Simone and I felt like the luckiest girls alive that day. The whole world would’ve killed to be in our shoes, scrubbing every inch of the room where Fred Hunt would sleep. Our shift had ended hours ago, but things still weren’t perfect. I took it upon myself to strip the gaudy green bedding and replace it with crisp, high-quality white linens. Sure, the hotel had its top-tier rooms and the budget ones. Fred wasn’t getting the best—that was reserved for Gabriel Dimitryev, the band’s lead singer, our Ace of Spades. The second-best room went to Oleg Chausson, 4 Nipes’ manager. For the rest, we did everything we could to make their stay at the Hotel Bali as flawless as possible.

We didn’t wrap up until after three in the morning. I hadn’t eaten a thing, too consumed with making sure not a single detail was out of place when Fred walked into that less-green-than-before room.

The band was set to arrive around six, give or take, depending on traffic from the airport to our little town.

We were waiting in the reception lobby when Dominic, visibly frazzled, rushed past. Our eyes met, and he stopped dead in his tracks. “Manuela, come here,” he said.

I left my spot and followed him to his office. The second we got there, he shut the door.

“I forgot to mention earlier, with all the chaos,” he said. “You’re off for the day.”

I swallowed hard, thinking it was a joke. “Off?”

“You’ve worked hard. You’ll get your triple pay for tonight’s effort. Your day off is being moved to today. Go rest.” He lowered his head, shuffling through a stack of papers.

I leaned against the heavy, hand-carved wooden door. No, he wouldn’t do this to me.

“Dominic, I’m not tired. And I don’t want to take my day off early. You said everything had to be perfect. I’ll give my all, I swear.”

He glanced up briefly. “You’re off.”

“Dominic, please, for the love of everything, don’t take this from me. You, of all people, know how much I love 4 Nipes.”

“Of course I know,” he said. “I gave you that band T-shirt, remember? And I ragged on you for months about that King of Hearts tattoo on your neck. Go, before I don’t just give you the day off but a pink slip instead.”

My legs trembling, I shuffled to his desk and sank into a chair. “Please, don’t do this to me.”

“You did worse to me, Manu,” he said. “You broke up with me and shattered my heart.”

“You slept with my sister!” My voice barely came out, but the tears I’d been holding back spilled over. “Don’t play the victim. I was the victim.”

“Let’s not make this personal, Manu,” he said. “Be professional, please.”

“I’m begging you to be professional, then. Let me stay, like everyone else.”

He checked his watch. “I don’t have time for your drama. I’m doing this for the safety of everyone at the Hotel Bali. I remember your words: ‘Don’t mess with my silence if you can’t handle my noise.’ Honestly, I don’t want noise. We all need to be discreet—this is our workplace.”

“Please,” I pleaded.

“Go, before I fire you. I’m being far too lenient, and I hate it.”

I stood, my chest burning. There was nothing I could do.

I reached for the doorknob, and he added, his tone cutting, “If you tell anyone, especially Simone, what happened here, you’ll be jobless by tomorrow.”

I opened the door, stepped out, and wiped my tears. As I headed for the exit, I laughed bitterly to myself. Why did I think this could work out? It was me. I wasn’t born for happiness, not even for a moment. I existed only to serve others—and to be trampled.

I tried to slip out without explaining, but everyone swarmed me.

“Where are you going?” Simone asked, stunned.

“I… I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” She glanced at her watch. “4 Nipes will be here any minute.”

“And Fred too,” one of the other girls said. Everyone knew about my hopeless crush on the King of Hearts. “You can’t go.”

“I’m…” I remembered Dominic’s threat. “I’m not feeling well. I can’t stay. I’m… going to see a doctor.” I couldn’t lose my job, no matter what.

“You can’t get sick now,” Simone said, smiling. “Tough it out and die after 4 Nipes gets here. I’ve got some painkillers in my bag. We’ll patch you up for now, and I’ll go with you to the ER later.”

“I… I can’t stay,” I said, wiping my tears and pushing through the main reception doors without another word.

Outside, a crowd was already gathering at the hotel entrance. I’d never seen so many people in one place. The Hotel Bali was about to make history. The entire country’s media would be here today. It was 4 Nipes, the biggest band in the world, checking into our no-star hotel in the middle of nowhere, South Noriah.

Girls held signs and banners, plastered with “I love you” messages for the band and lyrics from their songs. They wore band T-shirts, some with their faces painted with the suits of the deck, each one showing love for their favorite member of the quartet.

I left, carrying what felt like the worst pain of my life. It might seem small, even ridiculous, to feel this way over 4 Nipes when people around the world were dying from stray bullets, terminal illnesses, or other tragedies far more deserving of grief. But Fred Hunt was all I had. Every morning, I woke up praying for his protection, not mine. And now I was shut out, dismissed by Dominic, left to watch from the sidelines with the crowd while my coworkers got to experience what I’d waited my whole life for—more than any of them.

When the tour bus pulled up to the Hotel Bali, struggling through the sea of fans, I touched my phone in my pocket and wiped my tears. Not everything was lost. I still had my ticket. I’d see Fred, from the farthest corner of the venue, as insignificant as ever. I could barely be the main character in my own life—why did I think I’d get to see Fred Hunt up close?

I tried to weave through the crowd, but I could barely move. It was a chaotic crush of bodies, and I was no better than anyone else. We were all there for the same reason: to catch a glimpse of our idols. The first to step off the bus was Oleg, the band’s manager. Then came Gabriel Dimitryev, the Ace of Spades. Laisa Marie, the Queen of Clubs, followed, trailed by her brother, Maxon Vecchi. And then he appeared—Fred Hunt, guitar slung across his back in a leather case, hair a tousled mess, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He raised his hand briefly, barely glancing at the screaming girls, me among them.

It lasted seconds, but those seconds felt like a lifetime. Tears streamed down my face as I touched the tattoo on my neck—the King of Hearts, a gift to myself when I turned eighteen, in honor of 4 Nipes’ guitarist, Fred Hunt.

I swallowed my sobs and headed home. There was nothing I could do to change this.

When I got there, the house was a wreck. Clothes were strewn everywhere, and it looked like someone had deliberately emptied every drawer. I’d spent the night working, and not one of them had bothered to check if I was even alive. I could’ve been hit by a car, mugged, or shot. No one cared. I was a Five of Spades—a useless card in the deck, only good for pairing with another five or fitting into a spade sequence. I was the card no one bothered with, rarely picked up from the discard pile in the middle of the table. But the world was too big, too crowded—why would I, of all people, think I could matter?