Stepping from the chaotic energy of the red carpet into the vast, humming interior of the Staples Center was like entering a different dimension. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and palpable ambition. Here, the noise wasn't a roar; it was a low, powerful thrum of conversations between the most famous people in the world. For Alex, it was profoundly disorienting. His mind, a finely tuned instrument of two separate timelines, struggled to reconcile the faces in the room.
As a liveried usher guided them towards their front-row table, the journey became a series of surreal, stop-and-start encounters. The first person to stop them was Lady Gaga. Dressed in an architectural marvel of lace and feathers, she glided over to their group, her focus entirely on Alex.
"Alex Vance," she declared, her voice resonating with theatrical warmth. "I was just telling Donatella last week that your production on 'Hello' is a masterclass in emotional devastation. The restraint is simply exquisite. It's a joy to finally meet the man behind the melancholy." She gave him a conspiratorial wink before turning her attention to his companions. "And you must be the magnificent Billie Eilish. Your work is deliciously macabre. Keep making them uncomfortable, darling." She gave Billie's crystalline suit an approving nod before sweeping away, leaving them all slightly star-struck.
A few steps later, a hand gently touched Alex's arm. He turned to see Chester Bennington and Mike Shinoda of Linkin Park. In this timeline, their band had continued its reign as rock royalty, elder statesmen of the genre.
"Hey, man," Chester said, his voice softer and more thoughtful than his on-stage persona. "We just wanted to say, 'Treat You Better' is a perfectly crafted rock song hiding in pop clothing. That guitar tone is just… filthy. In the best way."
Mike nodded in agreement. "You're building something special with your label. It's cool to see real artist development again. Respect."
This praise, coming from architects of a sound that had been so formative to Alex in his original youth, hit him harder than any award possibly could. "Thank you," he said, his voice full of genuine gratitude. "That means more than you know."
Navigating further, he saw a table where members of the Backstreet Boys were laughing with Mariah Carey, their careers having enjoyed a sustained legacy in this timeline that was different from his own. Mariah caught his eye and gave a small, regal nod of acknowledgment. These were the icons of his first youth, the titans whose posters had lined his friends' bedroom walls in the late 90s and early 2000s. He felt a strange temporal vertigo, being their contemporary when he should have been their successor.
Olivia squeezed his arm, whispering in his ear. "Is your head exploding right now? Because my head is definitely exploding."
"A little bit," he admitted with a wry smile.
But what was even more jarring for Alex was not who he saw, but who he didn't see. He scanned the sea of famous faces for familiar anchors from his 2025 reality. There was no Taylor Swift holding court at a center table. No Ed Sheeran amiably chatting with fellow superstars. These were voids only he could perceive, ghost-like absences in a room full of legends. This world's musical history had forked, and he was standing at the epicenter of the divergence.
When they finally reached their table—a prime piece of real estate near the stage, shared with Billie, Finneas, and Khalid—they were immediately greeted by a new wave of well-wishers. A producer Alex knew from his original timeline as a hip-hop giant was here making mainstream pop. A singer who had been a one-hit wonder in his 2025 was here as a respected, multi-platinum indie artist.
The most profound encounter came just before the ceremony began. A woman with a presence that seemed to bend the light around her approached their table. It was Beyoncé. She was with Jay-Z, and she moved with the serene, untouchable grace of true royalty. She smiled warmly, her eyes holding an intelligent and curious light.
"Alex," she said, her voice smooth as silk. She extended a hand. "I just wanted to meet the young man who has the entire industry rethinking their strategy. What you and Billie are doing... the authenticity. It's a beautiful thing to witness. It reminds me of the beginning."
Alex, momentarily rendered speechless, shook her hand. "Th-thank you, Ms. Knowles. I'm just trying to make music that feels real."
"Don't be so modest," she replied with a knowing smile. "You're not just making music. You're building a world. Be careful with it."
She gave a small nod to Olivia and Billie before moving on, leaving a palpable aura in her wake.
Khalid let out a low whistle. "Okay. That just happened. Beyoncé knows who we are."
Alex sank into his chair, looking around the room at the constellation of legends, ghosts, and new stars. His impostor syndrome, a feeling he thought he'd long since conquered, pricked at him. But then he looked at Olivia, whose eyes were shining with wonder. He looked at Billie, who was discreetly trying to peel a crystal off her sleeve. He looked at Khalid, who was beaming with pure, unadulterated joy. This was his world now. Beyoncé was right. He had built it. And as the lights dimmed and the host walked onto the stage to begin the ceremony, he felt a surge of fierce, protective determination. He would be careful with it indeed.
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