Please note that this story has triggers for sexual assault (in various forms), violence, drug use, depression, and suicidal themes. It's a story that explores the dark sides of fame. While it may not have a tragic ending, it won't be an easy read. Please proceed cautiously. Triggers for sexual assault content will be provided prior to the respective chapter. Thank you.

CW: This chapter has a scene of rape.

01: Fame in Tokyo

He walked up behind her and placed his hands on her hips, lightly pulling her back against his bare chest. He kissed her exposed nape and inhaled the fresh, sensuous scent of her perfume. The lingering undertones of sandalwood and cherry blossoms drove him mad with wanton intentions. "You're so beautiful," he whispered against her skin.

"Am I really?" she asked, her voice as far away from him as her thoughts. Admiring herself in the mirror, running her ochre eyes over her attire, she pondered at what she had become in her short time living in Tokyo with the man she loved so dearly. She knew that one day, he would become famous enough to care for the both of them, financially at least. However, this was a result she never saw coming.

The knee-high black combat boots. The leather mini skirt that wrapped around her hips and thighs so snuggly. The black and red lace-up corset top that hugged her body like a glove. Her once matchstick straight ebony tresses had been highlighted with shades of red and silver and curled in alluring waves that draped her shoulders and back. When her eyes finally found her face, she had to bite back a gulp. Makeup was always beyond her comprehension, yet here she stood. Dark red painted lips with eyes veiled in smoky metallic shades. The wondrous magic of having people to dress her like a doll with a simple snap of the fingers.

"Is this what beautiful looks like?" she added, remembering her time in a hometown inn where she thrived on the comforts of traditional yukata and kimono. Reminiscing about a period where dressing up meant adorning her hair with kanzashi and flowers. An era where the only makeup a woman needed was a light brush of colour across her cheeks and a dip of reds or peaches on those lips. An exposed nape was the essence of sensuality and elegance. Not the brash exposition of loose morals that her bare legs, arms, and abdomen stressed.

He turned her to face him and then leaned in, kissing her deeply. Eagerly he led her back against the mirror where its icy touch against exposed flesh caused her to gasp into his mouth. Misreading the response, he began to run his hand beneath the lace of her top, hungry for more of her.

She wrapped her arms around him, burying her hands into his beach blonde hair, and forced him to break their lusty lip-lock. "No, not yet," she said softly.

"Oh c'mon," he begged through gritted teeth of anticipation. "You look so fucking sexy. Let me have a taste," he added before stealing another heavy kiss of her now-smudged crimson lips. His fingers found the strings to her corset and began to unravel them with experienced precision and speed. Slipping his black, denim clad knee between her legs, the musician continued to explore her when she roughly broke the kiss again. Her voice of reluctance resonated within his ears, but they fell useless. The smoothness of her skin and the heat of her body beside his drove him into a frenzy of want and yearning.

Moving her hands against his chest, she tried to shove him away. Every nerve in her body came alight with annoyance. This wasn't the first time he had tried to go beyond the confines of her comfort zone. Normally a little prodding and pushing would dissuade him. Yet tonight, the more he felt her up, the more she could recognise that he would be impossible to discourage. "Please," she pleaded lightly into his ear. "Don't do this. I'm not ready."

When he sighed and stepped away from her, relief washed over her. She looked in the mirror again and began to straighten out her clothes. Grabbing a tissue from the dispenser on the table to the left of her reflection, she started cleaning up the mess of colour across her mouth and cheeks. Then the music came on and a chill of fear crept down her spine. The air shifted behind her. Spinning around, she gasped again as he grabbed her wrists and pulled her to the giant bed behind them. The black satin sheets awaited them like an omen.

"No, I don't want to do this!" She shouted loudly, hoping he would listen over the obnoxious music. His music. Of course. It was always about him, wasn't it?

Throwing her onto the bed, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto the floor behind him where it landed in a heap. Crawling onto the mattress, he grabbed her legs and dragged her towards him. She tried kicking him with her booted feet, but the attempt was so weak that he laughed. She was such a petite woman that he knew her boots would slide off easily. It had taken them forever to get a pair that would be closest to her small size, and even then, they were still too large. He stripped them off her with relative ease and tossed them away like his shirt and his morals.

He positioned himself between her legs and used his strength to immobilise her. Unable to hide her fear, and feeling wholly pathetic for it, she felt her body starting to tremble. "Please," she pleaded again. "Don't do this to me."

Towering above her, he grinned handsomely. "I love you." It sounded so damn sincere that she wanted to believe him, to give into his every whim. Yet, underneath those sugary sweet words and that glint of affection in his eyes, she saw the shadows of betrayal. The truth of those lies. The stranger in the façade of familiar. "This is what adult people in love do, babe. Just relax and let me make you feel good."

Balling her slender hands into fists, she twisted in his grasp. "No, people in love don't do this," she said, too quietly for him to understand. He tried to kiss her, but she was repulsed. Turning her face away from him, she attempted to manoeuvre her legs into freedom, but to no avail. He was just too fucking strong for her. Closing her eyes, she hoped it would be over quickly. Recognising the foolhardiness of escape, she bit back the tears and prayed to whatever ghost existed in the sky for it to just be done.

When the last track hit the needle, so did the threads that held tight the pieces of her hope. A scratch to mark the end of the tune as the silence hit the room, binding the cost of fame with crimson smears of her shame.