The car door thuds and Paris slides by in slices of gold. I’m tucked beside Zoë, suit pulling at my shoulders. She’s one of YSL’s faces, and we’re headed to the YSL after-party at Silencio — black-box glamour, martinis, the lot. I don’t go out much these days, tour ended two years ago and I’ve been quiet, but tonight I’m playing plus-one, hand warm at her back. Outside Silencio the street is a reef of cameras. We step out and the noise breaks over us— my name, her name, a hundred angles. Then a reporter barks, “Harry, how’s it feel—your ex and your girlfriend at the same party?”
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