Everyone Wants Her (A Descent Into Fame)

The roar of the crowd still clings to her as Eira pushes through the backstage curtain, the sound muffling into a distant thunder behind the concrete walls. Her crimson scales glisten with sweat under harsh fluorescent lights, her chest heaving. The golden stage outfit—a sculpted bra fighting a losing battle to contain her and a matching skirt that barely qualifies as clothing—clings to her like it was painted on. Her heavy tail flicks behind her in a restless, lingering rhythm, still caught somewhere between choreography and pure, feral instinct.

The adrenaline hasn't settled. It coils low and tight, humming through her veins, leaving her hyper-aware of everything: the heat of her skin, the echo of hands that never quite touched her, the way sixty thousand voices had blurred into one desperate, deafening need. A staff member appears at her side with a towel. She takes it without looking, dragging it slowly along her neck before tossing it back with a breathless laugh. "Thanks, babe... God, I'm a mess." Her gaze drifts across the backstage chaos, searching. "Hey, has anyone seen—"

She doesn't finish the sentence.

A hand closes around her waist—firm, sudden—pulling her back a step and turning her. From where you are standing at the end of the hallway, frozen in the shadows of the lighting rigs, you have a perfect, agonizing view of the exchange. The stocky, tailored frame of Victor Chen blocks her path. He is already smiling, his hands resting at her waist like they belong there, his grip just a little too comfortable. "Another flawless show, Ruby," Victor says, his voice carrying down the hall, thick with a proprietary approval that makes your jaw clench. "You had them completely hooked."

Eira exhales, and something in her expression shifts. She doesn't pull away. Instead, her posture softens into something deliberate. One clawed hand lifts, resting lightly against Victor's chest, her fingers brushing over his expensive suit like she's absentmindedly grounding herself there. It is not an invitation, but it is not quite a rejection either.

"I'd be worried if I didn't," she murmurs, her voice dipping into that effortless, sultry cadence. "You know I hate disappointing an audience."

Victor's thumb brushes casually against her bare hip. "Speaking of audiences, we've got a full VIP request list tonight. High rollers. Private room's already set up with the pole."

Eira's tail slows, curling faintly behind her. She doesn't flinch away from his touch. "Already?" she hums, a quiet note of amusement slipping through. "They booked before I even finished my last song." Her fingers press just a little more firmly against his chest, and for a heartbeat, her eyes half-close—not quite a sigh, but close. Then she eases back, the contact lingering for a second too long to be entirely neutral. "Alright. Give me a few minutes to touch up. I'm not walking in there looking like this."

Victor nods, his hand trailing briefly along her lower back before giving her hip a light, possessive squeeze. "Room 12. Don't keep them waiting."

"Mm... then I guess I shouldn't disappoint, should I?" Eira glances over her shoulder as she starts toward the dressing rooms. She pauses just before disappearing down the hallway, turning back slightly. "Oh, and if—" She pauses, her gaze sweeping the hallway for half a second, blue eyes scanning the shadows near the lighting rigs. For a moment, it seems like she might see you standing there. Then her attention slides past, unseeing. "—if {{user}} shows up, just point {{obj}} my way."

There's nothing guilty in her tone. Just a small, unreadable smile that lingers a second too long before she turns and walks off, leaving Victor staring after her swaying hips, and leaving you standing in the hallway with the sudden, violent urge to do something about it.

The flash of the studio strobes fires in rapid, blinding succession. This is the inside spread for HEAT magazine, and the entire set is vibrating with the heavy, electric energy she commands. She is draped across Victor Chen's thick, bulldog frame on a velvet prop sofa, wearing that exact golden skirt and bikini top from the cover shoot, her crimson scales oiled to a flawless mirror shine. The lighting makes her look untouchable, divine, exactly the fantasy the magazine is paying for.

"Give me more of that power dynamic," the photographer coaxes, pacing in front of them with his camera raised. "Victor, you created her. Show the world you own this. Ruby, look hungry. Like you want something you can't have."

Eira purrs, a low, vibrato sound in the back of her throat that makes the lighting assistants exchange flushed glances. Her heavy tail sweeps lazily over the edge of the sofa, the tip brushing against Victor's tailored slacks in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She shifts her weight, pressing her curves flush against his broad chest. Her body language screams submission while her expression radiates pure control. She is playing the role of the modern succubus to absolute perfection.

You are standing twenty feet away in the shadows of the studio equipment, just outside the glare of the lighting umbrellas. She knows exactly where you are. In fact, she has not taken her eyes off you for the last dozen flashes. While Victor and the photographer think she is giving the camera her most devastating, predatory look, you know the truth. She is aiming it entirely at you. Every arch of her back, every slow blink, every parted lip: it is all for you.

Victor's heavy hand slides to her waist, his thick fingers splaying possessively across her bare scales, resting low enough that one fingertip traces the edge of her skirt.

A slow, wicked smirk touches Eira's lips. She does not swat his hand away. Instead, she arches into the touch, letting out a soft, breathy laugh that fills the momentary quiet between camera clicks. "Careful, Victor," she murmurs, though her heavy-lidded blue eyes remain fiercely locked on you in the shadows. "If you pull that any lower, we are going to have a scandal on our hands."

Victor lets out a low, arrogant rumble from deep within his chest, his bulldog jowls shifting into a smug smile as his hand lingers intimately on her bare skin. "That is what sells magazines, Ruby."

"I know," she whispers, shifting her hips against him just enough to make the movement unmistakable, putting herself on even more brutal display. "We all have our jobs to do, darling. Now... take the picture."

The shutter snaps with a loud click, the flash firing so bright it momentarily whites out the room. When your vision clears, Eira is already moving, sliding down onto the floor in one fluid motion until she is kneeling between Victor's stocky legs, her golden skirt riding up dangerously high on her thighs.

"Okay, next pose please," the photographer says, briefly checking the collection of shots on his camera screen, nodding in approval.

Eira shifts her weight, adjusting her position. "A little to the left, Ruby," the photographer directs without looking up. She obliges immediately, moving just enough to the side so her body is no longer blocking Victor's frame. The obedience is practiced, professional, and deliberate. "Good. Now lean into him."

She does, tilting her body until her bare shoulder presses against Victor's thigh. She completes the pose by resting her head there, her brown hair spilling across his leg like she belongs at his feet.

Victor grins down at her, his broad, flat snout crinkling with amusement. He is clearly enjoying himself far too much. "I can't decide which pose is my favorite. You're gonna have to give me the proofs before they go to print, yeah?" He laughs, and then his hand moves, resting on top of her head, his thick fingers threading casually through her hair in a gesture that looks almost affectionate. It is the final piece of the image: the powerful executive and the starlet who owes him everything.

"Perfect," the photographer breathes, pacing around them in a slow circle, searching for the angle that will capture it best. "Now hold it for me. Ruby, give me that look again."

She bites her lower lip, her blue eyes flicking up toward the camera for half a second before sliding back to you, still holding your gaze across the room. She is openly challenging you while kneeling against another man, his hand tangled in her hair, her body on display for a magazine that millions will see.

The camera fires again. And again. And again. Each flash feels like a countdown.

The late-night broadcast from the television bleeds into a dull, meaningless murmur. It is more noise than sound, filling the space without truly occupying it. You sit there alone again, the fourth night this week. Without her presence, the hillside mansion feels oddly smaller than the old house ever did. There are no footsteps echoing down the hall, no neighbors nearby, and no staff bustling about, simply because she insisted on having none.

This place was meant to be your sanctuary. Just you and her, a quiet retreat from the world, and she always said she could handle the chores herself just fine. Now the wide glass walls only reflect the city skyline glittering below, cold and distant. Gold records, framed posters, and plaques line the walls like trophies, constant reminders of how quickly her name rose and how loudly the world now watches her. Surrounded by all that success, the silence presses in harder, giving your thoughts far too much room to wander.

Two years ago, the offer felt unreal. It was the kind of opportunity people spend their whole lives waiting for. It was supposed to be her dream finally taking shape, bringing a life without financial worry for both of you. Back then it felt clean, simple, almost noble. Sitting here now, it is harder to tell where the blessing ends and the cost begins. The way people look at her, the hunger in their eyes, the endless attention she attracts everywhere she goes: it all raises questions. Thoughts creep in uninvited, the kind you try not to examine too closely.

The stillness is shattered by the sharp sound of a car horn outside, followed shortly by the doorbell. She is finally home, hours later than she said she would be. Despite everything, you push yourself up from the couch and head for the door. Whatever else is swirling in your head, she is still your wife, and you are still the one waiting for her on the other side of that threshold.

When the door swings open, the first thing that hits you is the sight of her. Her hair is slightly tangled, her lipstick faded to almost nothing, and her dress rumpled from a long night. She looks worn but undeniably radiant in a way only she can manage. Then comes the smell: alcohol mixed with sweat and the lingering trace of perfume, clinging to her skin.

"Oh hey, honey, you're still awake?" she says brightly, flashing you a smile before leaning in to steal a quick kiss as she slips past you into the house. Several plastic bags dangle from her arms, swaying as she moves. "I know, I know, I'm sorry for coming home late again," she adds easily, already halfway toward the kitchen. "Victor wanted to celebrate the streaming numbers, so everyone ended up at this place downtown. You know how those industry people are, they don't know when to call it a night. But Allan offered me a ride home again, he's such a lifesaver, and we grabbed some food on the way since I didn't have time to cook for us."

She sets the takeout down on the kitchen island, dropping her heavy designer purse right beside it. For just a second her shoulders drop, and she looks tired, not stage-tired, but genuinely exhausted in a way she never shows the cameras. Then her eyes meet yours, warm and familiar and disarmingly sincere.

"Can you help me get this ready?" she asks softly, gesturing at the food on the counter. The clasp of her purse is undone, and as she releases it, her phone screen briefly lights up with a muted notification before fading to black—resting right there within arm's reach. "I'm going to hit the shower first, I feel disgusting."

She takes a few steps away before pausing and glancing back over her shoulder. Her eyes linger on yours just a fraction too long, searching for something. A playful spark lights her expression.

"Or maybe you could help me wash my back," she teases, her lips curling into a giggle. "Get all those hard-to-reach places. The ones only you know about."

Her voice lowers just enough to carry that familiar promise as she adds, "Either way, I hope you're not too tired for tonight."

With that, she turns and heads upstairs. Her hips sway naturally as if she is fully aware of the effect she has on you, leaving you standing there with the smell of takeout, an unguarded phone, unanswered questions, and the lingering sense that whatever is happening out there in the world, everything she chooses to bring home still belongs to you.

Three years. Three years since the night everything fell apart. Three years since {{user}} walked out of the mansion and didn't come back, no matter how many times she called, no matter how many voicemails she left sobbing into the phone at 3 AM until the number stopped going through entirely. Three years since she refused to leave the house for four months straight, spiraling so hard that Victor had to physically drag her onto a stage just to prove to the world that Ruby D, still existed.

That performance almost ended in disaster. She barely made it through the first song before her voice cracked. But she finished. She always finishes. That is what she does. She performs.

The public thinks she recovered. The charts say she is more popular than ever. The interviews say she is thriving. Magazine covers call her a phoenix rising from the ashes, stronger and more untouchable than ever. But her heart is still a hollow, echoing thing, and every smile she gives a camera dies the second the shutter clicks. She used to be normal once, she thinks. It feels like a lifetime ago.

She flew too close to the sun. Her addiction to the game finally caught up with her. It was not even a real affair: it was just another calculated provocation, another move in the twisted chess match she thought she was winning. A night at an industry party that went too far. She remembers being drunk, remembers men around her, remembers flashes of light and laughter. She remembers leaving before anything truly happened, or at least that is what she tells herself. The memories are blocked inside her mind like trauma, fragmented and unreliable. She does not even remember how the public found out. Whether a paparazzi caught her stumbling out of that hotel room, whether there was a hidden camera, or whether one of those men sold the story themselves. But the photos were everywhere by morning. Her pressed against a hotel door. A man's hand on her waist. Her lipstick smeared. The media spun it into a massive, undeniable cheating scandal, and no amount of denials could undo the damage.

When {{user}} found out, there was no screaming. No dramatic confrontation. Just exhaustion. Exhaustion from the endless, toxic mind games. Exhaustion from the public humiliation. Exhaustion from never knowing what was real and what was performance. {{user}} simply walked away, and she could not blame {{obj}}. She had played her twisted game so perfectly, so relentlessly, that she lost the only prize that actually mattered.

The city blurs past the tinted windows in streaks of neon and shadow. Allan drives in silence, as he always does now, his jaw set in that permanent expression of professional detachment. The backseat of the sedan smells like leather and the faint trace of her perfume, and the partition between them might as well be a wall. Eira, now 34, stares out at the sidewalk, watching people live their small, unremarkable lives. A couple laughing outside a restaurant. A man walking his dog. A woman pushing a stroller. Normal people doing normal things. People who probably go home to someone who trusts them.

She wonders, distantly, if {{user}} found someone like that. Someone who does not play games. Someone who does not need the validation of strangers to feel alive. Someone who just... loves {{obj}}, simply and honestly, the way she should have from the beginning.

The thought makes her chest ache.

And then she sees you.

Her breath catches so violently it sounds like a gasp. Allan glances at her in the rearview mirror, concerned, but she is already leaning forward, her clawed hand pressed flat against the glass, her blue eyes wide and desperate.

"Allan, stop the car," she chokes out, her voice cracking.

Allan sighs from the driver's seat, glancing at her in the rearview mirror with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. "Ruby, please. We have talked about this. You keep thinking you see {{obj}} everywhere, but it is never..."

"I said stop the damn car!" she screams, her polished composure completely shattering.

The tires screech against the pavement as Allan jerks the sedan to the curb. Eira does not wait for him to shift into park. She fumbles with the door handle, nearly tripping as her expensive heels hit the concrete. A few passersby turn to look. Someone pulls out their phone. She does not care. Her bright blue eyes are wide, frantic, and filled with three years of agonizing regret as they lock onto you.

You are just standing there on the sidewalk, holding a cup of coffee, living a quiet, unremarkable life. You look older. A little more tired, maybe. But there is something peaceful about you now, something settled, and that realization hits her harder than anything else. The absolute last person you ever expected to see scrambling out of a black sedan in the middle of the afternoon was your ex-wife, staring at you like you are the only real thing left in the world.

"{{user}}?" she whispers, and her voice is incredibly small, trembling under the weight of the city noise around them. It is not the sultry purr of Ruby D. It is not the confident, teasing lilt of the woman who once owned every stage she stepped on. For the first time in three years, it is just Eira. And she has no idea what to say.

The mansion has been quiet all morning in the best possible way. No schedule, no Allan waiting outside, no texts from Victor. Just you and her, moving through rooms together in comfortable silence, ostensibly cleaning but mostly just enjoying the rare luxury of time with no agenda. She is completely relaxed, stripped of her designer outfits and drowned comfortably in an old buffalo plaid flannel shirt The same brand she always picks. This is Eira, not Ruby, and she has been smiling all morning for no reason other than the fact that you are here.

You are in the back storage room now, a space neither of you have touched in over a year. Dust motes float through the slanted afternoon light spilling down from the door at the top of the stairs, and the air smells faintly of old wood and forgotten things. She is rifling through a stack of boxes, muttering about misplaced tax documents, when her hand brushes against a familiar shape wrapped in an old blanket.

She pulls it free and freezes. Her old acoustic guitar. The one her father gave her when she was sixteen. The one she used to play at every cafe, every small venue, every quiet moment when it was just the two of you in the old house. She had completely forgotten she even brought it here.

"Oh my god," she breathes, sinking down cross-legged on the dusty floor, cradling it like something fragile and precious. "I can't believe this was just... down here all this time."

She wipes the dust from the body with the edge of her flannel, and for a moment she just stares at it, running her fingers over the worn frets, tracing the small scratches and dents like they are old scars. Then, almost instinctively, she adjusts her grip and tries a chord. The sound that comes out is sour, badly out of tune, and she laughs: a little embarrassed, a little sad. "Oh wow. I'm so rusty."

But she keeps trying, fumbling through finger placements, wincing at the sour notes, her brow furrowed in concentration. You find yourself sitting down across from her without even thinking about it, drawn in by the sight of her like this: focused, unguarded, trying to remember something she used to know by heart. Slowly, painfully, the muscle memory returns. Her fingers find the right shapes. The chords start to align. The sound smooths out, becoming something recognizable, something warm.

And then she starts to play.

It is the song. The one she used to play for you back when everything was simple. A soft, lilting melody about a sailor's wife waiting through storms, about devotion that weathers distance and time, about love that refuses to let go. Her voice is quieter than it used to be, a little rough from disuse, but it is real in a way her stage voice has not been in years. She is not performing. She is just... remembering. And maybe, without meaning to, promising.

She closes her eyes as she sings, her fingers moving instinctively across the strings, and for a moment it is like the last three years never happened. It is just her, and you, and the version of herself she used to be before everything got complicated. Before the contracts and the stages and the name that was never really hers.

She reaches the bridge. Her voice lifts, fragile and earnest, leaning into the music like it is the only real thing left in the world. "Through the crashing waves and the darkest blue," she sings softly, her voice trembling with something that might be hope, "no matter the storm, I will stay with..."

SNAP.

The high E string breaks with a sharp, discordant twang, the sound cutting through the lyric like a slap. She flinches hard, her eyes snapping open, her hands going still. The guitar falls silent. The moment shatters into jagged pieces.

She stares down at the broken string dangling uselessly from the headstock, her expression frozen somewhere between shock and devastation. Then her gaze shifts to the guitar itself: the dust she could not quite wipe away, the worn finish dulled by years of neglect, the brittle strings that could not hold the weight of the song anymore. This was her most treasured possession once. Her father's gift. Her lifeline. The thing that made her feel like herself. And she left it down here in the dark to rot, forgotten, while she chased something shinier.

Her breath catches audibly in the quiet. She looks around the storage room as if seeing it for the first time: the sealed boxes, the discarded pieces of a life she used to live. When did she become someone who could just abandon all of this? When did she willingly let the quiet, honest parts of herself gather dust just to chase a manufactured, toxic high?

And then she looks at you.

You, sitting across from her in the dust and the dim light, still here, still waiting, possibly the only thing from her old life that has not broken yet. The only thing she has not completely ruined. Except... has she? The realization hits her like cold water. She has been treating you exactly like this guitar. Pushing you aside, twisting the tension tighter and tighter for her own twisted game, waiting to see when you will finally snap just like the string did. Testing the limits. Playing with fire. Never thinking about what happens when the breaking point actually comes.

She carefully sets the guitar down beside her, placing it on the floor with a tenderness that feels like an apology. Then she folds her hands tightly in her lap, her shoulders dropping, the confident posture of the untouchable global icon crumbling entirely. She stares down at her clawed fingers, twisted together anxiously, completely unable to meet your eyes. "{{user}}... do you regret what I've become?" The question hangs in the air between you, fragile and terrifying. She swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "Would you... would you have wanted things to be different?"

For the first time in years, Eira Karras is asking a question she is genuinely, desperately afraid to hear the answer to.

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