Bridie pushed open the heavy glass door of the Beverly Hills styling salon.
She walked into the private VIP room, her heels clicking aggressively against the tiles.
Her manager, Harriet Chandler, stood in the center of the room. Harriet gripped an iPad, her forehead wrinkled with extreme stress as she scrolled through the red carpet schedule.
"You are three minutes late," Harriet snapped, grabbing Bridie by the shoulders and shoving her into the makeup chair.
The makeup artist and hairstylist swarmed Bridie instantly. Cold primer hit her skin. Hot irons clamped down on her hair.
In the corner of the room, a large flat-screen TV played a live broadcast of the Coachella music festival.
The camera panned over a massive, screaming crowd. The noise from the TV speakers filled the small room.
Evander Byers stepped into the spotlight. He held a black electric guitar. He wore a distressed black leather jacket. His eyes were cold and indifferent.
The makeup artist gasped. She dropped her brush and clutched her hands over her heart, staring at the screen.
"He is literally a god," the hairstylist sighed, her eyes glued to the TV. "Not a single scandal in nine years. He's so pure."
Bridie stared at the man on the screen. She rolled her eyes so hard they actually hurt.
"He's a hypocritical male fox spirit," Bridie muttered under her breath.
Harriet's head snapped up. She pointed a warning finger at Bridie.
"Shut your mouth," Harriet hissed. "You have three hundred thousand anti-fans right now. If you piss off Evander's fanbase, they will bury you alive."
Bridie pressed her lips together. She let out a frustrated breath through her nose while the makeup artist drew a sharp, aggressive cat-eye on her eyelid.
On the TV, Evander's long, pale fingers moved rapidly over the guitar strings. He hit a complex solo, and the crowd lost their minds.
Bridie stared at those hands.
Without warning, her brain flashed back to the feeling of those exact fingers gripping her bare waist in the dark.
A sudden, intense heat rushed up her neck. Her ears burned. Her heart skipped a beat and started thumping rapidly against her ribs.
Panic seized her. She grabbed the glass of ice water from the counter and took a massive gulp. She choked, coughing loudly.
Harriet handed her a tissue. Harriet's eyes narrowed, staring directly at Bridie's bright red ears.
"Why is it so hot in here?" Bridie yelled, fanning her face with her hand. "Turn the AC down!"
The makeup artist scrambled to find the remote. She dropped the temperature while applying a thick layer of matte red lipstick to Bridie's mouth.
Twenty minutes later, Bridie stood up. She wore a custom, plunging V-neck black sequin gown that clung to every curve of her body.
Harriet nodded in approval. She shoved a tiny silver clutch into Bridie's hand.
Pax burst into the room, out of breath. "The stretch Lincoln is downstairs!"
On the TV, the live broadcast ended. Evander gave the camera a cold, expressionless bow and walked off the stage.
Bridie shot the screen one last look of pure disgust. She turned on her twelve-centimeter red-bottom heels and walked out.
They moved quickly through the hallway and took the private elevator down to the underground garage.
The driver pulled open the heavy door of the Lincoln. Bridie bent down and slid into the spacious leather backseat.
Harriet climbed in after her. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the garage.
The car pulled out into the sunlight, heading straight for the TCL Chinese Theatre.
