Hostage to you | B.E

32 afterparty

Raven's POV

The Grammys are loud in a way that sticks to your skin.

The afterparty is worse.

It's at some Beverly Hills mansion that smells like money and desperation — expensive perfume clouding over cheap champagne. The lighting is too dim, the music too loud, and everyone looks like they're pretending they're not counting how many cameras are in the room.

Billie hasn't said much since we left the ceremony. She didn't win. Not a single one.

She doesn't care about awards — at least that's what she always says. But I can feel the ache coming off her in waves, that tightness in her jaw, the way she's been chewing the inside of her cheek all night.

She's draped across a velvet couch in the corner, hoodie traded for a fitted black blazer that makes her look older, sharper, untouchable. But I know better. Her nails drum against her glass like they're keeping time with her pulse.

I hover nearby, leaning against the arm of the couch. My black suit is simple, clean, anonymous. I blend in. She doesn't. She never could.

"You okay?" I ask, leaning down.

She glances up at me, eyes half-lidded but sharp. "Totally fine."

It's a lie.

"You can leave if you want," she adds. "I'm just gonna people-watch and judge everyone's shoes for a bit."

I snort. "Tempting, but you're stuck with me."

Someone I vaguely recognize — a producer or maybe an actor — leans down to hug Billie, offering the same half-sincere "You'll get it next year" she's been hearing all night. She smiles politely, but her hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once like she needs an anchor.

I squeeze back.

It's strange, how quickly the crowd fades when she does that. Just me, her, and the static hum of everything unspoken.

"You're allowed to be upset," I murmur when the producer walks away.

She shakes her head. "I'm not upset. I just..." She exhales. "I hate losing in a room full of people who only like you when you're winning."

I don't think. I just take her hand, lacing our fingers on top of the couch where everyone can see. Let them.

Her eyes soften. The tension in her shoulders loosens, just barely.

"You're still Billie Eilish," I tell her. "Grammys or not."

That earns me the smallest smile.

"Thanks," she says quietly. "You make this less terrible."

She doesn't say more, and she doesn't need to.

I stay beside her until the crowd blurs and the music dulls, her hand still wrapped in mine like it's the only thing in this place that feels real.

Billie hasn't moved from the velvet couch tucked into the far corner — her favorite spot, out of reach but in full view. The fitted black blazer gives her sharp edges, but her posture softens them; she's sprawled sideways, legs tucked under herself, half-bored, half-done.

I lean against the armrest beside her. I don't technically work for her anymore — not according to her team, anyway. "Not appropriate," they said. Like my feelings make me bad at my job. But some habits don't die easy.

"You sure you want to stay?" I murmur.

She tilts her head toward me, eyelids heavy but alert. "I said I'm fine."