Chapter 1: A Midnight Bet and Old Scars

Seven years after our breakup, my first love called me in the dead of night—a voice from the past, now famous, slipping right into my darkness like she’d never left.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the glow from the screen spilling over my pillow, lighting up my room in that eerie, too-bright way. I blinked, groggy, squinting at the caller ID. Riley Quinn. No way. Not her. My heart jumped; even after all these years, her name was etched into me like a scar. Like maybe a part of me had been waiting for this exact moment to come alive again.

"Come to my show. I’m dying."

Her voice was a rough whisper, like she was trying to keep it together but barely holding on. I sat up, breath caught in my throat, but before I could stammer out a single word, the line clicked off. A heartbeat later, my phone vibrated again—a new email, flagged urgent: "Critical Condition."

Was she serious? I didn’t even stop to ask. I believed her. My head spun, panic rising. I rushed to her concert.

My hands fumbled through drawers for something to wear, barely registering the fabric I pulled on. Keys, wallet, phone—didn’t even check if my shoes matched. Red lights. Horns. None of it mattered. The drive blurred past in streaks of streetlights and my own racing thoughts, every worst-case scenario tumbling through my mind. I’d never driven like that before—reckless, desperate.

Afterward, she acted like nothing had happened, like my panic was just a punchline. I barely had time to catch my breath before she found me backstage, all smiles and stage lights, her eyes dancing with mischief. The whiplash left me dizzy.

She leaned in, the same glint in her eyes that used to get us both in trouble. "Wanna make a bet? See if I’ll actually survive the week."

I laughed it off. Until she was gone. On the last day, she disappeared.

That memory stuck with me, gnawing at my insides, like a stone in my chest that never warmed up. I kept checking my phone, hoping for a message, a sign, anything. When Sunday came and went, the silence was suffocating.

At a department dinner, we played spin the bottle. Whoever it landed on had to spill about their first love.

The restaurant’s private karaoke lounge was buzzing—music, laughter, plates clinking, the kind of chaos that makes you forget the outside world. Someone spun an empty Coke bottle on the glass table, the clatter echoing off the walls lined with neon lights and velvet drapes.

I was the first one picked.

The bottle wobbled, slowed, and pointed right at me. Everyone hooted, egging me on.

"Come on, Boss! You never talk about anything but work. This is your chance!"

A coworker nudged me, grinning. The energy in the room swelled, all eyes on me, waiting for a juicy story.

"Autumn Foster, you’ve got the same name as that superstar’s first love in the trending news! What are the odds?"

"Wait, Riley Quinn’s a woman, right? And Autumn’s a girl too—no way, right?"

Even with the disco lights flashing, I could feel their curious, knowing stares pressing in on me, their questions hanging in the air like static.

The neon karaoke lights washed everyone’s faces in wild colors. I could feel their curiosity buzzing, some genuinely interested, others just hungry for gossip to share over coffee. The teasing was relentless, the looks not subtle at all—like they were waiting for me to crack.

I managed a crooked smile, raised my glass, and lifted my hand in surrender.

"Sorry to kill the mood. I’ll take three shots as my penalty."

I downed them, one after another, the liquor burning a hot path down my throat. The group groaned—half disappointed, half impressed—but just as quickly, they were back to their own stories, the game rolling on.

A few dramatic sighs, then the music cranked up again, laughter bubbling as people dove into the next round. Still, I could feel stray glances sliding my way, like they were wondering what I was hiding behind my silence.

But my head was somewhere else—stuck on the name that had just been tossed into the air.

Riley Quinn. Riley, who was everywhere now—on billboards, playlists, magazine covers.

No one would ever guess that someone like her and someone like me—a regular hotel front desk manager—had ever been each other’s first love.

And I was the one who ended it.

Thinking back to my coworker’s comment about Riley calling out her first love online, I reached for my phone, almost without thinking.

Didn’t have to look far. There it was, right at the top of the trending list: our names, side by side, bigger than life.

My stomach dropped. I scrolled through the flood of notifications, palms sweating, seeing my name next to hers in bold, black letters. The past felt like it was closing in, collapsing the years between us in an instant.

I tapped into the tag. It was a clip from Riley’s latest magazine interview.

The host asked what inspired her new album. She sat there, casual but serious, perched on a high stool, answering like she’d rehearsed it a thousand times.

"Autumn Foster, my first love."

"Can you tell us what your first love was like?"

"So materialistic. Obsessed with money."

She shot back even faster this time, tossing out a mocking little smile: "She was super annoying."

The video cut off, leaving her words echoing in my head.

The taste in my throat—was it the alcohol, or just everything I’d been holding back for years? I couldn’t tell. Either way, it stung.

Still, I couldn’t really argue with Riley’s take on me.

She always had this way of cutting right to the truth, never letting anyone off the hook—including me.

By the time I got home, it was already 2 a.m. The city was quiet except for the fridge humming and the faint buzz in my ears. My phone lit up again—a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

I hesitated, then picked up, my voice scratchy from too much karaoke and not enough sleep. "Hello?"

She’d called, but all I got was silence at first.

"I’m looking for Autumn Foster. Did I dial wrong?"

The woman’s voice was cool, a little raspy, but there was a teasing lilt to it, like she was playing dumb on purpose.

The second I heard her, my brain snapped out of its haze. I was wide awake, but now I couldn’t find a single thing to say.

"It’s Riley."

Of course I knew. My mind blanked anyway, every polite customer service script I’d ever learned vanishing into thin air.

Riley didn’t wait for me to catch up. She just kept going:

"Come to my show. I’m dying."

It startled me, but knowing her, I half expected it to be a joke.

"Truth or dare?"

"If you still use the same Gmail, check the photo I sent you."

She hung up. I stared at my phone, the short call log burning a hole in my mind, dread bubbling up in my chest.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I was logging into an old Gmail account I hadn’t touched in years.

We used to email each other all the time.

Back then, Riley’s mom was all up in her business, checking her messages whenever she felt like it.

Email was our little loophole—a secret pact, just for us.

Maybe we wanted to feel grown up, or maybe it was just our way of keeping something for ourselves. After I started working, I never looked back at that inbox.

A yellow dot blinked: over a thousand unread messages.

All spam, except the first one—her old cat avatar staring back at me.

No subject, no text, just a compressed photo from Riley.

My chest tightened. I hovered over it, scared to open it.

But that "critical condition" notice, stamped in angry red at the top, wouldn’t let me look away.

That color burned into my mind, shoving every other thought aside.

How was I supposed to accept that the girl who once lit up my world was now sick enough to send me a message like that?

I sat there forever, not even sure when I finally drifted off.

If I had to guess, it was around the time seventeen-year-old Riley started walking toward me again.

She was back in our high school hallway, sunlight pouring through the windows, cicadas buzzing like crazy outside. The smell of cut grass, cheap perfume, eraser shavings—it all came rushing back. Her ponytail was a mess, sneakers untied, eyes bright and daring.

When we first got stuck sitting next to each other, we couldn’t stand each other.

She thought I was boring. I thought she was too much—always chasing some wild dream.

Riley was like a cat with a new toy: poking, prodding, always circling back for more.

Her favorite thing was to lean over while I was doing math homework and ask, "So what’s your dream, Autumn?"

I’d roll my eyes. "Get into a good college, make a ton of money. That count?"

She’d call me materialistic, accuse me of having a brain full of dollar signs. She wanted to be a superstar, a singer everyone knew.

Our friendship started weird—two total opposites suddenly inseparable, like the universe was playing a joke.

The dream felt too good, too real. When I woke up, I almost believed we’d never broken up.

But reality always finds a way in. That’s what growing up means, right?

Seven years. That’s the space between us now. We hadn’t spoken, not once.

It was Saturday. Her show was tomorrow. My nerves were a mess—I needed to talk to someone.

Mariah Dean didn’t even blink when I texted her at 3 a.m. She replied instantly, like she’d been waiting for me to finally spill. We met at our usual coffee shop—the one with chipped mugs, sticky tables, and college kids wired on caffeine.

I told her I didn’t know how to face Riley’s illness, or the idea that this might be our last meeting. I admitted I couldn’t handle the breakup, even after all this time.

"You’re both cowards," she shot back.

"She found you after seven years. Why can’t you just answer her?"

She sipped her coffee, then shrugged. "Life’s short. Go or don’t go—but do it because you want to, not because you’re scared. You already know what you’ll choose, don’t you?"

She was right. I’d been hiding for seven years—too afraid to even follow Riley’s rise to fame, even from the shadows.

The second she called, I knew her voice. I’d heard it everywhere—on radios, in stores, blasting from car speakers. Even after we broke up, she was everywhere.

Yeah, I was a total coward. Still, I kept tabs on her—like a creep. Watching her songs climb the charts, seeing her face everywhere I went.

"Don’t your coworkers say you’re brave and clever?" Mariah grinned. "You made manager in four years—where’s that boldness now?"

I got her point.

"So… what do I bring?"

Mariah gave me a look, then cracked up.

"Just show up. Seriously, that’s enough. But, hey, if you want to bring something, flowers never hurt."

In the end, I didn’t show up empty-handed.

Five hours before the concert, the arena was already swarming with fans—more than I could’ve imagined.

The air outside buzzed with excitement. People in matching shirts, faces glittering, banners waving. I clutched my giant bouquet—classic red roses, the kind that felt both cheesy and perfect—trying not to look like someone’s lost aunt.

The crowd was wild, everyone screaming, waving glow sticks, while I stood there with my massive bouquet, totally out of place.

A staffer led me in. Riley was on stage, rehearsing, her figure unmistakable even from a distance.

She looked thinner—fragile, almost. Was it her illness?

I wanted to ask, but the words got stuck somewhere in my chest.

"Autumn!"

She called my name into the mic, her voice echoing through the empty seats.

I waved, then followed the staffer backstage.

And there she was—the girl I’d only seen in dreams for seven years, suddenly real again.

"Long time no see."

She smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, just like before.

"Long time no see."

I watched her, taking in every detail. She looked softer, more open, but there was a paleness to her that hadn’t been there before.

"Are those roses for me?"

I nodded, finally handing her the bouquet. "Hope you have a great sho—"

She leaned in, sniffing the flowers, grinning. "Such a big bouquet of roses. I thought you were here to get back together."

Her fingers brushed mine, cool and gentle. I watched her, forcing a crooked smile.

"You used to like roses."

"Only because I wanted you to give them to me."

I stared. She burst out laughing at my expression.

"You’re still so easy, Autumn. You believe everything I say."

She’d always been a storyteller—spinning tales, scaring me, then laughing when I fell for it.

Her manager swept in, all business, cutting us off.

She was whisked away for makeup, and I got shown to a VIP seat near the stage.

The plush velvet ropes and fancy seat made me feel like I’d snuck into the wrong party. I gripped my concert badge, feeling like a fraud.

Riley took the stage, rising from her throne as the crowd roared.

Stage lights caught her golden dress, making her look like she’d been carved out of starlight. She didn’t just shine—she glowed, impossible to look away from.

The girl who once chased her dream with everything she had had made it. She was dazzling, just like she’d promised.

The cheers washed over her, a wave of lights and voices.

Caught up in the moment, I let myself join in, nerves forgotten for a second.

"Riley! Aaaah!"

I shouted, waving a fan banner someone shoved into my hands.

"Hey, I heard you!"

Riley grinned at me, and the whole arena went nuts.

Her words hit me right in the chest, yanking me back in time.

"When I’m a superstar, you’ll be in the audience shouting my name. I’ll hear you, I promise."

"When you’re really famous, with thousands screaming, how could you possibly hear me?"

"I’ll still hear you. Then I’ll say, ‘Hey, Autumn, I heard you!’"

I hadn’t thought much of it back then, but I never forgot the way she’d looked at me.

On the big screen, she flashed a mischievous smile, eyes locking with mine across the crowd.

Watching her sing, owning the stage, I suddenly remembered the girl who used to cry in the rain about not having a real home.

She’d told me once, her dad had a new family, her mom too, but none of those homes were really hers.

That was her eighteenth birthday. Her mom was with her little brother, and Riley was alone.

I found her at the park, staring at the playground.

"Never been there," she said, voice flat but eyes hungry. "Your parents love each other. Bet they took you all the time."

I froze.

"Never been."

Sometimes I envied her too. Her parents split early, but she always had enough—never had to worry about bills or groceries.

"My family never had money for that stuff," I said.

We looked at each other, then cracked up.

"Let’s go together. My treat—it’s my birthday."

Our first amusement park trip. It wasn’t all that fun—most rides were for little kids, and we were already eighteen.

But we laughed anyway.

When we parted, I tried to comfort her:

"You’ll be a superstar someday, loved by everyone, with more love than you know what to do with."

I was so awkward, I made her cry again.

"Then can you be the first one to like me?" she sniffled, eyes red.

I don’t remember what I said—just the feel of her lips and the sting of her tears.

Now, Riley had everything she wanted—fans, love, her dreams come true.

I sang along, cheered, let myself believe for a moment that this was our world—a world where we never broke up, and I was just another fan in her crowd.

But the red rose behind her ear during the last song snapped me back to reality.

"Tonight’s last song is from my new album, ‘Autumn, Don’t Forget.’

It’s for my first love."

She looked straight into the camera, like she was looking right at me.

Riley changed into a plain white dress, sitting alone in the spotlight. No props, just her and the music.

The rhinestones under her eyes looked like tears, just like the ones she’d cried when we broke up.

After high school, we went to different colleges. Our lives pulled in opposite directions.

She was always hustling—open mics, recording sessions, buying instruments. I was working every spare minute I had.

My dad’s blood pressure was getting worse. The meds weren’t expensive by the bottle, but it all added up.

I never told Riley. She’d have offered money, and my pride couldn’t take that.

Her band’s guitarist was always broke, always hitting her up for cash, even convinced her to buy him a new guitar.

I tried to warn her—she needed to think about her future. Her parents wouldn’t support her forever.

One night after a gig, she was tipsy. The guitarist looked me over, sneering. "You’re Riley’s broke girlfriend? Man, people like you—can’t buy anything, can’t even eat. Don’t drag Riley down."

It stung, but I was used to being broke.

I thought about bringing it up with Riley, but she cut me off.

"Stay out of band business."

The guitarist’s words didn’t matter. What got to me was Riley’s next line:

"My band’s business isn’t your concern."

Some cracks just get worse the more you poke at them. I felt it then, a pit opening up inside me.

The final blow came the summer after sophomore year. I was delivering DoorDash and swung by her band’s first live show.

Didn’t expect her mom to be there.

The guitarist made a show of introducing me, sneering about my side gig.

I ignored him. I was just glad I’d made it for the second half.

But her mom’s words cut deeper than anything.

"You brought me here for this? All these years, and your taste hasn’t improved."

She looked right through me.

"If you’re not enjoying it, no need to stay for the second half. Please leave."

Riley tried to play it cool, but her fists were clenched under the table.

When her mom left, Riley turned on me, her voice cold.

"You’re just like her. You never cared about my dream. My first live show doesn’t matter as much as your stupid delivery job?"

To me, both mattered. I’d worked since five a.m. just to make it for the second half. My ankle still ached.

But all she said was:

"How much is your bonus? I’ll give it to you."

That’s when I realized how far apart we’d grown.

I snapped. "Every time it’s about money, it’s you giving it. Is your dream just about spending cash on gear? Have you ever earned a dime for yourself? You’re an adult now—what happens when the money runs out? I’ve never stopped you from chasing your dream. I love seeing you on stage, but your mom’s right—you’re still in an ivory tower."

I’ll never forget her face, or the tears that didn’t soften me. For once, I was the one who ended it.

"Let’s break up."

After the concert, I figured that was it. But Riley found me again.

She looked even more vibrant, caked in stage makeup, but I felt awkward. She acted like nothing had happened, as if we were still friends.

"Did you take your PTO?" she asked, out of nowhere.

I shook my head, confused.

She twirled the rose from her ear, pressed it to my nose.

"Let’s make a bet. See if I make it through the week."

I froze, my mind a mess.

Just as I was waiting for her to keep going, she dropped her gaze, voice soft.

"Sorry, I know you don’t like this kind of thing. But this is the last time."

She looked up, eyes meeting mine. "Can I buy a week of your time with my album royalties?"

Her question caught me off guard—there was something different about her. Older, maybe.

But I’d changed too.

"Sure. I bet you’ll live forever."

She grinned, eyes lighting up like the darkness had never been there.

"Okay, then I’ll bet the opposite."

She got up, off to remove her makeup, reminding me to finish my work.

I nodded, watching her disappear down the hall.

She bounced away after a two-hour concert, and I couldn’t help but admire her stamina. My worries about her health faded a little.

After all, her bets were never real.