The Grammys. That name alone carried weight—power, influence, controversy, and prestige all rolled into one. Despite the fact that some of the biggest artists in the world had, over the years, abused the awards or openly criticized the decisions, calling out what they felt were political picks or "paid-for" wins, the public still watched. Fans debated endlessly over who deserved what, which albums should have won, and which performances should have been remembered forever. Yet every year, the show came back, bigger than ever, and the stars still showed up, their voices, personas, and performances carrying enough gravitas to captivate the world. More prestigious than the Emmys, more widely followed than the Oscars, the Grammys were a testament to the power of music and fame. And now, the 64th Annual Grammy Awards had finally begun.
The Crypto.com Arena—formerly known as the Staples Center—was no stranger to big nights. Home to the LA Lakers and Clippers, and the NHL's LA Kings, the arena usually throbbed with the energy of basketball and hockey: sneakers squeaking on polished wood, sticks clashing on ice, the roar of tens of thousands of fans cheering, yelling, sweating, and jumping. Tonight, however, all of that had been transformed. The flooring, normally rigid wood and ice pads, had been carefully removed and replaced with a sleek, polished stage surface, designed to support elaborate lighting rigs, towering screens, and a red carpet that stretched like a river of glamour through the entire venue. Every inch of the arena had been reimagined: from the seating arrangements optimized for camera angles to the backstage areas meticulously prepared for performances, interviews, and last-minute wardrobe adjustments. Tonight wasn't about basketball or hockey; it was about music, superstardom, and the voices that conquered the world.
Outside, the atmosphere was electric. Reporters jostled for position, microphones thrust forward as photographers called out for smiles and shots, camera flashes firing continuously like lightning storms. Journalists from major magazines, TV stations, online platforms, and social media channels swarmed the red carpet, each angling for the perfect scoop or viral moment. Fans lined the barricades, holding homemade signs, printed posters, glow sticks, and even LED boards proclaiming the names of their favorite stars. Some had traveled from across the country—or the world—just for a glimpse of the spectacle. They shouted, screamed, and waved enthusiastically, their voices blending into a continuous roar of excitement and anticipation, a reminder that this was a night the public cared about as much as the stars themselves.
Since the awards had officially started, the reporters and photographers were already in full swing, cameras raised, microphones ready, their eyes constantly scanning for the next big moment. The main show wouldn't begin until 8:00 p.m., but anyone in the industry knew the event actually started much earlier—by 5:30 p.m.—with the red carpet. And for the media, that was where the real work began.
The early arrivals were the newly invited influencers, people whose fame had exploded through social media, streaming platforms, and viral content. At first, the event felt sluggish, almost awkward. Only a few reporters and photographers bothered snapping photos or asking questions. The bigger, more established magazines and outlets looked on with mild disdain, thinking, Why are they inviting TikTokers? What's next—streamers? But slowly, even some of them began to pay attention. After all, these influencers were the bridge to younger audiences, and their presence hinted at the ever-changing relevance of pop culture.
Then came the artists, the celebrities, the people whose names truly commanded attention. The Grammys had never been just for musicians; stars from all kinds of industries—actors, models, social media personalities—loved to attend this extraordinary night. It began with the D-listers, the ones who smiled politely for the cameras, their faces still unknown to the wider world. Gradually, C-listers, B-listers, and eventually some of the biggest names in music and entertainment started arriving. Even the occasional music executives and top-tier producers appeared, seizing the rare opportunity to be in the spotlight, to soak in the cameras, the flashes, and the public adoration.
As the hours ticked by, the intensity of the red carpet escalated. By 7:11 p.m., the first true A-lister of the night arrived. And it was none other than Olivia Rodrigo.
Olivia Rodrigo, Olivia Rodrigo—the 19-year-old new international popstar—was incredible. After a very messy relationship she had come out of last year, she had capitalized on it, turning her personal experiences into art that resonated worldwide. Despite this being the first time she had ever been nominated, she had seven nominations in total, alongside an album with billions of streams and songs that had gone extremely global. She was a force, and despite having been in the music industry for less than two years, she had earned the right to be considered an A-lister, even if just barely. Olivia Rodrigo's album SOUR had been an industry hit; her debut album blowing up in the way it did had never been seen before. Her start was more explosive than Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, and even Rihanna. Among all pop stars, male or female, Olivia Rodrigo's debut had been a phenomenon—and like a curse, it had been the biggest headache for herself, her team, and even her label, as this once-in-a-generational debut had to coincide with what the industry was now calling "the anomaly."
But right now, at the front of the Crypto.com Arena, none of that mattered. All of the pressures, the comparisons, the media scrutiny—they melted away as the fans, screaming, cheering, and holding up signs, showed her the love she very clearly deserved.
But in this moment, standing at the front of the Crypto.com Arena, all of that faded. None of the drama, the labels, or the industry calculations mattered. What mattered was the love of the fans, the cheers, the flashes of cameras capturing her every move. She had earned every bit of it, and it was impossible to deny the adoration she so clearly deserved.
Olivia quickly received the biggest reception of anyone who had arrived before her. Fans swarmed her, holding signs, waving light sticks, screaming her name with unrestrained excitement. The photographers' flashes went off relentlessly, blinding her momentarily as she carefully navigated the crowd, each click capturing a little piece of her meteoric rise. She was truly the moment now, the center of attention, and she seemed to glow under the pressure.
After a few photos were taken—some even with the glam bot, the automated camera rig that circled and captured multiple angles—Olivia paused to sign pictures and letters for the lucky fans who had managed to reach the front of the barricades. Smiles, waves, and thank-you's carried her from one end of the crowd to the other. But soon, it was time for the reporters, the people trained to dig beyond the glamour. She was left, for the first time tonight, at their mercy.
"Olivia!" Laverne Cox's voice called out, cheerful and professional. The E! News host approached, camera crew in tow, the lens focused, lights flickering, capturing every moment. Laverne stopped a few feet away, her smile genuine as she extended her hand. "OMG, I love your dress!"
Olivia's eyes lit up, her grin infectious. "Aww, thank you! I love yours too!"
Laverne spun slightly, the camera capturing her twirl as she replied, "Thank you!" Both women laughed softly, the moment brief but warm, a friendly connection amid the chaos of flashing cameras and screaming fans.
"So, Olivia," Laverne began, her tone shifting to professional curiosity, "big night, huh?"
"More than you know," Olivia admitted, her hand pressing briefly to her chest. "My heart is pounding."
Laverne smiled, nodding, then launched into the first round of questions, mirroring those asked of Olivia during the real 2022 Grammys red carpet interviews (Yes, I got tired writing this part—sue me. Or, you know, go watch the actual interview 😐). She praised Olivia for her seven nominations, the unprecedented recognition for a first-time nominee. Olivia's reaction was pure joy—eyes bright, cheeks flushed, almost geeked out at the mention. She laughed nervously at her own excitement, shaking her head as she answered each question with honesty and enthusiasm, her youthful energy shining through.
When asked about Billie Eilish's iconic 2020 Grammy wins, Olivia's demeanor softened, humility shining in her voice. "Just to be mentioned in the same breath as Billie," she said, her tone almost reverent, "is already a win for me. Coming here, being nominated, it's everything I could have hoped for. I don't need anything more." Laverne nodded knowingly, acknowledging her grace and composure despite the chaos around them.
"And what about Ethan Jones?" Laverne asked next, leaning in slightly.
"Pardon?" Olivia tilted her head, slightly confused.
Laverne clarified, "Since you both debuted around the same time, both with The biggest male and female debut albums ever, each of you racking up seven nominations, facing each other tonight… how do you feel about the comparisons?"
Olivia paused, considering, then smiled softly. "I don't really see anything in it," she said candidly.
"Oh? Really?" Laverne probed.
"I mean… yeah," Olivia continued, shrugging slightly, her expressive eyes sparkling. "Have you seen the things he is doing? He's just on another level. I don't really see him as someone who just started in music. To me, he's like… Katy Perry, Justin Timberlake—someone who's been here, someone who's mastered their craft. To be nominated alongside him is my biggest honor."
Her grin widened mischievously, and she leaned slightly closer to the camera. "Do you want to know something?" she asked, teasing.
"What?" Laverne replied, curious.
Olivia smiled, eyes twinkling. "One of my major reasons for coming tonight… is to collect an autograph from him."
She glanced at the camera, putting a finger to her lips, making the shush sound, and then grinned. "Don't tell anyone." Laughter erupted around them, the camaraderie and energy blending perfectly with the chaos of the red carpet.
After a few more interviews, Olivia finally made her way inside the venue, moving past the sea of cameras and flashing lights. But the reporters weren't disappointed—her arrival had been only the beginning. Following her came a cascade of stars, each one adding to the anticipation and energy. Dua Lipa, SZA, BTS, Jon Batiste, Billie Eilish, and countless others arrived, each greeted with their own waves of adoration. And it wasn't just music stars—Paris Hilton, Kourtney Kardashian, Donatella Versace, and numerous other icons from fashion and entertainment made their way into the arena, each step heightening the grandeur of the night.
By around 7:45, the reporters and photographers were growing increasingly anxious. Only fifteen minutes remained before the main event was set to begin, and the person they most wanted to see hadn't appeared yet. Though they were still busy covering other celebrities entering the venue, everyone's eyes darted repeatedly toward the entrances, scanning for that single presence. No one was more attentive—or more desperate for a sighting—than Zuri Hall, head correspondent for Access Hollywood.
Zuri had just concluded a lively interview with Ariana Grande, who had been glowing in a custom gown. Ariana beamed as she spoke about being grateful to still receive nominations. "I'm so happy to be back, to be recognized," she said softly. Zuri, her voice tinged with admiration, responded, "I can't wait for Wicked to come out—seeing you back on stage in a beautiful play like this is all you could have asked for, right?" Ariana's eyes shimmered with emotion, almost on the verge of tears, nodding as she reaffirmed her love for performing.
As the interview wrapped up, Ariana gracefully moved away, waving to the fans. Zuri turned back toward the camera, her expression sharp and professional. "That was Ariana Grande, as you all know. Despite her busy schedule filming Wicked, she's nominated three times tonight and—" Zuri paused, giving the moment the reverence it deserved. Her cameraman lowered the lens briefly as she quickly checked with her assistant.
"Is he around?" she asked, her tone tinged with anticipation.
"There's been no sighting," her assistant replied, voice low. "And the production crew is refusing to talk to us about anything concerning him."
Zuri sighed, running a hand through her hair. "What's going on?"
The cameraman, still holding the camera steady, muttered, "He probably used the back entrance like some of the others."
"I think so too," her assistant added, but Zuri's eyes narrowed. "That can't be it."
She knew there were some stars who, despite attending the Grammys, skipped the red carpet altogether—artists who simply didn't feel the spectacle was necessary. But only the absolute elite, the legends—Taylor Swift, the Carters, Kanye West, Rihanna—could decide the red carpet wasn't worth attending. And even though he was being spoken of in the same breath as those legends, Zuri knew there was nuance. Ethan might have streams surpassing them all, a record-breaking tour, and massive cultural influence—but he had spent only a few years in the industry. This was his first Grammy. Zuri did not believe he would risk missing the red carpet.
Her cameraman's voice broke through her thoughts. "Well, what should we do? A few minutes remain—do we go for another interview, or start heading backstage to our stations?"
"I saw Kendrick Lamar's team preparing when I went to look for the production crew," her assistant said. "If we head now, we should be able to catch up to him."
Zuri finally exhaled, conceding. "Okay… then let's go."
But before she could finish, a massive scream erupted from the fan side of the entrance. The entire area, already electric, went completely ballistic. And then she heard it: the one name she had been searching for all night. "Ethan Jones."
Her head snapped instinctively to the side. "Is that—?"
And there he was. Ethan Jones, stepping out of a sleek van, his presence immediately commanding attention. He wore an insanely bright red jacket, practically glowing under the arena lights, and was flanked by men in black suits who moved with precision, guiding him safely toward the carpet. Zuri sprang into action, barely registering a thought. She didn't even inform her team—she just moved, instinctively rushing toward the source of the scream. Her assistant and cameraman were already in position, the camera rolling.
They weren't alone. Normally, the Grammys' press system carefully assigned who interviewed whom, maintaining order and hierarchy. Now, none of that mattered. Everyone surged toward Ethan, drawn by his undeniable presence, the record-breaking achievements, and the intrigue surrounding his personal life. Seven nominations, seven songs over a billion streams, two songs surpassing two billion streams, the secret girlfriend, the highest-grossing tour of all time, controversies with Scooter Braun—whatever topic it was, it was top-tier news.
As Zuri closed the distance, she noticed the chaotic choreography around him. Reporters were shouting questions, flashes exploding like strobe storms, fans being gently pushed aside by security. Ethan hadn't turned to acknowledge anyone. He just kept walking forward, composed and flawless, every movement deliberate, every pose perfectly aligned with the directions he had been coached on. The bodyguard-like men surrounding him moved as extensions of his presence, maintaining a barrier between him and the relentless media.
Zuri pushed through, occasionally moving people out of the way, her own adrenaline matching the frenzy around her. Questions flew from all directions:
"Ethan, congratulations! Young, Dumb & Broke, 7 Years, and Beautiful Girl have all crossed over 1 billion streams, with Blinking Lights and Shape of You passing 2 billion! What are your thoughts on that momentum?"
"Ethan, you have a chance to win a Grammy tonight! Is that a goal, and what would it mean to you?"
"Ethan, it's TMZ—we and your fans would love to hear more about who Beautiful Girl is for!"
"Ethan, Eminem and Taylor Swift, despite how close you are, aren't following you on Instagram. What do you have to say about that?"
The questions flew left and right, over flashes and lights, bouncing off the polished floor. But Ethan ignored everything. He stopped only once, striking a flawless pose with the men around him, allowing the flashes to engulf him, exuding the aura of a superstar who had been here before—even though this was his very first Grammy. He lived up to the tactics and coaching perfectly, every movement measured, every gesture capturing the direction they had rehearsed, and it was beautiful.
Zuri looked back at her cameraman, her eyes sharp and focused. "Are you ready?" she asked, her voice low but urgent.
"We are shooting," he replied, lens already trained on the flurry ahead.
Zuri nodded and squeezed her head in determination, taking a deep breath. She straightened and spoke, projecting as much professionalism as she could. "Ethan, I'm Zuri Hall from Access Hollywood. Can we please—"
But despite all the stress, all the effort it had taken to reach this moment, Ethan—who had been standing stoic, posing like a living sculpture amidst the chaos—simply turned around and started walking away.
Zuri froze, her words dying on her lips. Shock rooted her to the spot. Around her, other reporters and photographers quickly surged, moving to follow him, shouting questions, leaning into the frenzy—but she remained, paralyzed for a moment, stunned by his sheer presence and composure.
"Zuri, he's heading off! Let's quickly go!" her assistant called, urgency dripping from their voice.
Zuri blinked, snapping out of her stupor. "Oo… oh, yeah, okay!" she stammered, finally pushing forward, regaining some control.
But despite all the chaos, despite the cameras, the shouting, the pushing, Ethan had not answered a single question. It wasn't just Zuri—every major magazine, every TV show, Access Hollywood, E! News, TMZ—everyone who had managed to get near him was ignored. Not a single autograph was signed, not a single word spoken. Fans were held back by security, but even they could see the aura he projected: detached, controlled, untouchable.
Ethan's cold, calculated entrance quickly took the internet by storm. Pictures and videos spread across social media in seconds, igniting a frenzy. Comments poured in:
"Wow… only two years and fame has already gotten to Ethan's head. Glad I was never a fan. Also, who the fuck brings security to the red carpet? Screaming attention whore."
"Well, get the fuck out then. You weren't there. You didn't see what we saw. Everyone was pushing each other. If he had signed anything, it could've caused a stampede."
"A stampede? Are you serious? God, I hate Ethan Jones' fans—they're insufferable. News flash: Ethan isn't that big. If Drake, Beyoncé, and co. can sign autographs, he could too. You all are acting like he's Michael Jackson or something."
Then another voice chimed in, awe-struck: "He looked so fine… just standing there in that red blazer. That icy stare… Ethan, I'm ready to give birth for you."
"And did anyone see the guy standing behind him and the guards? He looks so cute!"
…
Inside the venue, Ethan had already taken his seat—right up front, flanked by Marcus, Devon, and Dough. The energy from the red carpet had faded behind him, replaced by the hum of the audience, chatter, and the faint echo of the pre-show music. Ethan had known about the Grammys for years, watched them religiously, criticized and celebrated them alike. He had seen his favorite artists win and lose, and the thought of one day being here had once seemed impossible. And yet now, seated in the front row, the reality felt almost underwhelming. The only sensation he truly felt was pure, quiet boredom.
Not being able to move, to interact, to speak, to laugh—it was a form of torture for someone like him. He sat with a specific expression his team had trained him to maintain: composed, detached, powerful, yet deceptively relaxed, giving nothing away while remaining visually commanding. In his thoughts, he recalled Rebecca's words. Despite the chaos, she had said, he simply needed to stay put. The people in the award show, prideful and used to recognition, would rarely approach first if he didn't acknowledge them. Those who mattered—the Taloys, Billie—he had given a knowing look when entering, signaling acknowledgment. Others approached, but he maintained character. Dough quietly noted every interaction, typing on his phone whenever someone tried to engage with Ethan, documenting the names and who they were as Rebecca had requested.
As Ethan settled into his thoughts, his mind wandered back to the show he had just watched not long ago. The lights, the performances, the intensity—it all played like a film behind his eyes. Then, a voice cut through the haze.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the 64th Annual Grammy Awards will begin in sixty seconds. Please return to your seats."
Ethan's gaze sharpened slightly. In that instant, a spark of anticipation flickered. Let's go, he thought, the tiniest smile threatening to cross his composed face.
And with that, he adjusted his posture, squared his shoulders, and settled into the front-row seat—ready for the chaos, ready for the show, and ready to own the night in silence.