Chapter 1: Champagne and a Pop Star's Smirk
The whiskey burned going down, a welcome sort of punishment. Jake O'Brien stared at the amber liquid swirling in his glass, watched the neon reflections from the rooftop bar dance across its surface like trapped lightning. His knuckles still ached from Tuesday night's match—a brutal cage bout against Drew McIntyre that had left him with three stitches above his left eye and a nagging voice in his head asking what the hell he was doing with his life.
Thirty years old. A decade in the business. And here he sat, alone on a rooftop in Los Angeles, nursing a drink while the city sprawled beneath him like a circuit board designed by a madman.
The skyline stretched endlessly, a glittering spine of glass and steel and light. Drone swarms buzzed between the skyscrapers, their tiny LED eyes blinking in patterns that meant nothing to anyone but their operators. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled—or maybe it was just the bass from the club below, thrumming through the building's bones. Hard to tell in this city. Hard to tell anything apart from anything else.
Jake took another sip and checked his phone.
Nothing.
Liv hadn't texted back. Three days now, and nothing. Just the ghost of their last conversation, replaying in his head on an endless loop. He'd told her he was coming to LA for the media tour, asked if she wanted to grab coffee. Casual. Friendly. The kind of thing coworkers did all the time.
She'd read the message. He knew she'd read it because the little blue checkmarks had appeared within minutes.
Then silence.
"Fucking pathetic," he muttered into his glass.
A burst of laughter erupted from the group of women at the far end of the bar, all designer dresses and thousand-dollar handbags. One of them glanced his way—blonde, leggy, clearly interested. Jake looked away. He wasn't in the mood to be someone's story for the group chat. Guess who I met tonight? That wrestler from TV. He's actually kind of hot in person.
No thanks.
He'd done the casual thing. Done it plenty. And every time, he'd walk away feeling emptier than before, like he'd carved out another piece of himself and handed it to a stranger who'd forget his name by morning.
The whiskey was almost gone. Maybe he should order another. Maybe he should just go back to his hotel, order room service, and watch tape of his match until he passed out.
Maybe he should stop being such a miserable bastard.
"I'd recognize that look anywhere."
The voice came from his left—female, melodic, laced with amusement. Jake turned, and his brain short-circuited.
Sabrina Carpenter slid onto the stool beside him like she belonged there, like she'd been sitting there all night and he'd just been too oblivious to notice. She wore something simple—black dress, minimal jewelry—but the effect was devastating. Her honey-blonde hair caught the neon lights and turned them into something softer, almost golden. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and her lips curved into a knowing smile that suggested she was already in on a joke he hadn't heard yet.
She was five feet of pure, concentrated presence. The kind of person who made everyone else in the room feel like they were standing in the wrong place.
Jake was fairly certain he'd stopped breathing.
"The look," Sabrina continued, gesturing vaguely at his face. "The 'I'm drinking alone and contemplating my life choices' look. Very specific. Very tragic." She tilted her head. "Also, you're Jake O'Brien. So that's weird."
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Sorry," he managed. "I—yeah. That's me. And you're—"
"Sabrina." She extended her hand. "But you already knew that."
He shook it. Her grip was firm, her skin warm. "I did. I mean—huge fan. Not in a creepy way. Just, you know." He winced. "That's a lie. It's probably a little creepy."
Sabrina laughed, a sound that seemed to catch the attention of half the bar. She had one of those laughs that made other people want to laugh too, even if they had no idea what was funny. "Relax, wrestler boy. You're not the first person to be weird around me. You're just the first one who admitted it." She signaled the bartender—some effortless gesture that produced two glasses of champagne before Jake could blink. "So. What's got you looking like someone ran over your dog?"
"I don't have a dog."
"Good. Then it's a girl." She pushed one of the glasses toward him. "Drink. You're gonna need it."
Jake stared at the champagne, then at her. "Why are you here? Not—I mean, here here. At this bar. Specifically."
"Press junket. Album promo. The usual." Sabrina took a sip of her champagne, and a tiny bubble caught on her lip before she licked it away. "My team thought it'd be good for me to be seen at a trendy rooftop bar in LA, looking mysterious and unattainable. But then I saw you over here, radiating existential dread, and I figured—hey, that's more interesting than whatever I was supposed to be doing."
"You came over here because I looked miserable?"
"I came over here because you looked real." She shrugged, and something flickered behind her eyes—something softer than her tone suggested. "Everyone in this town is always performing. Even when they're trying not to. You're not. It's refreshing."
Jake didn't know what to say to that. He took a sip of his champagne, and the bubbles bit his tongue.
"So," Sabrina said, leaning her elbow on the bar and resting her chin in her palm, "what's her name? The girl who's got you all twisted up."
"I didn't say there was a girl."
"You didn't have to. You're drinking whiskey on a rooftop in LA, ignoring a perfectly good blonde who's been eye-fucking you for the last twenty minutes, and sighing like a Victorian orphan." She raised an eyebrow. "There's a girl."
Jake shook his head, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're—"
"Perceptive? Brilliant? Devastatingly charming?"
"I was going to say 'a lot.'"
"That works too." Sabrina clinked her glass against his. "Now spill. I've got nowhere to be until midnight, and I am starving for someone else's drama."
The champagne was making his head feel lighter. Or maybe it was her—the way she looked at him like she could see right through the bullshit, straight to the parts of him he kept buried. It should have been unsettling. Instead, it felt like exhaling after holding his breath for years.
"Liv Morgan," he said. "She's—we work together. She's in the company. I've known her for years, and I've been...I don't know. Pining, I guess. Like an idiot."
"Pining is a strong word."
"It's an accurate word."
Sabrina nodded slowly. "And does Liv know? That you're pining?"
"I don't know. Probably not. I've been pretty good at hiding it." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "She's—when I'm around her, I turn into a fourteen-year-old who's just discovered what butterflies feel like. It's embarrassing."
"It's human."
"Same thing."
Sabrina considered him for a long moment before replying.
“I’m sorry Jake, that’s rough. Rejection is hard, especially when it’s someone you’re already in love with” she said sympathetically.
“But you know the best way to get over it, don’t you?” She added coyly.
“What’s that?” I replied, not really thinking properly.
“Fucking someone else. And it’s been a while since I’ve been fucked, like it has you. So, you can continue pining and drowning your sorrows, or you can come back to my hotel room and we can have some fun” Sabrina said matter of factly.
Jake's brain stuttered like a bad transmission. The champagne glass hovered halfway to his lips, suspended in the neon glow, and for a long moment, he just stared at her—this impossibly beautiful, impossibly direct woman who had just propositioned him like she was ordering coffee.
"You're serious," he said. It wasn't a question.
Sabrina's smile sharpened. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
She didn't. That was the problem. Her blue eyes held his with an intensity that made his chest tight, and there was nothing coy about the way she watched him—no girlish games, no performative shyness. Just raw, unapologetic want.
Jake set his glass down. His fingers felt clumsy.
"I—" He stopped. Swallowed. The whiskey and champagne were wrestling in his stomach, and his heart was doing something complicated against his ribs.
He hesitated nervously.
The words tangled in his throat. This was Sabrina Carpenter. Global pop star. The woman whose albums he'd listened to on repeat during long flights between shows, whose face had graced his phone screen more times than he'd ever admit. And she was sitting here, inches away, offering him something that felt too good to be real.
"I don't—I mean, I'm not usually—" He exhaled hard. "Fuck. I'm not usually this pathetic."
"Pathetic?" Sabrina's eyebrow arched. "You're not pathetic. You're human. There's a difference." She reached out and touched his wrist—light, casual, but the contact sent electricity up his arm. "Look, Jake. I'm not asking for a marriage proposal. I'm asking if you want to come upstairs and fuck me. It's simple. Either you do, or you don't."
His mouth went dry. "Why me?"
"Because I want you." She said it like it was obvious. Like he was an idiot for even asking. "You're hot, you're real, and I've been on a press tour for three weeks with people who only want me for my name. I'm tired of performing. I want something that feels good." She paused, tilting her head. "And I think you need the same thing."
The city hummed beneath them. Somewhere below, a car horn blared. The thunder—or the bass—rolled again, distant and indifferent.
Jake thought about Liv. About the unanswered text. About the years he'd spent wanting someone who didn't want him back, chasing a ghost of a feeling that never materialized. And then he looked at Sabrina—really looked at her—and saw something he recognized.
Loneliness. Real, bone-deep loneliness. The kind that came from being surrounded by people who never saw the real you.
"Okay," he said.
Sabrina's smile widened. "Okay?"
"Yeah. Let's—okay."
She stood, smooth and graceful, and tossed back the rest of her champagne in one practiced motion. Then she held out her hand. "Come on, wrestler boy. Let's see if you're as good with your hands outside the ring."
---
The elevator ride was silent. Not awkward—charged. Sabrina stood close enough that he could smell her perfume, something floral and clean that cut through the smoke and sweat of the bar. Her shoulder brushed his arm, and neither of them moved away.
Her hotel was five blocks over, a sleek glass tower that screamed money without trying. The lobby was all marble and muted lighting, the kind of place where people whispered and wore sunglasses indoors. Jake felt wildly out of place in his jeans and Henley, his bruised knuckles shoved into his pockets.
Sabrina didn't seem to care. She walked like she owned the building—maybe she did—and led him to the private elevators without a word to the concierge.
The doors closed. She pressed the button for the penthouse.
"You're quiet," she said.
"Processing."
"Good. I like a man who processes." She turned to face him, her back against the elevator wall, and looked up at him through her lashes. The height difference was almost comical—she barely reached his chest—but somehow she seemed larger than him. More present. "Last chance to back out."
"I'm not backing out."
"Good."
The elevator doors opened.
Her suite was enormous, all floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalist furniture. The city sprawled beyond the glass like a living thing, lights pulsing, drones blinking, the whole glittering mess of Los Angeles stretching into infinity. Jake barely noticed any of it.
Because Sabrina was already pulling her dress over her head.
The fabric hit the floor with a whisper. She stood there in black lace—simple, elegant, devastating—and watched him with those impossibly blue eyes. Her body was lean and toned, curves subtle but unmistakable, and Jake's brain struggled to keep up with the reality of what was happening.
"Your turn," she said.
He pulled his Henley over his head. His chest was a roadmap of scars and bruises—the cost of a decade in the ring—and for a moment, he felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being shirtless.
Sabrina's gaze traveled over him slowly. Appreciatively.
"Mmm," she murmured. "Even better than I imagined."
"You've imagined?"
"Haven't you?"
He had. God help him, he had. But never like this. Never real.
She crossed the room in three steps and pressed her palms flat against his chest. Her hands were warm, her touch steady. She traced the lines of his muscles, the ridge of his collarbone, the scar above his eyebrow.
"I'm going to fuck you now," she said quietly. "Unless you have a problem with that."
"No problem."
"Good."
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was hungry, demanding, her mouth opening against his with a ferocity that caught him off guard. Her tongue slid against his, tasting of champagne and something sweeter beneath, and her hands moved up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in.
Jake groaned into her mouth. His hands found her waist, then her hips, then lower—cupping the firm curve of her ass through her underwear. She made a sound of approval and pressed closer, her bare stomach against his, her breasts crushed against his chest.
"You're hard already," she observed, grinding her hips against him. "Good."
He lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist as easily as breathing, her arms looping around his neck, and he carried her to the bed—a massive thing, white sheets, the kind of bed that had probably seen a lot of things but never anything real.
He dropped her onto it. She bounced once, then propped herself up on her elbows, watching him with that same hungry expression.
"Lose the jeans," she ordered.
He did. His boxers went too. His cock sprang free, already leaking, thick and hard and aching. Sabrina's eyes dropped to it, and her tongue flicked out to wet her lips.
"Fuck," she whispered. "You're big."
"You're—" He couldn't finish. She was gorgeous. Flawless. And she was looking at him like he was exactly what she wanted.
She sat up, hooking her fingers into her panties, and slid them down her legs. Slowly. Deliberately. The black lace joined her dress on the floor, and then she was naked—completely, utterly naked—and Jake's breath caught in his throat.
Her body was a study in elegant lines. Small breasts with tight pink nipples, a flat stomach, the hint of muscle beneath smooth skin. Between her legs, a neat triangle of honey-blonde curls, already glistening.
"Come here," she said.
He climbed onto the bed. She grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him down into another kiss, and then her hand was on his cock—gripping, stroking—and he shuddered.
"Lie back," she whispered against his mouth.
He obeyed. Stretched out on the cool sheets, his cock standing straight up, slick with his own pre-cum. Sabrina straddled him, positioning herself above him, and Jake could feel the heat of her cunt radiating against him, centimeters away, maddening.
"Please," he heard himself say.
She smiled. "Please what?"
"Please—I need—"
"Need what?"
"Fuck. I need to be inside you."
She reached down and guided him to her entrance. The tip of his cock pressed against her wet heat, and they both moaned.
Then she lowered herself onto him.
Slow. Deliberate. Inch by inch, her cunt stretching to accommodate him, her walls gripping him like a fist. Jake's eyes rolled back. His hands found her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, and she let out a breathy laugh.
"God," she breathed. "You fill me up."
"Sabrina—"
"Shh. Let me enjoy this."
She moved. Rocking her hips in a slow, circular motion that drove him deeper with every pass. Her head fell back, her hair spilling over her shoulders, and Jake watched her from below—watched the way her lips parted, the way her breathing quickened, the way her tits swayed with every movement.
She was beautiful. Ethereal. The kind of woman who made men write songs and start wars.
And she was riding his cock like she'd been waiting her whole life for it.
"Fuck, you feel good," she groaned. "So thick. So fucking perfect."
She picked up the pace. Bouncing now, her ass slapping against his thighs, her cunt gripping and releasing with every thrust. The sound of it—wet, filthy, obscene—filled the room alongside their heavy breathing and the distant hum of the city.
Jake's hands moved from her hips to her ass, grabbing handfuls of flesh, kneading, guiding her rhythm. She let him take control, and he thrust up into her—hard, fast, deep—matching her rhythm, driving himself to the base.
"Yes," she hissed. "Yes, fuck me like that. Don't hold back."
He didn't. He couldn't. Something primal had taken over—some desperate, hungry thing that had been building for years, not just tonight. He fucked her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
She leaned forward, pressing her chest against his, and kissed him messy and open as she moved above him. Her tits rubbed against his chest, nipples hard and dragging across his skin, and the sensory overload made his head spin.
"You're gonna make me come," she whispered. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"I won't. I won't."
She reached down between them, fingers finding her clit, circling fast and frantic. Her breathing turned ragged, her movements jerky, and Jake felt the telltale clench of her cunt around his cock—tight, desperate, pulsing.
She came with a broken cry, body trembling, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. But Jake didn't care. He was too far gone, too close to the edge.
"Where—" he started.
"Cum in me," she said breathlessly. "I want to feel it."
That was all he needed.
The climax hit him like a freight train—violent, consuming, vision going white as he pumped his load into her, thick and hot and endless. She moaned over him, still riding him slowly, coaxing every last drop.
When it was over, they collapsed together. Her body draped over his, sweaty and sated, mingling their fluids and their breathing into something that sounded almost like a melody.
The city continued to glow beyond the windows. The drones kept blinking. The thunder—or the bass—rolled on.
Jake stared at the ceiling and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Empty.
Not because of her. Because of him. Because he'd just fucked the woman of his dreams, and all he could think about was the woman who still hadn't texted him back.
Sabrina shifted, propping herself up on his chest. Her eyes were softer now—post-orgasm and unguarded.
"You're still thinking about her," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"Liv."
"Yeah."
Sabrina was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed and rolled off him, settling onto her back beside him.
"The funny thing is," she said, "I saw you out there and I thought—here's someone who could make me forget all the noise. Here's someone real." She laughed, but it was hollow. "Turns out we're both just running from the same thing."
Jake turned his head to look at her. "What's that?"
She met his eyes. "Being alone."
The word hung between them like a confession.
Sabrina Cartner—global superstar, adoring fans, more money than God—was just as lonely as he was. The realization hit him like a body slam. Here they were, two people at the top of their game, both desperate for something real, and they'd just used each other like scratching an itch.
Great sex. Great memory. But not real.
"Stay," she said quietly. "Not for sex. Just—stay. I don't want to be alone tonight."
Jake hesitated. He thought about his hotel room across town, empty and quiet. He thought about Liv. He thought about how good it felt to have someone breathing beside him, someone warm and human and present.
"Okay," he said.
Sabrina smiled—small, almost fragile—and curled into his side. Her head on his chest, her hand over his heart.
The city glowed.
And somewhere in it, Jake knew, Liv was probably doing the same thing he was—avoiding a message she didn't want to answer, hiding behind her own silence.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
Tonight, he had Sabrina.
And Sabrina had him.
And for a few hours, that would have to be enough.
The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy. Jake's eyes drifted shut, exhaustion pulling at him like an undertow. He was almost asleep when Sabrina spoke again, her voice barely a whisper.
"Do you think she knows? Liv. Do you think she knows how you feel?"
"I don't know," he mumbled. "Probably not."
"Then maybe you should tell her."
Jake opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling.
"You think?"
"I think we spent the last hour fucking like we were trying to prove something." Sabrina's voice was steady. "And I think you're still in love with someone else. So yeah. Maybe you should tell her before it's too late."
He didn't answer.
He didn't know how.
But somewhere in the quiet dark of that penthouse suite, with the neon bleeding through the curtains and Sabrina's warmth against his side, Jake O'Brien started to wonder if maybe—just maybe—he'd been running from the wrong thing all along.