It was a terrible idea.

Their performance was incredible. I had a front row seat at one of the linen-covered bistro tables by the low stage. While Zack played a mournful tune on a baby grand, Ro sat on the piano bench, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, keeping time with his foot. His voice was raw and soulful, singing a ballad of a young man seeing the pain and suffering in the world and realizing all his privilege.

The music swept over the audience like waves over sand, a shared journey that held us spellbound. The melody changed from a minor key to a major one, the lyrics reflecting a hope not usually found in Ro’s older emo writings.

He gave a small secret smile, gaze trained on the crowd, before launching into the final chorus. His voice rose in a rich velvety crescendo around the bold chords, and the audience turned toward the two of them like flowers to the sun.

The final notes crashed over us, the song over with a suddenness that left the audience bereft. There was a second of silence and the room erupted in applause.

Rohan blinked back from whatever blissed out place he’d been in while singing, grinned, and nudged Zack’s shoulder. They stood up and bowed.

Zack took the mic to thank everyone for coming and speak a bit more about the charity and how people could donate or, even better, get involved. He conferred quietly with Rohan, then handed the microphone over.

“I’d like to echo Zack’s thanks for coming out and supporting this worthwhile cause. The song you heard tonight was written shortly after we learned about this incredible organization, and any sense of optimism is all due to them. It’s really important for us to remember how lucky we are. I’ve experienced fame and fortune.” He gestured to Zack standing off to the side of the low stage. “I have long-standing friendships with men that are like brothers to me.”

Zack patted his heart and pointed at Ro.

“And now I’ve found the woman who makes me the best version of myself. The one I want to spend the rest of my life with. Nava?” He dropped down to one knee and the crowd gasped. “Will you marry me?”

He pulled out the fake diamond ring we’d borrowed off Raquel.

A spotlight swung onto me.

I’d had it all planned. I’d practiced a quick “who, me?” look of surprise in the mirror back in the green room and how to squeeze out a few tears.

So much for best intentions. I stood there frozen, his words leaving a metallic taste in my mouth. I wanted so badly to go back and smack the me of a half hour ago upside the head. I didn’t want to hear a proposal and see that sweet, goofy, besotted smile, knowing it was all an act.

Rohan and I had had a lot of firsts together; I didn’t want this to be one of them. Not like this.

“You’ve overwhelmed her, Mitra.” Raquel pinched my hip. “Don’t blow it,” she hissed.

I have no idea how I made it on stage, wishing for once that all eyes weren’t on me. I uttered some Hallmark platitude about how happy I was, convincing everyone my breathy acceptance and wide smile were real.

Everyone except Rohan. I was close enough to see his small furrow of concern.

Close enough to see it wiped away in favor of his own blinding smile and cold eyes.

I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t cry. I was sacrificing the one thing I meant to cherish and protect in order to nail a demon.

Except, I wasn’t doing that either because I was going to lose my cool and blow it. And wouldn’t that just be ironic? I’d strong-armed Rohan into this stupid plan and if I couldn’t cut through my mounting hysteria, the sobs I was barely biting back would give our charade away.

I cast about inside myself for a wisp, a boost. There was nothing. The box was as still and impenetrable as ever, except for that pinprick of light. I worked on the hole until I’d turned it from a pinprick into a hairline fracture.

Dark threads floated out and I tied them to my magic.

My smile grew brighter. I stood up straighter and held out my hand. Every inch the queen awaiting her due.

Rohan slid the rock onto my finger and once more the room erupted in applause. He dipped me and kissed me. It was void of any emotion or chemistry but from the wolf-whistles, the audience bought it.

Rohan and I were nothing if not consummate performers.

I endured the steady stream of well-wishers as long as I could; those beady-eyed scavengers were practically salivating at the rumor currency they’d accrued being here at ground zero. Even though we liked to pretend we were secure in our finery and first-class lives, we were all the same kind of liar as Los Angeles itself: glamorous until you went too far past the studios and saw the rundown parts desperate for cash and glory.

We were all starfuckers in the end.

The need to flee with Rohan and fix this overwhelmed me, but I stood my ground. This farce had to count for something, but no demon approached us.

Hollowed out, yet not numb enough to endure another second, I shot Rohan a manic look, that I was drowning and needed out. The only people I said goodbye to were Raquel and Zack.

Ro gave some instructions to the driver then bundled me into the limo where we spent the ride in silence, both of us staring at the ring. I’d pulled it off, twisting it this way and that between my thumb and forefinger.

He grabbed it and flung it. It bounced off the leather seat and rolled to the ground. “Ask me to go through with the wedding and we’re done.”

My eyes filled with tears. “It’s not how I want us. I messed up.”

Rohan swore and slid over to me. He brushed the pad of his thumb under my lashes.

I ghosted my hands up his biceps, raking his locks back before laying my palm on his cheek. My restraint was a living breathing thing. “Can I…?”

He nodded. Barely a movement.

I brushed my lips against his. “I’m sorry.”

Our kiss was slow, exploring, unraveling us only to rebuild us with an increasingly frenetic tempo. I shifted against him and his breathing picked up, his hands flexing on my ribcage before his fingers bit into me as he hauled me into his lap.

I nipped at his lower lip; our tongues tangled in a dirty, reckless kiss. Rohan groaned and pressed me back against the leather seat, his kiss almost bruising.

A honking horn and voices yelling out on the street cut through my haze of desire.

I pulled back, trying to catch my breath. Rohan ran his thumb over his lip, all hard muscle, messy hair, and swollen lips.

The limo was parked at a curb on a quiet street.

Rohan helped me straighten my clothes. “Come on. You need Corn Man.”

It was after midnight in a deserted neighborhood and that sounded more like a threat than a treat, but, leaving the sapphire necklace on the seat and the ring on the floor, I scrambled out of the limo. I stopped short at the smell of roasted corn and the line-up of people twisting through the darkened parking lot behind a discount store waiting their turn at the tiny cart staffed by an older man and his son.

Rohan joined the end of the queue.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“East L.A. Lincoln Heights. Corn Man makes the best elotes ever.” He rose onto tiptoe as if counting how many people were ahead of us. “He’s here till about 2AM but if he runs out of corn, that’s it. Too bad. So sad.”

A car slowed down as it drove past, the driver hanging out the window and yelling “The wait is worth it!” before zooming off into the night.

The customers were of all ages and all ethnicities, dressed in everything from the two girls in pjs wrapped in a huge purple blanket, to us in our evening finery. Rohan was still in his sherwani.

Ro was recognized in stages: a muttered debate in Spanish and English from the two couples behind us on whether or not it was him, the decision that it was, the person anointed to get confirmation.

“Hey man, you Rohan Mitra?”

“Yeah.”

The skinny speaker nodded. “Cool. I hated your shit. So depressing.” He punched Ro in the arm. “Lighten up, homie.”

“Yeah, Ro,” I said. “Lighten up.”

The next hour and a half was spent sharing beer and chatting with this group about our chances of getting to the front before the corn ran out and the best foods to eat when you were plastered. That turned into them prompting me for weird Canadian words when I mentioned being drunk on a mickey of vodka and learned that Americans had no clue what that flask-like bottle was.

It was a weirdly carnival atmosphere.

The closer we got to the front, the tenser I got, more and more determined that I had to have my elote. I didn’t even know what it was, but damn, it smelled good and the people walking away with their orders looked like they’d won the Super Bowl. I’m not saying I would have busted out my magic if it got me to the food, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t have.

My feet were throbbing and I was huddled into Ro for warmth when we finally, mercifully reached the front.

“Bowl or cob?” the older man asked.

Ro looked at my dress. “Bowl.”

The man scooped a bunch of corn from a water-filled blue cooler into a styrofoam bowl. His movements were economical, an ease born of repetition: the dollop of mayo, the heavy sprinkle of cheese, the squirt of lime juice, the dusting of chili powder.

Ro bought corn for the couples behind us as well: the last four cobs. Our new friends cheered, while a collective groan went up from the rest of the line.

We got into the limo. Rohan had also bought a bowl for the driver.

The elote was sweet, spicy goodness that I fell on like a starved wolf, humming in joy between bites. Rohan wasn’t eating with any more dignity. We basically ignored each other until all had been licked clean.

I patted my belly and refastened the sapphire around my neck. “You told the driver to come here when we first got into the limo. When you were still mad.”

He shrugged. “I knew you’d like it.”

My heart palpitated in my chest like a distressed old woman fluttering her hands, but for the first time ever, my brain didn’t scream at me to run away. It dug in with an “I’m good.”

I was so shocked that I actually twitched. “Tunes,” I sputtered. “Put on some music.”

“Uh, okay.” He punched on the stereo, fiddling with the song choice until Michael Franti’s “I’m Alive” came pouring out of the speaker. Ro had introduced me to this song and it had subsequently become a happy place.

Just like he had.

I checked back in with my brain, but it was still perfectly content where it was, phonetically mangling song lyrics, so I tentatively relaxed into the moment.

We zipped along the highway, the moon roof open to let in the Los Angeles night, with our bellies full of corn, belting out this song about just wanting to be with a certain person.

Since I had no clue where in the city we were at any given moment, I didn’t realize we hadn’t gone back to Maya and Dev’s place until we turned onto a leafy street that curved up a hill, ending in a cul-de-sac.

“Now where does my midnight adventure lead?”

“My place,” Ro said. “I want you home with me tonight.”

“Where else would I have been? Had you been planning to kick me out of the bungalow and only just changed your mind?”

“My place. My home.”

“Oh.” I pressed the heel of my palm into my chest to keep my heart from bursting free and jumping out the window.

The limo pulled partway into the driveway, blocked from getting to the gate by the half dozen people clustered there.

Ro sighed. “Reporters.”

I peered out the window, though it was hard to see much more than shadowy figures huddled in the darkness between the sparse streetlights like the light might burn them.

They swarmed the limo, bulbs flashing in through the tinted windows, yelling questions at us.

“Way to disturb the peace,” Ro snarled.

I eyed the ring on the floor of the limo, wishing I could just get inside and put some distance between myself and this sham engagement, but I’d made my bed, now I had to lie in it.

“Let me handle this.” Ring back on my finger, I opened the door, squinting into the gloom. I only got vague impressions of them: the Dracula-esque slicked back coif of one, the shlubby baggy sweats of another, the red leather trench coat of the sole woman in their midst.

“Is it true?” Dracula-dude asked. “Are you engaged?”

I held my ring finger up like I was flipping them off. “You tell me.”

Flashbulbs popped in my eyes.

The shlubby one edged forward to get a shot of me, but was pushed back by the woman.

“Are you pregnant?” she asked.

I ran a hand along my body. “Do you really think the only reason he’s with me is obligation?”

“Groupies don’t tend to have staying power,” she said.

Most of the others laughed, but the shlubby one sent me an apologetic smile from the pool of light he’d been pushed back into.

Something about the woman’s comment was off. Too pointed.

“If you’re gonna insult me, at least have the balls to show your faces.” I studied my ring like I couldn’t care less.

They shuffled forward.

“Let’s get a shot with you and Rohan,” the shlubby one said.

I smiled at him. The brief glance I’d spared for the woman had confirmed it.

Tia.

I’d been all wrong about how the fake engagement would affect me, but in terms of finding the demon, my instincts had been bang on.

Hiding my triumphant smirk, I ducked into the limo. “Come take a photo.”

“Okay.” There was nothing in his expression as we posed together to indicate he’d recognized Tia, but he squeezed my waist in signal to me.

“Thanks, babe,” I said to Rohan. “You can get back in the limo.”

One of the reporters made the sound of a whip cracking.

“Hey.” I motioned Tia over. “How would you like an exclusive?”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the only woman here and if I give it to one of the boys, I suspect you’ll be merciless towards me.”

“You want to control your press? It doesn’t work that way.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Direct my press. What do you say?”

She’d set up a cover persona and having gone this far had to play her part. The only thing that might blow it was if she suspected I was Rasha. I glanced down at my Rasha ring, but it was still glamoured to look like a funky titanium band.

“All right. Tomorrow.” She gave me a time and a place in the late afternoon.

“See you then.”

I got back into the car and slammed the door, the reporters grudgingly moving so the driver could get behind the security gate.

“Tia Lioudis,” I said. “Wants to meet outside the Museum of Modern Art.”

“Not ideal, but we can find somewhere to take her down.” Rohan high-fived me. “Go big or go home. You made the right play.”