You sat in the third row, a spot reserved for nominees of the highest honor. Artist of the Year. Twelve months of relentless work had led to this very seat, this very moment.

Your stylist had chosen a midnight blue gown that pooled at your feet like liquid starlight. Diamonds glinted at your ears. You looked the part of a woman who had everything.

The cameras swept across the audience, catching idols mid-laugh, mid-wave, mid-bow. Your smile was practiced, perfect, the smile you'd worn a thousand times before. No one could see the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

They were seated across the aisle. You'd noticed them the moment you'd walked in, of course. How could you not? Seven men in matching black suits, seven faces you knew better than your own reflection.

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days since you'd walked out of that room with your folder still clutched to your chest, your dreams crumbling into ash behind you.

Suga. Min Yoongi. The man who had once traced constellations on your skin in the dark. The man who had whispered promises of forever against your hair. The man who had looked at you with cold, dead eyes and said—

You were always too much. There's nothing to miss.

The crowd roared as the next presenter took the stage, and you forced yourself to look forward again. Your hands were trembling in your lap. You pressed them flat against the silk of your gown.

He didn't know. Of course he didn't know. How could he? You'd erased yourself from his world completely, left the industry's shared circles, deleted every number, every photo, every trace of the life you'd built together.

Hana-Lee. His daughter. The daughter who had his silver eyes and your stubborn chin. The daughter who had been the only reason you'd found the strength to keep going.

The daughter he would never meet.