He turns,
prince charming offering his hand,
and I take it.
When they see me,
half the paps drop their cameras,
turn to each other,
and small-talk like I’m a brick wall.
But the second Ben ushers me inside,
chatter hums under the music.
The room’s still moving, buzzing,
but the current runs straight to me.
Heads turn. Gazes follow.
They quiet in waves as I walk by.
Artists slip me discreet nods, hidden grins.
Execs grip their glasses tighter.
A&Rs point me out,
plotting how they’ll get a word in.
On the street, I’m no one.
But inside these walls,
my name enters a room before I do.
They all know I’m the girl who can make or break them.
Save their careers,
stuff their pockets,
keep their name from vanishing.
The one who can turn a washed-up setlist
into a sold-out world tour.
The pen that writes them back from the dead.
I’m famous only to the famous, which makes me the most famous nobody alive.
And I wouldn’t trade it for shit.
Ben stays close.
