It had been two months since the accident, and Aliya still didn't feel fully recovered. She longed to lie down on a bed and never wake up, but she was standing in the recording room, engulfed by the weight of her own expectations. The red light above the studio door glowed, amplifying her anxiety. Inside the recording booth, she adjusted her headphones, her heart pounding. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she confronted the harsh reality that this album would either resurrect or ruin her career.

The control room buzzed with subdued activity. Luke paced back and forth, his brow deeply furrowed, the tension in his body palpable. Vincent lounged in his chair, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the armrest, exuding a blend of impatience and concern. Their relationship had become more complex since the accident—he said he loved her, but she knew she didn't feel the same. Molly, the mastering engineer, sat at the console, her eyes flicking between Aliya and the fluctuating sound levels on the screen.

"Alright, Aliya. From the top," Damien, the music producer, said calmly, his voice crackling through the headphones and echoing in the quiet booth.

Aliya took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried to summon the strength to start. She could feel the dampness of sweat trickling down her back, mingling with the cool, sterile air of the studio. She opened her mouth to sing, but the words caught in her throat, refusing to cooperate.

"Love was supposed to be the sweetest (sweetest) feeling," she began, her voice shaky and uncertain. She cringed internally at the sound, knowing it wasn't right. "And I'm doing just fine. (fine?)"

She struggled to hit the notes, each one feeling like a mountain she couldn't climb. Her voice cracked and wavered, failing to convey the emotion she wanted. In the control room, Damien sighed quietly, rubbing his temples. "Take your time, Aliya. Let's try that again," he suggested, his tone gentle but firm.

Aliya nodded, even though she knew they couldn't see her. She swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in her throat. She needed a break, but she couldn't afford one. The scent of the recording studio filled her nostrils—a mix of stale coffee, electronics, and a faint hint of vinyl from the records lining the walls.

The next attempt was no better. Her voice stumbled over the lyrics, each word feeling heavy and cumbersome. "Love was supposed to be the sweetest (sweetest) feeling," she sang, her voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm doing just fine. (fine?)"

She winced as her voice cracked again, and a wave of frustration washed over her. She felt the sting of tears welling up, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. She couldn't break down now. Not in front of everyone.

Luke's pacing grew more frantic, his footsteps a constant, rhythmic thud against the floor. Vincent's fingers tapped out a restless beat on the armrest, the sound echoing through the control room like a ticking clock. Molly's eyes were glued to the screen, her expression tense as she monitored the sound levels.

"Take a break, Aliya," Damien's voice crackled through the headphones, a hint of concern creeping into his tone. "We'll try again in a few minutes."

Aliya nodded again, grateful for the reprieve. She removed her headphones and stepped out of the booth, feeling the cool air wash over her. She walked over to the small couch in the corner of the studio and sank into it, burying her face in her hands.

Aliya could hear the faint hum of conversation from the control room. She was perched on the mini black leather sofa, legs tucked beneath her, but she couldn't make out the words. She didn't need to. She knew what they were discussing—her performance, or lack thereof. The soft click of the door opening drew her attention, and she glanced up to see Luke entering the room. He approached her with a glass of water and a small jar of honey, his face etched with concern. His footsteps were soft, almost hesitant, as he crossed the plush carpeted floor.

"Luke," Aliya said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I wanna go home. I can't sing."

Luke kneeled down beside her, the leather of his jacket creaking slightly. His eyes, a soft shade of blue, met hers with understanding. He nodded, his expression empathetic.

After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open again, and Luke reappeared. She could see the flicker of unease in his eyes. He walked over to her, his movements fluid.

"Vincent wants to talk to you," he said softly.

Aliya's heart pounded as she took a deep breath, the scent of leather and honey mingling in her nostrils. Placing her hand in his, she felt a slight tremor in her fingers.

Vincent turned slowly, his piercing gaze locking onto Aliya. His dark eyes seemed to penetrate her very soul.

"Aliya," he began, his voice smooth yet firm, "I understand you're not feeling up to singing today."

She swallowed hard, her throat tight. The words felt like they were glued to the back of her mouth. "I'm sorry, Vincent. I just... I can't do it today."

Vincent's expression softened slightly, a hint of understanding flickering in his eyes. He took a step closer, his presence imposing yet oddly familiar.

"Babe, I know this is tough," he said, his tone oozing faux compassion. He slid his hand down her arm, fingers lightly grazing her skin. "But remember, this isn't just about today. It's about your career, your future, and the investments I've made in you."

Aliya felt a tear slip down her cheek and quickly brushed it away. The room was silent, the weight of Vincent's words hanging heavily in the air. She searched for the right words, feeling the pressure build within her.

"I know, Vincent. I just..."

Her voice trailed off, the enormity of her situation pressing down on her. The scent of fresh coffee from a distant corner of the room mingled with the subtle tang of electronics and studio equipment. The mix of smells created an odd sense of both familiarity and tension.

Vincent sighed, running a hand through his dark, slicked-back hair, his sharp eyes gleaming with a mixture of frustration and lust. He stepped closer, trailing a finger down her cheek. "Aliya, take a break. Go home and get some rest. We have Kenrick Lark's party tonight. It's important you show up looking beautiful and confident."

Aliya nodded, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She reached for her coat, feeling the soft fabric under her fingers, a stark contrast to her frazzled mind. She slipped it on and walked out of the recording studio without another word, too weary and disoriented to muster any goodbyes. The city air hit her like a splash of cold water, the crisp breeze carrying the faint scent of gasoline and hot dog stands. The streets buzzed with life, neon lights flickering and cars honking, creating a chaotic symphony that only added to her confusion.

As Aliya walked, her mind was lost in a dense fog. Each step felt like an anchor dragging her down, the weight of the ground pulling at her soul. She barely registered the crowd until it was too late. They surrounded her, their faces merging into a chaotic blur. Mostly young teen girls, but there were men too, all of them clamoring for her attention. The chatter was deafening, a cacophony that swallowed her whole. Phones clicked and flashed—snap, snap—tiny explosions of light that made her head spin and her stomach churn.

"Aliya! Over here, Aliya!" Voices shouted from every direction. She tried to move away, but a hand snaked around her upper arm and yanked her back.

"Can we get a selfie?"

The question pierced through the din of voices, a jarring reminder of an identity she no longer recognized. Aliya tried to smile, the corners of her mouth twitching into what she hoped was a friendly expression. But it felt wrong, like trying to wear someone else's skin.

The world seemed to close in on her, each touch from the eager fans like a jolt of electricity. Hands brushed against her arms, her back, her shoulders, every contact a stark reminder of her vulnerability. She didn't know these people. She didn't know herself. The faces blurred together, a sea of expectant eyes and outstretched hands. Her vision began to tunnel, darkness creeping in at the edges.

She took a step back, then another, but the crowd pressed forward, their excitement a tangible force. The air felt thick, suffocating. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and she could feel the sting of tears welling up, threatening to spill over. She wanted to scream, to run, but her body felt paralyzed, her mind a chaotic swirl of fear and confusion.

Just as she felt she might collapse, a familiar voice pierced through the chaos.

"Aliya! Aliya, it's okay!"

Luke. His voice was a lifeline, cutting through the overwhelming noise. She turned towards the sound, her eyes wide with desperation. Luke pushed through the throng, his broad shoulders and commanding presence forming a barrier between her and the crowd. His protective arm wrapped around her, anchoring her in the storm of emotions.

"Why would you leave the studio without me? Without the car?" His voice was stern, but his eyes were filled with concern.

"I'm sorry," Aliya murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She clung to him, her body trembling. The weight of the crowd's expectations, the pressure to be someone she didn't remember being, crashed down on her.

"Stop it, guys! She's human!" Luke's voice rose above the din, a sharp reprimand that made the crowd hesitate. He glared at the fans, his frustration evident. "Give her some space!"

The crowd reluctantly backed off, their excitement dimming in the face of his anger. Aliya's breathing began to steady, but the panic still simmered beneath the surface. She leaned heavily against Luke, her legs weak, her mind a blur.

"Let's get you out of here," Luke said softly, guiding her towards the waiting car. He kept a protective arm around her, shielding her from the still-watchful eyes of the fans.

............

Aliya blinked as she stared at her reflection, her brow furrowed in confusion. The dress she had just pulled from the wardrobe wasn't what she had expected. She had thought it was another short, casual dress—something simple and easy to wear. But now, as she stood before the mirror, she saw it was something entirely different.

The semi-transparent overlay shimmered under the soft light of her bedroom, casting delicate, glittery patterns on her skin. The deep V plunge neck revealed more than she was comfortable with, dipping provocatively down her chest. The dress clinched tightly at her waist, accentuating her figure in a way that felt too daring. "I look like a hoe," she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with frustration.

A soft knock on her bedroom door startled her, and she quickly dropped her hands, her heart racing.

Vincent's voice, edged with impatience, called through the door. "Aliya, we're running late. Are you ready?"

Aliya took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in her chest. She steeled herself and cautiously opened the door. Her heart pounded even harder when she saw Vincent standing there, his tall, imposing frame almost filling the doorway. His dark eyes swept over her, widening slightly in surprise, the flicker of surprise quickly replaced by something more intense.

"I look like... the biggest hoe," she blurted out, unable to hide her anxiety. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a stark contrast to her pale skin.

Vincent's initial surprise gave way to a soft, almost indulgent chuckle. He stepped closer, his movements smooth and deliberate. He reached out and gently caught her hand, stopping her from tugging at the dress.

"Don't tug at it like that," he murmured soothingly, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "Let me help you."

Before she could protest, he guided her toward the washroom. The bathroom was vast, its grey and white marble echoing the sophisticated color scheme of her home. Full-sized mirrors adorned the walls, doubling the sense of space and opulence. The air was filled with the soothing scent of her lavender soap, mingling with the faint, elegant notes of J'adore perfume. The mirror captured their reflections, Vincent's towering, authoritative presence contrasted starkly with her own smaller, anxious form. The disparity in their statures seemed to magnify her trepidation, each step amplifying the tight knot of unease in her chest.

"Sit," he instructed softly, gesturing to the edge of the sink.

Aliya obeyed, her heart still racing. Vincent moved with a confident grace, his fingers brushing lightly against her back as he examined the dress. She was caged between his arm and chest, his presence overwhelming. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, a confusing mix of apprehension and physical attraction. She hated how he made her feel so vulnerable, yet part of her was irresistibly drawn to him. Maybe it was because she hadn't been with anyone since her accident, but there was something more, something she couldn't quite grasp.

"I thought this dress was solid when I picked it out," she explained, her voice wavering slightly as she eyed her reflection skeptically. "I didn't realize it was sheer."

Vincent's lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I was hoping you'd choose something bold."

He began to button the back of her dress, his fingers grazing her skin with each movement. The sensation was electric, and she fought to keep her breathing steady. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric.

Click. The final button secured, Vincent's hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment longer than necessary, his thumbs tracing small, maddening circles on her skin.

"There," he said, stepping back slightly. "Much better."

Aliya glanced at herself in the mirror again. The dress still felt too revealing, and Vincent's presence made her feel like a prey. She looked at him through the mirror, her eyes meeting his. She wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. The dress under the bathroom lights seemed to make her breasts more prominent, partially visible no matter what she did.

"You got a jade pendant; wear it and tie your hair into a bun. It's your pulling style," Vincent ordered with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and possession.

"What do you mean by 'pulling'? Got me laid...?" Aliya's voice wavered, a mix of confusion and a tinge of defiance.

"No," he replied smoothly, stepping closer. "It gets you noticed. Desired. More media coverage, more publicity, more business."

Vincent's words buzzed in her ears, a cacophony of intentions that felt like a swarm of bees. She turned away from the mirror, the fabric of the dress whispering against her skin. Aliya's fingers fumbled with the jade pendant, the cool stone a stark contrast to the heat rising in her chest. She wrapped her hair into a bun, securing it with pins that felt like tiny daggers. Every movement was mechanical, a dance she had learned to perform under Vincent's watchful eye.

Vincent moved behind her, his reflection looming in the mirror. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her neck, his fingers lingering, tracing a path that felt both tender and territorial. Aliya's skin prickled at his touch, the sensation spreading like wildfire.

"See?" Vincent murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Perfection."

Aliya forced a smile, her lips trembling.

"Let's go," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The car is waiting."

The ride to Lark's Grammy award celebration party was a blur of city lights and muted conversations. Vincent's hand rested possessively on her knee. Aliya stared out of the window, watching the neon signs and billboards flash by, feeling like an outsider in her own life.

They arrived fashionably late, yet early enough to see the crowd still huddled for warmth against the chilly night air. The mansion before them was a beacon of opulence, its grandeur intimidating and overwhelming. Aliya took a deep breath, steadying herself as Vincent guided her through the throngs of people, his arm wrapped securely around her waist.

Inside, the party was in full swing. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of laughter and chatter. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the room, illuminating the sea of designer gowns and tailored suits. Aliya's eyes darted around, taking in the faces of celebrities she had only ever seen on screens or magazine covers. It was surreal, like stepping into a different world.

Lark, the star of the evening, spotted them and made his way over, his charismatic smile lighting up the room. He was tall and imposing, his presence commanding attention. His dark skin glistened under the lights, and his dreadlocks, adorned with gold beads, swayed as he walked. He pulled Aliya into a warm embrace, his cologne enveloping her in a cloud of rich, earthy scents.

"Aliya!" Lark's voice was a deep, melodic baritone that resonated through her. "You made it! How are you feeling?"

She managed a genuine smile this time, the warmth of his welcome cutting through her anxiety. "I'm... better, thank you."

Vincent moved behind her, his presence a shadow against the bright vanity lights. The opulent dressing room shimmered with gold accents, and the scent of expensive perfume clung to the air. Vincent's reflection in the mirror was a sharp contrast to Aliya's delicate frame. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her neck, his fingers lingering, tracing a path that felt both tender and territorial. Aliya's skin prickled at his touch, the sensation spreading like wildfire.

"See?" Vincent murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Perfection."

Aliya forced a smile, her lips trembling as she tried to steady her nerves. The weight of his words, the possessiveness in his tone, felt suffocating. She glanced at her reflection, trying to reconcile the glamorous woman staring back with the fragmented memories that haunted her.

"Let's go," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "The car is waiting."

The night air was crisp as they stepped out of her apartment, the city lights glittering like a thousand diamonds scattered across the horizon. The sleek black Mercedes idled at the curb. Aliya shivered slightly, cool air slithered through the delicate mesh of her dress. Vincent placed a possessive hand on the small of her back, guiding her into the car.

As they drove through the bustling streets, Aliya gazed out of the tinted windows, watching the world blur by.

They arrived at Lark's Grammy award celebration party, fashionably late yet early enough to witness the first wave of celebrities huddled together, their laughter mingling with the chill of the night. The mansion was ablaze with lights, and the sound of music thumped from within, a steady pulse that mirrored the excitement in the air.

Inside, the party was in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the extravagant décor. Guests milled about, their designer clothes and glittering jewelry a testament to their wealth and status. The air was thick with the scent of gourmet food and the sharp tang of expensive champagne.

"Aliya, darling! You look stunning!" Joyce, an actress with a reputation for drama both on and off the screen, swept over to them. Her sequined gown sparkled under the lights, and her bright smile seemed genuine, if a bit too wide. "Lark, come over here!"

Lark, the man of the hour, sauntered over, his presence commanding attention. His dark skin contrasted sharply with his crisp white suit, and his dreadlocks were tied back in a loose ponytail. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew they belonged in the spotlight.

"Hey, Aliya," Lark greeted her, his voice smooth and deep. "Good to see you."

Aliya smiled, though it felt more like a reflex than an expression of genuine emotion. "Congratulations on your win, Lark. It's well deserved."

"Thanks," Lark replied, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer than necessary. "I'll see you in a bit."

As Lark moved away, Joyce raised her glass, a fluted champagne glass filled with bubbly golden liquid. "To the dearest Lark!" she cheered, her voice carrying above the din of the party. The crowd echoed her toast, lifting their glasses in unison.

Vincent leaned close to Aliya, his dark eyes almost black in the dim light. His cheeks were already flushed from the buzz of alcohol and the cold air. "To Aliya," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "To this beautiful, charming, talented woman and her incredibly lame glass of sparkling strawberry."

"Hey," Aliya pouted, her voice playful yet tinged with an underlying sadness. "I'm not allowed to drink for another four months."

The laughter that followed was light, but Aliya's mind was elsewhere. Her muscle memory was still pro at fitting in with the riches. A cold hand touch behind her arms. She looked back, it was another female singer, she knew her as celebrity but not personally, as doesn't remember her. She is red hair and she tall and lean.

Yet, Aliya's mind was adrift, lost in a foggy sea of half-formed memories and unsettling blanks. Her muscle memory guided her, allowing her to navigate the high-society gathering with a practiced ease that belied her inner turmoil. She didn't even notice when she had slipped away from Vincent.

Suddenly, a cold hand touched the back of her arm, snapping her back to reality. She turned, her eyes widening as she faced a striking woman. The woman was a redhead, her hair a fiery cascade that framed her tall, lean figure. She held a bottle of Harewood Rum, its dark amber liquid glinting under the ballroom lights.

"Aliya, darling, I didn't expect to see you here," the woman said, her voice smooth and cultured, yet carrying an edge of surprise.

Aliya forced a smile, her mind racing. She knew this woman was a celebrity, someone significant, but the personal connection was lost to her. She decided to play along.

"It's been a while," Aliya replied, her voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at her.

The redhead laughed, a rich, melodic sound. "Indeed. Last time we met, you were the life of the party. Here," she said, offering the bottle of rum. "Care for a drink? It's one of your favorites."

AN:// if anybody ever wonder how her dress was: