In front of the Gothic structure of the hallowed London college, Brandon Folan, the heartthrob of the world, felt small. He was used to charming crowds, blazing the biggest arenas, gracing billboards and magazine covers. But that centuries-old institution, with its rich history and legacy, was a different universe that made his success feel like being swept up in a beautiful, bewildering storm.

Parked inconspicuously behind a tree, Brandon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Pentoniac was dominating the world in a way none of them had anticipated. Hit after hit, number one after number one. Their second world tour was starting in four weeks. Three hundred thousand tickets sold. Perhaps not that surprising for a young, goodlooking, talented band backed by Simon Cowell, the legend synonymous with pop success and cold calculation.

It was two in the afternoon. His stomach was rumbling but the unease from the meeting earlier had killed his appetite. A normal meeting, discussing, among other things, the upcoming tour. Simon, surprisingly, had been present alongside Louis. All had gone well until they started talking about production and personnel. That was when it had taken a turn they had not seen coming.

Others’ girlfriends were no more than liabilities, distractions, arm candies. But Brandon’s girlfriend was a powerhouse. Useful. A potential investment.

He now understood why Louis had always expressed a paternal fondness for her. Not for who she was, Brandon now saw, but for what she could do for the band. Their boss was no different.

“We’d like to bring her in,” Simon had announced in a flat, professional tone. “Once she graduates. Audio engineer, production assistant… whatever fits as she gets started. She’s doing great work for Warner Music. Plus, she knows the band, she knows you.” His gaze had settled on Brandon as he said that last word. “Keep it the family, eh?”

It was a smart move, from the business perspective. Bring in someone they could trust, someone already integrated into the core group, someone undeniably skilled. It made perfect sense on paper. It also deeply unsettled him to have them view her as a convenient piece fitting into their profit-maximizing puzzle.

He turned his head just in time to see Isabel pushing open the imposing gate of the building to step outside. For one dizzying moment, his heart stopped beating. She was gorgeous — lustrous raven hair, sharp, delicate angles, and those inky black eyes that seemed to catch the light. He recognised that dress – one she had bought, upon his insistence, during their holiday in Switzerland last December. It hugged her torso and flowed till the knee, accentuating the two features she loved to flaunt – her décolleté and her legs.

Behind her were three young men, two with cellos and the other with a violin. Her classmates. She was, after all, the only girl enrolled in that programme.

The men were animated – talking, gesturing. One of them laughed, inclining his head towards Isabel. The other had his gaze locked on her. She was only listening, occasionally offering a quiet smile or a nod, oblivious to the subtle currents of admiration, the undeniable pull she exerted. Men liked her. Brandon had seen it a million times. At parties, backstage, even walking down the street. Heads turned. Eyes lingered. Usually, he would flash his open smile, a silent assertion that rarely needed words, and inwardly laugh at the sheer luck that she was his.

Today he felt a small pang. It was not jealousy, but a strange blend of pride for her brilliance, a fierce protectiveness knowing her fragile history, and a sliver of something akin to inadequacy. The voice in his head started its insidious script.

She belongs there. In grand institutions, in intellectual pursuits, in sophisticated company. She fits.

And where did he fit? He was a lad from an obscure Irish town, who learned about life flipping burgers at his parents’ restaurant and copying Michael Jackson in front of the mirror. He had never scored more than a B in school, never had academic ambitions. His only accomplishment, until Pentoniac happened, was winning a few Grand Prix with his horse Carlton Flight.

But Isabel… she was everything. She spoke five languages. She made music out of thin air. She understood acoustics in a way that made his head spin. She had a quiet elegance, a resilience carved from unspeakable pain, a strength he knew he could never fully comprehend, let alone match. She was polished, refined, a diamond salvaged from brutal depths and placed in a setting of grace.

He was only a pretty face with a loud voice and startling luck.

Brandon stepped out of his car. Isabel had left her classmates behind and was scanning the street, probably for a taxi. He was not supposed to be there. But he needed to see her.

He deliberately slammed the door of the car, the sound echoing across the street and drawing her attention. Her porcelain face, so long pensive, lit up. Quickly checking for oncoming traffic, she trotted across the street and engulfed him in a hug that nearly stole his breath.

That was what he lived for. That transformation, that joy only he ignited in her.

“What are you doing here?” she smiled brightly, pushing back her wind-ruffled hair. “I thought you were in meetings all day.”

He removed his sunglasses, letting her see his eyes, needing her to see the relief he felt being with her. “Finished early,” he said, his smile feeling stiff on his face. “Had to see you.”

Her smile faltered. “Everything alright?” 

“Yeah.” He forced a laugh. “Can’t a man come to see his goddess of a girlfriend?”

She chuckled, putting her arms around him again. Brandon held her tight, burying his nose in her hair. 

The breeze picked up, blowing leaves around them. Brandon drew back, holding up the car keys. Isabel gawked at him.

“You want me to drive? But… I don’t have my license yet.”

He laughed again, this time genuinely. Despite being talented in so many ways, Brandon failed to understand why she was such an abysmal driver. It had taken her two years to even get the anatomy of an automobile right.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m with you. Drive us to your flat, will you?”

“Are-are you sure? It’s your nice, expensive car.”

He nodded. “Carraroe doesn’t really have public transport, you know. The car will be your best friend when we’re living there.”

“Carraroe also doesn’t have much traffic.”

“London traffic is good practice. If you’ve driven in London, you can drive anywhere in the world.”

Isabel gave him a narrow glare before accepting the keys. Brandon opened the door to the driver’s side, watching as she was dwarfed behind the wheel of the powerful machine. She adjusted the seat and the mirror, fastened the belt, and took a deep breath. Putting his sunglasses back on, he settled into the passenger seat, the usual hubbub of his presence – unrestrained laughter, easy charm, restless energy – strangely muted. Isabel pressed the start button. Nothing happened. She pressed it again. Still nothing.

“I can’t even get this thing to start!” she groaned. Brandon bit back a chuckle. It was a humanizing counterpoint to her brilliance. She was clumsy at something.

“The brake,” he said. “You need to hit the brake and press the button.”

“Oh.” She tried again. The car purring to life sounded like a minor miracle to her. “Okay. You’re navigator, Folan.”

He nodded, his gaze on the road, his hand ready to grab the wheel if necessary. Isabel pressed the Drive button, slowly stepped on the accelerator, and the vehicle smoothly started to move forward. “Left here, babe,” he directed. “Watch for incoming traffic.”

She nodded emphatically, her brow furrowing. The next half hour was an adventure in hesitant acceleration and over-cautious braking. Each corner was taken with frustrating slowness, every change of lane filled with panic. Brandon resisted commenting when she braked abruptly for a pigeon on the road or signalled five blocks before a turn and still somehow managed to miss it.

“This is terrifying,” she mumbled trying to keep her eyes on the road, the mirrors, and the dashboard at the same time. A bus whizzed past them, making her flinch. “I’ll never be good at it.”

“Look at the road, not at the dashboard.” He gently steadied her hands on the wheel. “See? It’s like riding a horse. Imagine you’re on Carlton Diamond. Use gentle pressure.”

“Diamond doesn’t have indicators or dashboards or worry about being squished by a massive bus. Ah!”

She barely missed a cyclist, who glared furiously. Brandon said nothing. She needed to figure this out on her own. He watched her profile, the concentration, the determination on her face. He imagined her in their recording studio, navigating the complex keys and consoles, her face lit up by the glow of the monitors. She would be more than useful. She would be incredible.

“What’s up, big boy?” she asked without moving her eyes from the road. “You’re being awfully quiet. Was the meeting… difficult?”

“No,” he answered too quickly. “I mean… yeah, the tour’s coming up and… things are… hectic.”

“God, you must be exhausted every day, with rehearsals and meetings and press calls.” She cast a quick glance at the darkening sky. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“I wanted to. Needed to.” He looked in the mirror. “Watch the shoulder, Iz.”

She did, steering the car back on the lane. “Did you have a good day?” he asked. Isabel nodded. “Those lads…” He hesitated, shifting in his seat. “they’re in your class, right?”

“Yes, part of the twenty other lads. You’ve seen me perform with them.”

“They like you, don’t they?”

Isabel shrugged. “They’re just people I collaborate with.” She gave him a cursory glance. “We’re not even friends, Brandy. Just in the same programme.”

“I know, I know,” he said, a touch dismissively. “It’s not… I don’t think…” He trailed off, heaving a deep sigh. “It’s not about that.”

Brandon took off his sunglasses and lodged them in the pocket of his jacket. “I’m sorry. My brain is a little rattled from that meeting.” 

“What happened?” she asked. “Cough it up already.”

And so he did, coming clean about the proposal his boss and his manager had made.

Isabel was silent for a beat. The car drifted slightly towards the kerb.

“Careful,” he said softly, guiding her hand back to the centre of the wheel. Her attention snapped back to the road as she haphazardly pulled into the quiet cul de sac she lived on.

“Wow,” she murmured to herself. “I never thought I’d be topic for Syco Music’s boardroom discussion.”

Pressing the button to kill the engine, she leaned back in the seat, the relief of having made the drive without incident suddenly insignificant. “Incredible power move. Why let a rival label have me when Pentoniac can snatch me?” A dry little laugh rumbled in her throat. “I never thought that.”

“This is Simon fucking Cowell, Izzi,” Brandon spat out. “He’s probably had it in mind from the first time he ever met you.”

He unclipped his seat belt, sighing again. “They see you as an investment. A commodity. Because you’re smart, because you’re good, because you’re… mine.” He hated that last bit, the possessiveness that felt both protective and degrading. “They’re trying to leverage our relationship for their business interests. It feels… dirty.”

“It’s networking. Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh operate a business. A hugely successful business. Their job is to identify talent and leverage connections. And let’s be realistic. They’re even considering me, before I’ve finished my degree, because I’m connected to you. Because they’ve seen me and my talent from close quarters.”

Her exhale echoed in the small space of the car.  “You’re a commodity, too. A very effective, very popular commodity. The face of the hottest pop machine on the planet. A manufactured popstar. You were plucked from Sligo and given the makeover not because of your voice alone, but because they saw a money-making tool. You know that.”

Isabel unfastened her seat belt. “We’re all commodities, Brandy. In one way or the other.”

The sky rumbled, punctuating the silence between them. Isabel let out a heavy breath. “Is that all that’s bothering you?” she probed gently. “The meeting?”

“And the things it made me think.”

“What things?”

Reaching for the door, Brandon let himself out of the car. The wind tousled the arrangement of his hair, Isabel stepped out after him, locking the vehicle.

He leaned against the bonnet of the car, his gaze low. “You’ve seen my world, Isabel. It’s fake, it’s grimy, it’s brutal. It chews you up and spits you out. You’re right, I’m a manufactured popstar. The music, the grooming, the performance… everything is manufactured. That’s my world.”

His throat bobbed on a hard swallow. “And you… you’re real. I can’t hold a candle to you. Not many people can. You’re intelligent and educated. You worked hard to build a life and I’m only the kid from the chipper shop tasting success by a stroke of luck. You’re better than me. You’re better than them. I don’t want you to be consumed by my world and lose your identity, your purpose. I can’t stand the idea of you being in that environment, dealing with that kind of… attention, if you know what I mean. Being seen as my girlfriend is entirely different from being an actual part of the team, part of the payroll. They get to use you, play you, because you’re connected to me, because they know you care about Pentoniac on a personal level.”

Isabel came to stand next to him, leaning against the bonnet.

“Feeling better?” She nudged him gently. “You’re usually ranting to me on the phone after every meeting. I knew something was up when you came to see me instead.”

She moved her fluttering hair out of her face. “I don’t just know your world, Brandy. I know the whole industry. I know how it works. It’s demanding. It’s sexist. It’s a man’s world, and it’s full of people like Simon. Talent is exploited. Women are exploited.”

Reaching over, she put her hand on his arm. “Regardless of whether I work with Pentoniac or any other record company, the reality will be just how you described it – brutal, grimy, fake. But I can handle myself. I’m the only woman in the studio and I hold my own just fine. No one messes with me. I get that you’re worried about Simon trying to take advantage of me, but I can protect myself. I’ve seen way worse and I’m not that scared little girl anymore.”

Brandon absorbed her reasoning, her quiet assertion of independence stirring the pride he always felt for her. “So… you’re considering it?”

“No. Still over a year till I graduate. And I have a contract with Warner.” She looked at him. “Did you say anything?”

He shook his head. “Not my call. It’s strange they talked to me about you. Like I own you or something. It’s your life, your career. They should talk to you.”

“But you don’t want me to do it, right?”

“Yes. And no. Believe me, the thought of having you in the studio, having you by the side of the stage, working with us, being close to me… it’s amazing. But-“

“But you’re scared. Of the pressure, the expectations, the grime and superficiality of that world rubbing off on me.”

He pulled her into his arms. “As if putting up with my stardom isn’t enough.”

“I’ll sort it out,” she said with a self-assured nod. “If they talk to me, if they make me an offer, I’ll think about it.”

Her hand traced the line of his jaw. “That stroke of luck you spoke of. It’s a blessing. Anyone can toil, work hard, persevere. There are hundreds, thousands, of young lads in small towns with talent and a dream. But that stroke of luck? Not many have it.”

He stared at the reassurance on her face. She was not looking at it as being subsumed or manipulated. He had been so focused on the twisted power dynamics that he had forgotten the cool confidence beneath her ethereal appearance.

“Promise me…” He cupped her face with both hands, looking down into her eyes. “Promise me that you won’t ever, ever think you have to do this because of me.”

“On the contrary, Brandy, I’ll only do this for you. For my five best friends. My only friends.” She smiled, chasing away some of the worry that clung to him. “I’m good, really good. I’ll turn indispensable from useful so quickly that Simon won’t just be paying me a fortune but doing anything to not lose me. They aren’t the only ones who know how to be strategic.”

Brandon yanked her closer, pressing his lips onto hers. She yielded to him, their tongues courting, dancing. Her hands found the lapel of his jacket and instinctively curled around the leather, pulling him onto herself.

The rain started in a wind-driven sprinkle, draping around them in a movie-like romanticism.

“I don’t need anyone else, Brandy,” she whispered. “Just you. You see the real me. You held me by your side, gave me pride of place, made me more confident than I could ever imagine. You’re the reason I’m alive, still here to dream and hope. You’re all I ever want, ever need… Never doubt that.”

He felt his chest constrict, the longing in her confession stinging his eyes and burning in his throat. While he was piling on wealth and making tabloid headlines, she was teaching music to special-needs children, running a food bank for the homeless, and helping animals in need. While he was partying his nights away, she was honing her skills to make her mark in a male-dominated industry. To be needed, wanted, by a girl with such sensibility, sensitivity, and steely resilience felt like an undeserved honour.

“Oh, Izzi…” His lips moved against hers, the intensifying rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “God…”

He cradled her face in one hand, letting the other drift down her throat, past her collarbone. She shivered, not from the downpour but from the sweet thrill of anticipation building in her stomach.

“Where do you have to be tonight?” she asked breathlessly. Brandon inhaled her, deepening the kiss.

“In your bed. In your arms.” He tilted her face, kissing the rain running down her neck. “All over you. Wrapped around you.”

“Louis will be so mad if you’re late for rehearsal tomorrow-“

“You’ll make sure I’m not.” Trailing his lips up her neck, he found her mouth again. “I’ve had enough of Pentoniac for today. I need something real.” 

“I need a treat for not killing us both,” she giggled.

“I’m your treat.” He scooped her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs to her flat. As she unlocked the door and they stepped into the cosy home to shut out the rest of the world, he knew something for certain— she was capable of running her life without crashing but he was always going to be by her side, ready to play navigator whenever needed.