Backstage, the residual energy of the performance still thrumming through Rhys's veins, he backed Heather against the cool metal of his dressing room door. His chest heaved with each breath, his eyes still alight with the thrill of the stage and the reckless abandon of his announcement.
"You okay, baby? Really okay?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against her ear, his hands framing her face, searching her expression for any sign of distress.
Heather, still reeling from the sudden immersion into his world, the deafening roar of the crowd, and the blinding glare of the spotlights, thumped his chest with a shaky fist. The adrenaline that had momentarily coursed through her veins was now giving way to a dizzying mix of disbelief and a touch of lingering terror.
"You're insane, Rhys Connor. Absolutely, irrevocably insane."
A wide, unrestrained grin split his face, the kind of grin that always made her stomach flip. "Insane for you, Heather. Only for you."
He leaned down, capturing her lips in a fierce, possessive kiss, a tangible expression of the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him.
He ignored the rising tide of chaos just beyond the thin door – the urgent, hushed tones of his publicist, the muffled but insistent voice of his manager, probably uttering something along the lines of "We'll talk later, Rhys, and believe me, we WILL talk", the playful wolf-whistles and teasing shouts of the band members filtering through the thin walls.
In that moment, with her pressed close against him, the rest of the world faded into a blurry background hum.
She pulled back slightly, her hands gripping the soft cotton of his sweat-dampened tour shirt, her knuckles white. The immediate rush of the moment was beginning to dissipate, replaced by a cold tendril of apprehension.
"But… what happens tomorrow, Rhys? What happens when the cameras don't go away? When the headlines scream our names? When your world and my very ordinary one collide completely?" The uncertainty in her voice was palpable, a stark contrast to his earlier bravado.
Rhys's thumbs traced the delicate curve of her cheekbones, his gaze softening, his eyes filled with a reassuring warmth. He gently tucked a stray curl, still slightly damp from the stage lights, behind her ear, his touch feather-light but firm.
"Tomorrow, we face it, Heather. Every single bit of it. Together. Hand in hand, just like we are now. I promise you, we'll figure it out." But even in his confident tone, Heather could sense a flicker of the unknown, a shared vulnerability in the face of the storm they had just unleashed.
The internet, a fickle and often volatile beast, exploded with the force of a supernova. The moment Rhys uttered her name and pulled her onto the stage became instant digital history.
By the time Heather and Rhys, shielded by a phalanx of security, finally slipped out of the Peridot Arena and into the relative anonymity of his waiting limousine, #RhysAndHeather was already trending worldwide.
The digital detectives of the internet had worked with lightning speed, dissecting every single pixel of the concert footage.
They analyzed the way Heather's hand had clutched Rhys's when he'd pulled her onto the stage, the possessive curve of his arm around her waist, the almost imperceptible way he'd mouthed "love you" into the microphone before launching into the final, encore-worthy power ballad.
And then, the eagle-eyed sleuths of the internet discovered another detail, a subtle but significant piece of the puzzle.
Zooming in on the slightly blurred, low-resolution images of Heather's hand as she held onto Rhys, they noticed a ring on her right ring finger. It wasn't a flashy, engagement-style diamond, but a distinctive band crafted from alternating round-cut diamonds that shimmered subtly under the stage lights and intricately carved golden Xs.
The design was strikingly similar to a ring Rhys had been spotted wearing on his own right hand for the past few months, a piece of jewelry that had previously sparked little comment but now ignited a fresh wave of speculation.
Had they exchanged promise rings?
Were they already engaged and keeping it secret?
The matching jewelry became another piece of fuel for the already raging online fire, further solidifying the theory that this wasn't just a fleeting backstage encounter, but something far more profound.
The comments sections of every social media platform became a digital war zone, a chaotic battlefield of opinions and emotions.
"SHE'S SO NORMAL IT'S REFRESHING??? Finally, someone real!"
"Ugh, another opportunistic leech clinging onto his fame. He could do SO much better. She's probably just after his money."
"Wait a minute… that face… that hoodie… that's not just some random fan—that's the girl from the Bentley photo! It all makes sense now!"
"Hope she knows what she signed up for. The Luxies are a different breed. They're gonna eat her alive."
"He looked genuinely happy though. Maybe she's the one who finally gets him."
"I BET SHE DOESN'T EVEN LIKE HIS MUSIC. She probably listens to elevator jazz."
"Protect Heather at all costs! He looks smitten. Don't let the haters win!"
The next morning, a small, surprisingly earnest cluster of younger fans, armed with handmade signs and hopeful expressions, waited patiently outside the wrought-iron gates of their secluded home.
Their signs, scrawled in colorful markers, declared their unexpected support:
"HEATHER WE STAN A HUMBLE QUEEN"
"RHYS FINALLY FOUND HIS MATCH"
"TAKE HIM TO A NORMAL DINNER FOR US."
One particularly bold girl, clutching a small, carefully wrapped bag, thrust it towards a still-bleary-eyed Heather as she emerged with Rhys for a brief, heavily guarded appearance.
"We looked it up! Black Star Café, right? The rarest beans! We want to support you!"
Heather, her mind still foggy from the whirlwind of the previous night and the lack of sleep, blinked in bewildered amusement. "You… you stalked my job… but in a… nice way?"
The girl beamed, her eyes shining with genuine enthusiasm. "Feminism! Supporting women supporting our king!"
But for every well-meaning supporter, there were a dozen anonymous detractors lurking in the digital shadows.
Heather's social media notifications became a relentless barrage of spiteful remarks. Anonymous accounts flooded her DMs with crudely Photoshopped images of her face crossed out with angry red lines, alongside hateful messages questioning her worth and her motives.
A particularly vicious viral video, set to a distorted, mocking soundtrack, took Heather's slightly stunned and overwhelmed expression from the concert – the wide, uncertain eyes, the way she nervously chewed on her lip – and juxtaposed it in a jarring split-screen with a curated "before" collage of impeccably glamorous women who had been romantically linked to Rhys over the years.
There were glossy-haired supermodels in designer gowns, sharp-featured actresses dripping in jewels, and polished pop stars radiating effortless confidence. The caption, splashed across the screen in crude, pixelated lettering, screamed:
Downgrade or am I tripping? #RhysLostHisTaste #BasicBitch #HeCanDoSoMuchBetter #WTFisSheWearing.
The video, amplified by trending audio and a barrage of laughing emojis, quickly amassed millions of views, each play another stinging jab at Heather's already fragile sense of normalcy.
The real-world intrusions were even more unsettling. A small but persistent group of hostile "fans" began camping outside the café, their phone cameras held aloft like weapons, their whispers sharp and accusatory.
Marjorie, fiercely protective of her niece and her business, had to threaten to call the police when one particularly unhinged individual attempted to crawl through the narrow opening of the restroom window, claiming they just wanted to "see the truth" about the "gold digger."
But it was the direct message that arrived late that afternoon, as Heather finally found a moment of uneasy quiet in their home, that sent a genuine shiver of fear down her spine, chilling her to the bone.
The profile was blank – no picture, no posts, no followers. Just one chillingly concise message:
You don't deserve him. I'll make sure he sees the truth.
Attached to the message was a photograph. A recent one. A photograph of her leaving their home – taken that very morning.
The casual way she'd slung her bag over her shoulder, the slightly rumpled state of her clothes, the unaware expression on her face – it all screamed of someone being watched, someone being followed.
The anonymity of the sender, coupled with the intimate knowledge of her movements, was far more terrifying than any of the public scrutiny. The digital war had just spilled into the real world, and Heather knew, with a sickening certainty, that the stakes had just been raised.