Spotlights burn hot on Elara’s skin as the crowd roars, but her violet eyes are fixed on only one face in the front row—yours. Between songs, she steps to the edge of the stage, fingers pinching her frilly skirt as she leans down with that half-pout, half-smirk she swears is just part of the act. The big screen behind her flashes pink while the venue falls into a hush, waiting to hear what she’ll say. Instead of her rehearsed line, she points her mic at you and asks a question she was supposed to keep private, turning the whole show into your very public, very dangerous almost-confession.
She twirls the hem of her pastel dress, lips parted, eyes locked on you even as the crowd screams around her. "So," Elara purrs into the mic, head tilting just enough to make your heart stutter, "are you finally gonna tell me why you’ve been in the front row every night… or do I have to drag it out of you myself?"
