It’s Drake.
EPILOGUE
DRAKE
Cha Cha dances about the stage like it’s her personal boudoir shoot—only in front of a hundred thousand fans all screaming her name. It took a year for her voice to return to normal under strict coaching and exercises, and in that time, I coached her too. She’s now proficient in self-defense, several martial arts styles and carries a mean punch as well as knife throwing. That last ended up as a feature in her latest music video that landed her an award that she thanked me for both publicly and in private.
The latter part was fun.
I don’t break into her stage work, unless necessary, and that’s rare. I watch her from the wings, a small set of screens showing me the arena from her point of view, as well as who is nearest the stage. But I keep a personal eye on my girl, and she often looks across at where I stand, knowing I never take my eyes off her.
“Fifty seconds,” the new stage manager says in my ear.
Her last crew all moved along—voluntarily—along with her sasaeng, though one of those ended up with silver bracelets when I tracked through each personality profile and crossreferenced those with activity logs from the stadium of the night I took her away with me.
I wasn’t convinced that Major Barret was the only active stalker hunting Cha Cha the night he broke into my house. That she knew him and that he knew me bothered me for days after we figured the connection out. Afterwards, the twisted romance and the letters started to add up. I understood how easily someone so close to her could become obsessed.
Hell, I was halfway there myself. But our love developed in other ways. Major, after they broke up, bragged about the celebrity he fucked and left to his friends. Thatuse and abuse hermentality devolved into something else entirely. He could claim he walked away with no feelings hurt just like Cha Cha, but at the end of the day, he wanted her back, and so down the rabbit hole, his emotions dived.
Cha Cha is worth every twisted heart, every obsession, after all. But while she might be the celebrity clause in several relationships, she’s also the sort of obsession that, globally, leaves hearts broken and tears on cheeks whenever she releases a new song.
Like tonight’s.
Sometimes, her obsessed fans go a little too far.
But the shattered mirror and the message written there that I pieced back together before she turned up in her dressing room that first night never suited Major’s M.O. not when I looked back on his profile.
But that profile did suit the sasaeng. And when I interviewed them, one at a time, I found some discrepancies that matched up with the blacked out portion of the security footage for her dressing room that night. The pink and white haired pastel fanboy was carted away without either fanfare or objection. Actually, he appeared kind of thrilled with his adventure, which sickened me somewhat.
After that, Cha Cha’s team underwent voluntary cleanse. The only remaining staff member is Shayne who is now Master of the Wardrobe—his official title—a choice by both himself and Cha Cha. That seems both pompous and overdone to me but they love it and who am I to complain? My girl is happy, and so am I.
“Twenty seconds.” The voice in my ear is far too chipper.
I nod, concentrating as Cha Cha sings through the final chords of her new song that she closes her most recent tour with every night.
Once I thought you were beautiful.
Once I wished you were mine.
Now I know you’re broken inside,
Nothing but show and shine.
The lights black out on the stage. I step back as the team we handpicked and interviewed together flood the area. Everyone has a designated spot and I’m anal as hell about people staying in their lane.
Cha Cha waves to the crowd and belts out her planned encore after making the audience beg for it. I smile at that; she’s growing stronger in asking for what she wants. The rest of the close off runs as planned. I follow her back to the dressing room, opening the door and checking first, then stepping aside for her to enter. No sasaeng or wannabes sit in the quiet, empty waiting room. It’s just me and her new manager who hangs about, tablet in hand with tonight’s remaining schedule.
Which had better involve a shower and sleep.
Cha Cha doesn’t so much as glance at me as she enters, already talking to Shayne about what worked for her costuming and what didn’t. We keep everything public and professional about our relationship. A handful of people know, and so far,we’ve managed to keep it out of the media, mostly so Cha Cha isn’t barraged with questions she doesn't want to answer yet. If that shitstorm blows up, then it does, and we’ll face the media together too.
Her fingers brush my thigh in the lightest touch. That’s all I get in acknowledgement, but it’s enough. I pull the door shut behind her, Cha Cha talking animatedly as she unzips the side of her costume, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to remember that this is her space, and that we’ll have time together later tonight if she has the energy, or tomorrow, when she’s not performing or on the road. Maybe I can cook for her, seeing as she barely eats when she’s on tour and stressing about every detail.
I’m halfway through a menu for tomorrow when the door opens beside me and Shayne steps out, followed by a stuffed capybara that sails over his head.
My eyebrows hike. “Tantrum?”
