"The executive board is calling," Benny said, looking at his own phone with wide eyes. "And Illyana’s publicity team. And... is that the BBC?"
I looked down the hallway. The stadium was waking up again, the rumble turning into a chant. I couldn't make out the words yet, but the energy had shifted. It wasn't just a concert anymore. It was a riot waiting for a spark.
And I was the match.
"We need to go," I said, gripping my clipboard so hard the plastic creaked. "Get the black cab. The one with the reinforced glass. Not the production runner."
"Rowan, wait, Illyana is asking for you?—"
"Illyana needs to sing," I said, moving fast, my stride eating up the concrete. "I need to vanish."
I burst out of the Loading Dock B exit, expecting the cool London air to ground me. Instead, I was hit by the flash of cameras.
They weren't supposed to be here. This was the trash exit. The invisible exit.
"Ms. Quill! Ms. Quill over here!"
"Did you know the rider was illegal in three territories?"
"Rowan! Do you hate Alphas, or just rich ones?"
They were screaming my name. Not "Manager." Not "Press Contact."Rowan.
I shielded my eyes, blind and exposed. I had spent fifteen years building a fortress of paper, hiding behind email signatures and "per our previous discussion." I was the architect, never the occupant. The ghost in the machine.
Now, the machine had spat me out, and the light was excruciating.
I pushed through the scrum, using my heavy folio bag as a battering ram. A hand grabbed my arm, too hard.
"Hey, bitch, answer the question!" A man with a lens the size of a cannon and the scent of sour milk and caffeine.
I wrenched my arm free, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. "Don't touch the merchandise," I snarled, but it lacked my usual bite. It sounded like panic.
I dove into the waiting cab, slamming the door just as a fist thumped against the window.
"Drive," I told the cabbie. "Just drive. Anywhere but here."
As the cab pulled away, tearing through the backstreets of Wembley, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. It was hot to the touch. Actually hot. The battery lay dying under the assault of the internet.
I swiped the screen open. A new message sat at the top of my secure inbox, bypassing the filters I’d spent years perfecting.
Sender: Unknown [Encrypted]
Subject: Visibility
You have a nice voice, Ms. Quill. Unfortunately, you just used it to paint a target on your back the size of Big Ben. Move now, or you’re content.
Attached: GPS Coordinates.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred. Outside the window, London was a blur of gray and neon, but I felt like I was standing still while the world stripped the skin right off my bones.
I wasn't the admin anymore. I was the headline.
And God help me, I didn't know how to survive without a boss to hide behind.
"Where to, love?" the cabbie asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.
I looked at the coordinates. I looked at the death threats scrolling down my social media feed.
