Chapter Text
Chapter One – The Fall
Every night after the show, the world seemed to hum beneath her skin. The roar of the crowd still echoed in her chest, louder than her heartbeat, and she could never just go quietly to sleep.
Emily’s adrenaline never faded easily, not after belting her lungs out to thousands of strangers, not after standing in a hurricane of sound and light. So, she sought out noise and neon: hotel lounges, dive bars, anywhere the whiskey was strong. She drank. Whiskey, vodka, sometimes tequila shots lined up by strangers who only wanted a smile from her in return. Often, she wasn’t alone; there were always women. She’d grown used to the way they approached her: bold, shy, sometimes shaking with nerves but hiding it under a layer of bravado. They slipped her notes, pressed against her in photos, whispered questions that weren’t really questions at all. Blonde, brunette, tattooed, corporate-polished, pierced and punk, it didn’t matter. Emily could have any of them, and often she did. Nights blurred into one another: laughter, kisses, hotel room walls that all looked the same. She never stayed long enough to learn names.
London shimmered that night. Rain had just passed, leaving the pavements slick and shining, the city lights smeared across the Thames like molten gold. The O2 Arena had shaken under twenty thousand voices, and at the centre of it all, Emily Armstrong had burned. Her platinum-blonde hair caught the stage lights like fire, her voice split the air like thunder, and now, hours later, she walked into the Corinthia Hotel bar still carrying that storm inside her.
Heads turned. They always did.
She didn’t even need to speak. Just stepping into the room made people lean toward each other, whispering her name like a secret. Platinum hair, leather jacket, boots that thudded against marble, Emily didn’t so much walk as command.
She dropped into a stool at the bar and slapped the counter lightly. “Whiskey. Double. Neat.”
The bartender moved fast, too fast, nerves written all over his face. She smirked, already bored, already scanning the crowd.
That’s when her gaze caught on you.
You weren’t craning for a photo or holding your phone out like everyone else. You were perched at the bar, relaxed, your hair tucked back, the rhythm of your voice soft and lilting as you ordered. The foreign accent was unmistakably warm, rolling vowels that made the English words sound like music.
Emily tilted her head, intrigued. Then she slid onto the stool beside you, whiskey in hand.
“You’re not from around here,” she said, smirk tugging her mouth.
You turned to her, eyebrow lifting. “Neither are you.”
She laughed, quick, surprised, like you’d caught her off guard. “Fair.” She tipped her glass toward you. “Emily.”
“As if I don’t know who you are,” you teased, raising your gin and tonic. “The whole city just heard you.”
Her grin widened, wolfish. “And yet you’re not asking for a selfie. Should I be offended?”
“I don’t collect photos,” you said simply.
Emily studied you, swirling amber whiskey in her glass. She was used to people tripping over themselves, spilling compliments, trying too hard. But you? You sipped your drink calmly, eyes steady, voice slow and deliberate in that rich foreign cadence. You weren’t dazzled, and that hooked her more than any scream from the arena.
Conversation sparked easily. She teased you for your accent, you teased her for being cocky. Every few minutes, a fan interrupted: “Emily, can I get a picture?” “Emily, you were amazing tonight!”. She waved them off effortlessly, returning her attention to you, letting the room fade to background noise.
An hour blurred past. The low thrum of the bar faded until it felt like there were only two people in the room.
Finally, Emily leaned closer, her whiskey-warmed breath brushing your ear. “Come upstairs with me.”
It wasn’t a question, a command dressed up like an invitation.
The hotel suite was sprawling, expensive but impersonal. Cream walls, plush carpet, a massive window that framed the Thames and Big Ben glowing against the night sky. She tossed her jacket over a chair and kicked her boots aside, flopping onto the sofa with a laugh.
“Room service thinks I live here,” she muttered, grabbing two bottles from the minibar. She held one out. “Drink?”
“Cheers,” you said, taking it with a half-smile.
“Cute accent,” she teased, cracking open her own. “Bet it kills back home.”
You rolled your eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe people just want to hear me say their name.”
Emily barked out a laugh, head tipping back. “I like you,” she said, pointing at you with the bottle. “You don’t melt. Most people do.”
She pushed herself up and paced toward the window, platinum hair catching the glow of the city lights. “London looks better from up here. Don’t you think?”
You opened your mouth to answer, but then, her words broke off.
The bottle slipped from her hand and thudded against the carpet.
“Emily?”
She pressed a hand to her temple, staggered, her face draining of colour.
“Shit,” her voice was slurred, unfocused. “I… can’t…”
You lunged forward as her knees gave out, catching her before she crumpled onto the floor. Her breathing was fast, shallow, a wheeze tearing at her chest.
“Emily, look at me,” you said firmly, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyes fluttered, unfocused, sweat breaking across her forehead.
Panic surged through you. You lowered her gently onto the carpet, your heart hammering. Dehydration? Alcohol? Something worse? Fumbling for the room phone with your free hand, you grabbed it and dialled 112 with shaking hands.
“Emergency. What service?” Your accent thickened with urgency as you spoke. “Please, ambulance to the Corinthia Hotel, suite 901. Young woman, collapsed, trouble breathing, please hurry.”
The operator’s voice was calm, rehearsed. “Stay on the line. Is she conscious?”
“Yes, but barely. She’s breathing, but it’s… too fast and shallow.”
“Any medical history? Conditions?”
“I don’t know! I…I only met her tonight.” Your voice cracked with frustration.
Within minutes, paramedics stormed the hotel room, bright green uniforms clashing against the sterile cream. Questions flew as they worked over Emily, attaching monitors, fitting an oxygen mask.
“How much has she had to drink?” one demanded.
“Whiskey, maybe three glasses, but not much food that I have seen,” you said quickly.
“Any drugs? Anything recreational?”
“No! Not that I saw, she was fine, laughing, and then…”
“Her date of birth?”
You froze. Your mind spun blank. Then your phone. With shaking hands, you pulled up Wikipedia, scanning desperately. “Sixth… May… 1986,” you blurted out, vowels thick on the English numbers.
“Alright, we’ve got her,” the medic said, fitting an oxygen mask over Emily’s face. Machines beeped, vitals flashed, and she stirred faintly, eyes rolling beneath half-closed lids.
They lifted her onto a stretcher, securing straps, checking lines. One paramedic glanced at you. “You coming?”
You hesitated only long enough to grab her fallen jacket. “Yes. I’m coming"