whole thing. 

He flicks the lighter, the flame catching between us.

— You came outside with me. — He says, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. 

— I'm aware.

— So maybe you're predictable too.

I pull back once the cigarette catches, exhaling a small laugh with the smoke.

He drops it into the ashtray on the railing and looks back through the glass door. The party is still moving without us, lights shifting over bodies, music pressing against the walls, people laughing. 

— We should probably go back in — I say after I finish my cig.

He looks at me.

— Probably?

— Before Cash starts thinking you kidnapped me.

He leans against the railing, watching me with dark, playful eyes.

— Would that be so bad? — he asks the corner of his mouth lifting higher.

I stare at him, trying to keep my face neutral even though my stomach just flipped.

— For you? Probably.

— I think I'd survive. — he says, shrugging lightly, but his eyes stay locked on mine, daring.

— Cash?

His eyes stay on mine.

— You. — He says simply, like it's obvious and starts walking towards the door

Dominic opens the balcony door, and the noise swallows us almost instantly. Heat replaces the cold in one sharp wave, bringing back the smell of alcohol, perfume, smoke, and too many bodies pressed too close together. We step inside without touching,  the room feels louder now, heavier. The bass hits harder in my chest. The lights drag slower across sweaty skin. The taste of smoke  sits on my tongue, and Dominic Fike is walking next to me like nothing happened, except something absolutely fucking did.

I don't get him. 

His hand slides around my waist without hesitation, god, fingers pressing firm against the fabric of my top, pulling me slightly back into him as we move through the crowd. His chest brushes my back for a second, warm and solid. Then his mouth is right next to my ear, voice low, rough.

— I got to find my friends too — he murmurs, lips barely grazing my ear, sending a shiver straight down my spine, — Any idea where they might be?

— Im afraid we might never find them — I joke, voice steady even though my pulse is not.

He lets out a low, amused laugh against my ear, the sound vibrating through me, I smirk, heart racing, and keep walking forward

It doesn't take long to find Cashwell. My eyes land on him easily, leaning against a wall, drinking something far more colorful than I believe any drink should be, his left arm wrapped around the waist of a tall redhead. My friend's eyes meet mine the moment I get closer.

— Well, look who finally came back. — Cash says, untangling himself from the redhead, who shoots me a terrible look. — Dom, man, how'd it go with Lyra? She can be a handful sometimes.

— That's funny coming from someone drinking that. — I glance at the cup in his hand.

Cash looks down at his glass, offended for maybe half a second.

— This is expensive.

Dominic lets out a quiet laugh beside me. Just enough for me to hear it. Which is irritating, because suddenly I'm aware of him again,  of the smoke still lingering on his clothes, of how close he's standing.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Cash looks between us, his expression shifting into something almost amused. Almost. 

Thankfully, he seems to decide against whatever unbearable comment is trying to crawl out of his mouth.

— She was nice to you? — Cash asks Dominic, voice dripping with fake innocence.

Dominic glances at me.

— An angel — he answers, voice rough and warm, clearly full of shit in the most charming way possible.

Fuck him.

— Oh, thats a miracle, I'm speechless almost — Cash says raising his eyebrows, grinning wide, teeth flashing. — You know — He starts talking but stops mid sentence to light up a fat joint — You know... you two would actually look stupidly good together. — He finishes.

Oh god. He's dead tomorrow morning.

— Not that easy, Cash. — I say and Dom keeps his eyes on mine now — He is definitely gonna have to work for it — I can barely finish talking before Cash catches sight of something more interesting happening behind me.

— This little attitude of yours is gonna be fun as hell— Dominic murmurs while stepping closer, head tilted, gaze dragging slowly over my face like he's already imagining all the ways this could go. — I'm wondering what else you're good at besides making me work for it.

I bite my lip to stop the stupid smile that wants to break out. He starts to move closer, not touching me yet, but the tension is thick enough to taste.  

But before he can get any closer Cash reappears in front of us with that exasperated, long-suffering look I know too well.

— Lyra, my love, my dear friend, you're going to need to be extremely understanding right now. — Okay? — Cash begs hands pressed together like he's praying.

I follow his line of sight across the room, past the bar, past two girls taking blurry pictures with their faces pressed together, past the cluster of people gathered near the DJ booth.

And there she is. 

Mia.

Standing near the side of the booth with a cup in one hand and her phone in the other, looking so painfully calm. Her blonde hair falls neatly over her shoulders, her expression blank in that expensive, unreadable way she does so well. 

For a moment, I can't even move.

— I'll get her. — Cash sets his glass down on the bar.

— Cash 

— Don't make that face. I'm not going to drag her out by the hair. I have some manners.

He starts walking before I can stop him.

And this is the thing about Cash that people miss because they're too busy being charmed by him, when he decides to do something, he does it cleanly. He crosses slipping between bodies. A girl touches his arm as he passes; he smiles without slowing down. Someone calls his name; he lifts two fingers in acknowledgment and keeps going. 

Across the room, Cash reaches Mia. He doesn't grab her. He doesn't make a scene. He leans in slightly and says something I can't hear. Mia looks up from her phone with the slow, bored patience of someone being interrupted by a waiter.

Then she looks past him. At me. Even from here, I can tell she isn't sorry.

Dominic follows my gaze.

— Troubled genetics, huh?

— Shut up

When they reach us, Mia looks at me.

— Hi.

— Hi? — I stare at her, disbelief dripping from my voice.

Dominic presses his lips together like he's fighting for his life not to smile.

Mia looks back down at her phone.

— Dramatic.

I inhale slowly. Very slowly.

Dominic shifts beside me, and I suddenly remember he's still here. Perfect. Exactly what every girl wants, her first conversation with her lowkey parasocial celebrity crush interrupted by her illegally present little sister.

I force my voice lower.

— You put your name on a grown man's party list and came here without telling me — I say. — It wasn't a big deal —  she fires back

— Cash, take her outside. Please. I gotta find Brooklyn.

Cash nods once.

— Come on, menace. — Cash lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he throws an arm around Mia's shoulders, pulling her into his side.

— Don't call me that. — Mia complains, trying to shrug his arm off but not really putting in effort.

Cash grins wider, leaning down to mess up her perfectly neat hair with his free hand.

— Stop acting like one.

They start to leave, but Mia pauses and looks back, first at me, then at Dominic. A wicked little smile tugs at her lips.

 — She probably didn't tell you... but she's a huge fan of yours. Like, almost parasocial levels. Listens to your music every day, knows all the lyrics, the whole thing.

I freeze. My face burns hot. This fucking tiny terrorist.

Cash lets out a loud, delighted laugh.

Dominic turns to me slowly, eyebrows raised, that amused, cocky smirk spreading across his face as his eyes light up with pure mischief.

— Almost parasocial, huh? — he repeats with a calm voice, clearly fucking enjoying himself. — So you've been out here knowing me for longer than I know you. Now I'm curious what else you know about me, baby.

For half a second, my brain simply stops working. Not slows down. Not short-circuits. Stops. My face is hot enough to power the entire building. I stare at him for one long second. Then I decide, very calmly, that if Mia wants to ruin my life, I can at least ruin it with posture. I lift my chin. 

— First of all, almost parasocial is an exaggeration. Dominic's smile widens like he knows exactly what he's doing to me, and the worst part is that he absolutely does.

— Is it? — Dominic looks delighted 

— Yes.

— Alright — he says, folding his arms loosely over his chest. — Then explain it to me.

I blink at him.

— I'm sorry, are you interviewing me? — I say, my expression laced with disdain.

He steps a little closer.

Bu then my phone buzzes. Thank God.

BROOKLYN: where are you?

BROOKLYN: cash said you were looking for me

Relief hits me so hard I almost laugh.

A sign. A miracle. Divine intervention in the form of Brooklyn Saints and her marvelous timing.

I turn the screen toward Dominic for half a second, barely long enough for him to read it.

— I have to find my friend. — And then I leave.

I turn on my heel and cut through the crowd like the building is on fire, refusing to look back because I know, with humiliating certainty, that if I do, he'll be smiling full of himself.

DOMINIC FIKE

Afterparties wreck me, and afterparties like last night's almost never happen.

I had never heard of Lyra Cohen until roughly twenty-two hours ago. I think the first thing that caught my attention was her painfully blue eyes, not just the color, but the heavy, unimpressed boredom dripping from them. Her laugh was dry and humorless, and even after several interactions, I still couldn't say much about her.

She didn't look stupid when her younger sister revealed her little secret. Which is curious, because I believe every other girl in the world would've lost her charm to me after that. I was surprised by how well she hid it, actually. And even when she ran away in the end, she still didn't look stupid.

I stand by the window of my apartment, finishing my first cup of coffee, the city still hazy outside. My eyes drift to the unfamiliar denim jacket thrown carelessly over the desk chair. It belongs to the green-eyed brunette I spent the whole night fucking raw while pretending she was that fucking coked-up, crazy blonde girl with blue eyes. 

She hasn't left my head for a single fucking second since I saw her.

So I did what any idiot with too much time, a bad habit of obsessing and zero self-control would do: I went down the rabbit hole. Hard. Dug up everything I could find about her like a fucking creep. Past the point where it's still cute or curious. Straight into unhealthy.

And fuck me, I was not ready for what came up.

Lyra Cohen isn't just some random hot girl from the club. She's the daughter of Steven Preston, one of the biggest, most connected music producers in the game, and Elena Cohen, three-time Oscar-winning actress. That explains exactly why she looked at the entire club like it was beneath her. Like she'd already seen the worst and best of this world and was still bored. 

That cold, blue-eyed stare wasn't an act. It's in her dna.

I'm so fucked.

Because it's not just that I want to fuck her. That part is obvious, I've been half-hard thinking about her since I left the club. I want to pin her against a wall and hear that same attitude break into a moan. But it's worse than that.

I want to crack her open, and understand why she's like that.

\\

It's barely noon when I arrive at the address my manager sent me to: an apartment in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in New York. Apparently, thanks to some excellent networking, he managed to set up a meeting with a music producer he swears is a big fucking deal, but he said it was a surprise, well, I'm a big fucking deal too. 

The elevator takes me straight up to the penthouse. I step out, knock three times on the door, and a maid answers almost immediately. I greet her with a polite good morning and a thank you before stepping inside.

In the back of the room, I spot Timmy sitting beside a blond man, probably somewhere in his fifties.

Fucking God. You've got to be kidding me.

Steven Preston is sitting next to my manager.

Steven Preston sat across from us like he had been born there, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, a glass of water untouched on the coffee table. He was blond, older than I expected but not old, with the kind of calm face that made it impossible to tell whether he was interested or already bored.

 Like father, like daughter.

— He’s in a really good place right now. Numbers are strong, audience is growing every month, and creatively I think he’s ready for something bigger.

Steven doesn’t even glance at him. His eyes stay on me the whole time, cool and assessing.

— That true? — he asks, voice low and even, cutting straight through the bullshit.

Before I could answer, the front door opens.

. And then Lyra Cohen walks in.

The corner of my mouth twitches upward. I can’t even hide it.