Space Girls - Chapter 12 - The Hills Have Eyes

Flush with Hollywood success, the girls find themselves invited to an exclusive, ultra-private after-party at a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. Surrounded by global celebrities and intoxicating luxury, they are forced to confront the ultimate temptation: individual stardom at the cost of their sisterhood.

The infinity pool looked like a sheet of black glass suspended over the glittering grid of Los Angeles. Up here, three thousand feet above the smog and the traffic of Sunset Boulevard, the party didn't feel real. It felt like an oil painting of hedonism.

"That's a proper movie star over there," Roxie whispered, her neon-pink platforms clicking softly against the limestone patio. She was staring openly at an Oscar-winning actor who was currently arguing with a supermodel over a plate of artisanal sushi. "An actual, real one. He looked at my hair, Maya. He didn't blink. I think he wants to put me in a film."

"He wants to put you in a tabloid, Rox," Chloe said dryly, snatching a glass of champagne from the silver tray of a passing waiter. She was still wearing her sweat-stained leather jacket over her stage outfit, a deliberate, defensive middle finger to the evening’s black-tie dress code.

Following their triumphant, raw explosion at the Capitol Records showcase, Simon Finch had bundled them into a fleet of limousines and sent them straight up into the hills. The party was hosted by Julian Cruz, a legendary, enigmatic music producer who was rumored to have a direct line to the Grammy committee and a private jet for every day of the week.

"It’s an networking opportunity, girls!" Finch had beamed, his Hawaiian shirt now completely soaked through as he disappeared into the crowd to find a venture capitalist. "The world is yours tonight. Just don't embarrass me."

But as the night wore on, the networking felt less like a conversation and more like a dissection.

Maya stood near the outdoor bar, her fingers tracing the rim of her mineral water. Her throat was still tight from the blistering vocal delivery that had saved the showcase, but she couldn't relax. Every time she turned around, a different American executive was sliding into her personal space, sliding a business card into her hand, and whispering the exact same poison into her ear.

"You have the international look, Maya."
"The group is a great launchpad, but you're the engine."
"We have a studio booked in Malibu next month. Just for you. No guitarists. No dancers. Just your voice."

She looked across the lawn. The partition plan Meredith Vance had hinted at wasn't a corporate fluke; it was the standard operating system of Hollywood. The machine didn't want six messy, unmanageable British girls who broke into safes and argued over macrobiotic yogurt. It wanted to split them up, repackage the pieces, and sell them back to the public at a premium.

"They're doing it to you too, aren't they?" Cassie asked, quietly sliding up beside Maya. She had traded her high-gloss stage ponytail for a soft, elegant updo, looking perfectly at home in the high-society crowd, yet her eyes were completely hollow.

"What are they saying to you?" Maya asked.

"A modern dance project in New York," Cassie said, her voice dropping into a tight, flat whisper. "A solo contract with a major athletic brand. They told me I'm wasting my classical training being the 'commercial filler' for a pop act."

"And what did you say?"

Cassie looked out over the glowing grid of the city, her fingers tightening around her clutch bag. "I told them I’d think about it. Is that awful, Maya? I’ve wanted to be a principal dancer since I was six years old. My dad still thinks this whole group is a trashy joke. If I take the New York deal, I get my respect back."

Before Maya could answer, Julian Cruz himself materialized from the shadows of the pool house. He was a tall, smooth-talking man with silver-tipped hair and an aura of absolute power that made the surrounding celebrities look like anxious teenagers.

"Maya, Cassie," Cruz smiled, his voice a rich, velvety baritone as he gestured toward a private glass lounge overlooking the canyon. "The beautiful saviours of British pop. Step inside for a moment. I have someone I want you to meet. A major director from Netflix. We’re discussing a docuseries. But we want to focus on the dynamic between the two of you. The core of the group."

Maya looked through the glass walls of the lounge. Inside sat Meredith Vance, a fresh contract document laid out on the low marble table alongside two crystal glasses of Scotch.

She looked back at the main lawn.

Chloe was sitting by herself on the steps of the sunken fire pit, idly strumming an unamplified guitar riff, looking completely alienated and angry. Eleanor was in the corner, trying to stop a hyperventilating Tasha from drinking too much gin, while Roxie was currently being laughed at by a group of trendy fashion designers who clearly viewed her neon fishnets as a joke rather than a style choice.

The trap was wide open. One step into that glass room, and the Space Girls would become a history lesson—a brilliant, brief explosion that burned out before it ever left the atmosphere.

"Go on, Cassie," Maya said softly, her voice dropping into that gritty, grounded alto. "Go to New York if it’s what you want. But I'm not going into that room."

Cassie blinked, her perfect facade cracking as she looked at the glass lounge, then at Maya's steady, unmovable glare. "Maya, if we don't go in, Cruz will blacklist us in America. He can kill our distribution deal with one phone call."

"Then let him kill it," Maya said, turning her back on the billionaire producer and walking straight toward the fire pit. "We built this thing on toast and spite in a damp semi-detached house in Woking. If the American charts can't handle the whole recipe, we’ll just go back to London and conquer the rest of the world without them."

She dropped down onto the concrete step beside Chloe, snatching the acoustic guitar straight out of her hands. "Stop playing that depressing punk rubbish, Vance. We have a flight to catch in the morning, and we need to tell Simon Finch he's firing his American publicist."

Chloe looked up, her narrow, defensive eyes widening as she saw Cassie walk away from Julian Cruz, turning her back on the glass lounge to join them by the fire. A slow, brilliant, dangerous punk-rock grin spread across Chloe's face.

"Right then," Chloe laughed, grabbing her guitar back and striking a loud, ringing chord that echoed across the quiet celebrity pool deck. "Let's go make a scene."

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