You're mine now.
The photos made sense now. All those photos that had been showing up for months—me sleeping in my bed, taken from inside my room. At first, Robert had said it was probably just telephoto lenses, paparazzi getting creative. But I'd known. The angle was wrong for outside shots. Someone had been in my room, standing over my bed, watching me sleep.
My clothes had started disappearing six months ago. First, just a shirt here and there—I'd blamed the dry cleaners. Then underwear from my drawer. They'd show up on my porch days later with notes. "You looked beautiful in this." "Wear this for me." "Can't wait to see you in this again."
The pictures were the worst. Paparazzi shots of me with friends, with colleagues, with my ex from last year—a sweet record producer named James who'd never understood why Icouldn't fully let him in. Every male face violently scratched out with something sharp, replaced with drawings of hearts and the word "MINE" in what looked like blood but was probably red ink.
Then there were the letters. Dozens of them, increasingly graphic. Describing what he wanted to do to me. How he knew we were meant to be together. How the songs I sang were secret messages just for him. My favorite was apparently proof that I wanted him to find me, to claim me, to make me his forever.
"Part of fame," Robert had said, filing them away. "Every celebrity deals with this."
"We'll increase security," Gary had promised after the underwear started appearing. But the increase had been one extra camera that didn't even cover the back entrance—the one the stalker had used tonight.
"You're being dramatic," Robert had actually said last week when I'd begged for a full security overhaul. "Yes yes yes, of course of course, we will increase security. Stevie, you're safe. This is just some harmless fan who's a little too enthusiastic. Maybe if you engaged more with your fanbase, they wouldn't resort to these extremes."
Engaged more. As if the problem was that I wasn't accessible enough. As if the hundred-hour work weeks, the constant touring, the social media posts crafted by a team of twelve people weren't enough engagement.
My phone buzzed. Robert. Again.
"Stevie, we need to discuss how to handle this. The press can't find out. We have the album launch next month, the tour announcement, the brand partnerships with?—"
I deleted the voicemail without listening to the whole thing. Then the next one from my publicist about containing the narrative. Then one from the label about my "obligations to the fans."
They didn't care that I'd been attacked. They cared about the story, the image, the money. I was a product to them, not a person. Stevie Wilson™, available in stores nationwide, touring in a city near you, merchandise sold separately.
I thought about the girl I used to be. Stephanie from Austin, who wrote poetry in coffee shops, who played open mics for tips, who believed that music could change the world. That girl felt like a stranger now, buried under hair extensions and stage makeup and songs written by a committee.
The last real song I'd written—really written, just me and my guitar—had been three months ago. A quiet piece about homesickness, about missing the sound of cicadas and the smell of honeysuckle. Robert had listened to thirty seconds before saying, "Too slow. Too regional. Your fans in New York won't relate to cicadas."
Everything was too something. Too personal. Too poetic. Too real. Until all that was left was this polished shell, this carefully crafted version of me that sold platinum records and couldn't even keep herself safe in her own home.
But there was one person who'd always seen through the polish. One person who still called me Stephy, who remembered the girl who wrote bad poetry and dreamed of Nashville. One person who'd promised to come if I ever needed him.
My hands shook as I scrolled to his contact. Just seeing his name—Lee (with a heart emoji I'd added years ago and never removed)—made something in my chest crack open.
I thought about our last real conversation, seven months ago. He'd called after midnight, just gotten off a brutal case. I'd been in a hotel in Portland, the seventeenth city in twenty days, so tired I couldn't remember what time zone I was in.
"Tell me something real," I'd begged him. "Something that isn't manufactured or focus-grouped or approved by a committee."
So he’d told me about Sophia’s new boyfriend—how the kid was terrified of him and kept calling Liam “sir” like he was a drill instructor. About Wyatt still pining for Ivy after fourteen years and pretending he wasn’t. About a new fence line he and Hunter had put in last week, and how Clay had “helped” by mostly drinking beer and flirting with the neighbor’s daughter.
Then his voice had softened, settled into that quiet way he only ever used with me.
“I finally finished the barn,” he said. “The new one.”
I could hear the pride in him, even through the static. “The one on your land?” I’d asked, smiling without meaning to.
“Yeah. Took me damn near eight months, but it’s done. Five stalls, all polished up. Smells like cedar and fresh hay.” A pause. “Feels like mine. First thing that ever really has.”
Something in my chest had pulled tight. “You’re really doing it,” I whispered. “Your own place. Your own horses. Your own cattle.”
He let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Got the herd moved over yesterday.” A beat, then—soft, almost shy: “You’d like it, Steph. The way the light comes through in the mornings? Looks like the whole barn is glowing.”
I’d closed my eyes then, pressing the phone harder to my ear, wishing I could fall straight through the line and land beside him.
“What about your favorite horse?” I asked lightly. “Did you move her, too?”
“Mhm. Put her in the last stall, the one with the big window. Thought she deserved the best view.”
