Chapter 3 — The Afterparty Connection
Third Person
The rooftop offered a reprieve from the suffocating glamour below. String lights draped across the edges of the terrace cast a warm glow against sleek, modern furniture, while the soft murmur of jazz spilled through hidden speakers. Beyond the glass railing, the city stretched out in all its glittering chaos, the skyline pulsing with energy. Amara inhaled the crisp night air, the faint scent of jasmine from the potted plants mingling with the sharp tang of her chilled champagne.
She leaned against the railing, seeking solace in the horizon. Her repaired gown—a miracle of backstage stitching—clung to her like a second skin, fragile and still carrying the weight of her earlier humiliation. On the surface, she had recovered well: a few posed photos, an interview with an overeager reporter, a carefully practiced laugh. Yet beneath the polished exterior, a storm brewed. Her chest tightened as she replayed the night’s events, Harper’s tinkling laughter echoing faintly in her mind. The memory of Harper’s earlier remark—“Not everyone can carry off polished under pressure, darling”—still pricked at her nerves, its sugary venom impossible to shake.
Amara adjusted the emerald cuff on her wrist, the cool metal grounding her. “Be your own light,” the engraving whispered, but the words felt distant, like a truth she didn’t quite believe. With a sigh, she tilted her head back, letting the night air ease her frayed nerves.
The faint shuffle of footsteps broke her thoughts. She tensed, instinctively bracing herself, before a familiar dry voice carried over the hum of the city.
“Didn’t peg you for the rooftop type.”
Startled, Amara spun around to see Julian Hayes stepping out of the shadows. His blazer was slightly wrinkled, and his wire-rimmed glasses caught the light as he tilted his head. In one hand, he held a tumbler of something amber-colored; in the other, a phone he promptly slipped into his pocket.
“Didn’t peg you for an afterparty type,” she countered sharply, straightening. The tension of the evening lingered in her tone, though she softened it with a faint smile.
Julian smirked faintly, stepping closer but maintaining a respectful distance. “Touché. Let’s just say I prefer rooftops to banquet halls—and bourbon to champagne.”
Her gaze flicked to the glass in his hand. “Bourbon? Let me guess. It makes you feel like a tortured artist.”
His chuckle was low, rumbling, and unexpectedly warm. “Maybe. Mostly, it keeps me sane.” He nodded toward the bustling crowd below, visible through the glass doors. “That scene down there? Not my thing.”
Amara followed his gaze. The party was in full swing—dresses glittering, glasses clinking, laughter ringing out like carefully orchestrated music. Harper stood near the center of the crowd, her golden hair gleaming under the chandeliers as she charmed a cluster of studio executives. Amara’s stomach tightened, but she forced a neutral expression.
“Mine either,” she admitted quietly, surprising even herself.
Julian raised an eyebrow, his expression tinged with curiosity. “You’d be hard-pressed to convince anyone of that. You’re pretty good at the whole Hollywood thing.”
Her gaze snapped back to him, something defensive sparking in her hazel eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Julian shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “Just an observation. You work the room like a pro. Polished, poised, perfect.” His gaze flicked briefly to her emerald cuff before meeting her eyes again. “But you didn’t come up here for the view, did you?”
Amara hesitated, her fingers brushing the cuff reflexively. The engraved words felt like both a challenge and a comfort. She glanced at the city below, her polished mask slipping just slightly.
“No,” she said finally, her voice softer. “I needed a break. Sometimes it feels like... too much.”
Julian studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded toward the skyline. “That’s why I like rooftops. Up here, you can breathe. Down there, it’s all noise.”
Amara allowed herself a small smile. “And here I thought you were just another bitter screenwriter.”
“Bitter?” He made a mock-offended face, placing a hand over his chest. “I prefer ‘realist.’”
She laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised even her. The tightness in her shoulders eased slightly. “So, Mr. Realist, how do you survive nights like this?”
“Simple,” he said, leaning against the railing beside her. “Low expectations. That way, you’re never disappointed.”
Amara gave him a sidelong look, her brow furrowing. “That sounds... lonely.”
Julian didn’t answer immediately. He swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But it’s honest.”
Amara turned to face him fully, her hazel eyes searching his face. There was something in his tone—an undercurrent of vulnerability that made her chest tighten. Without the sarcasm, without the armor, he seemed... raw. Human.
“That’s funny,” she said quietly. “Because you’re the first person I’ve met tonight who doesn’t feel fake.”
Julian blinked, caught off guard. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he looked away, his gaze dropping to the city below. The hum of traffic rose faintly from the streets, filling the silence between them.
Amara took a sip of her champagne, the bubbles fizzing against her lips. She wasn’t sure why she’d said it—why she’d dropped her guard with someone she barely knew. But there was something about Julian that made it easy. He didn’t seem to want anything from her.
“You know, you’re not what I expected either,” she said, breaking the silence.
He glanced at her, tilting his head. “Oh? And what did you expect?”
Amara smirked. “A tortured artist type with a chip on his shoulder and a superiority complex.”
Julian laughed, low and genuine. “Wow. You really know how to flatter a guy.”
“Hey, you asked.”
He shook his head, a small smile lingering on his lips. “Fair enough. But for the record, I don’t think you’re what people expect, either.”
Amara’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re not just... polished and poised.” He hesitated, as if weighing his words. “You’re real. At least, you were back there. In the corridor. It was...” He trailed off, searching for the right word. “Refreshing.”
She stared at him, her breath catching. No one had ever described her that way—“real.” It was an odd, almost foreign compliment. And yet, it settled somewhere deep inside her, warming a part of her she hadn’t realized was cold.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
Julian nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he straightened. He set his empty glass on the railing, brushing his hands together. “Well, I should probably get going before someone drags me back into that circus downstairs.”
Amara hesitated, not wanting the moment to end. “You’re leaving already?”
“Yeah.” He pulled out his phone, glancing at the time. “Early night for me. But... it was nice talking to you, Amara.”
She smiled, surprised by how much she liked hearing him say her name. “You too, Julian.”
He took a step back, then paused. “Hey, if you ever need a break from all this... noise, you know where to find me.”
Amara raised an eyebrow. “On a rooftop?”
“Exactly.” He smirked, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Goodnight, Amara.”
“Goodnight.”
She watched him disappear through the glass doors, the faint click of the latch echoing in the quiet night. For a moment, she stood there alone, the city sprawling beneath her and the stars hidden behind the glow of Hollywood’s lights.
She glanced down at her emerald cuff, her fingers brushing the engraved words. “Be your own light.” The phrase felt closer now, more tangible.
Then, almost impulsively, she pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed in his number, saving it with a small, thoughtful smile.
