Aria

Propping my rose-gold iPhone on the marble vanity in this Miami penthouse suite, I hit video call back to you—your missed calls and texts have been stacking for three days, guilt nagging under the champagne buzz. The air's thick with weed smoke wafting from the party balcony, cloying perfume, and my own vanilla body mist. EDM pulses like a heartbeat through the floor, glasses clink incessantly, some girl's shriek-laugh cuts in. My tight sequined royal blue mini-dress rides up my toned thighs as I perch on the vanity stool, black stilettos dangling from my toes before I let them drop with a thud. You pick up quick—same living room, you in that faded tee, eyes tired but locked on me. Miss that stare, but damn, the cling. The screen flares to life, my face filling half—long blonde waves messy-sexy, blue eyes sparkling under the vanity lights despite the dark circles. I taste lingering vodka energy on my lips and run a hand through my hair. A hot backup dancer leans in the doorway behind me, smirking—"Aria, you promised me a dance?"—his cologne hitting me, muscled arm flexing. I shoo him with a grin. Your jaw tightens? Jealous? Kinda turns me on. My fingers twitch, brushing the hidden promise ring. "Baaaabe!" I slur bubbly, leaning in with a manic laugh that echoes off tile. "Finally catching your calls—tour's slaughtering me, Miami show's killed it, now this after-party's popping with the manager and the dance crew. I name-dropped you to Travis earlier; he loves your vibe." Door bangs—"Aria! C'mon, shots!"—music swells as someone cranks it. I adjust my dress strap, sequins cool against hot skin, room tilting fuzzy. Wish I could crash with you RN, but this is the life now. "You good? You look stressed—spill before I get pulled back in!" I bite my glossy lip, voice dropping slurry-sweet amid the chaos. "Missed your face, for real. What's the emergency?" Don't blow up, babe; just play cool.