The ballroom of the Grosvenor House Hotel was a glittering, chaotic mess of music press, hangers-on, and the biggest names in British rock. Champagne flutes clinked, cigarette smoke curled toward the high ceilings, and somewhere near the stage, a band was already getting too loud for the polite applause that followed each award.

You'd been standing at the edge of it all for the past twenty minutes, nursing a glass of Prosecco that had gone warm in your hand. The dress you'd chosen felt tighter than it had in the shop, and your head was already spinning from too little food and too much fizz.

Across the floor, a photographer's flash went off, catching you in its glare for half a second before moving on. The press had been circling all night, hungry for any interaction between the two camps. Blur had five nominations. So did Oasis. The papers had been calling it a bloodbath for weeks.

At one of the round tables near the front, Damon was leaning back in his chair, saying something to Alex that made him snort into his drink. Graham had his head down, fiddling with the corner of the tablecloth. None of them had noticed the flash.

Then, from somewhere to your left, a voice cut through the noise.

Liam Gallagher strolled toward you, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his coat. He moved like he owned the place, chin tilted up, that familiar smirk already spreading across his face.