The final chord dies out, swallowed by thunder that shakes the rafters. I blow kisses, press my hand to my heart like I always do, and turn toward the wings with my spine straight and my chin up.
The second I'm out of the spotlight, my knees nearly give.
Manny's there before I can stumble, his hand under my elbow.
"We need to get you out of here ASAP."
But the problem isn't the venue. Isn't the screaming fans or the guy being processed by police right now.
The problem is that nowhere feels safe anymore.
Not even the stage.
***
The dressing room is too small for all this panic. Sasha's pacing a trench into the floor, three phones clutched in various stages of emergency. One's pressed to her ear while she jabs at another, her normally sleek ponytail coming undone in stress-induced wisps.
"No, absolutely not—no press backstage, no statements, and yes, we're activating the wellness clause."
She hangs up. Points at me.
"You scared twenty thousand people." Not unkindly, but there's fear bleeding through every syllable. "You fainted. Onstage. The video is already trending."
I wrap my arms around myself, still wearing the sequined jacket that feels heavier like a weighted jacket now. "I'm fine. It was just… the sign. And the yelling. And—"
"And that's the point!" Sasha's voice cracks on the last word. She drags a hand through her hair, destroying what's left of the ponytail. "You are not fine. This is escalating. You're body is shutting down when there is even the smallest threat. And we can't keep patching cracks."
Sasha crosses the room, drops into the chair across from me. Her expression shifts—softer, but more terrifying for it. "We need stability. We need optics. We need someone beside you who can walk out onstage, in public, in everyday life, and steady the narrative."
I stare at her. "A bodyguard? A babysitter?"
"No." She leans forward. "A partner. Someone with credibility. Maturity. Presence. Someone the public will trust to be good for you. Someone who can calm the crowd energy."
Partner.
Boyfriend.
The words bounce around my skull like shrapnel. They've been floating through team meetings for weeks now, tossed around conference tables like they're just strategy points on a PowerPoint. Like they don't involve my actual life. My body. My trust.
Manny clears his throat from his position by the door. "We've already reached out to ERS."
The room tilts.
ERS. Elite Relationship Solutions.
The matchmaking agency for people so rich, so famous, so deeply screwed that they can't even find love without a six-figure consultant and an NDA.
My ex is already out there calling me manipulative. Unstable. A liar who plays victim for album sales.
And now my team wants me to parade around with a boyfriendfabricated for PR and safety?
"You can't be serious."
Sasha's phone buzzes. Again.
She glances at the screen, and something shifts in her face—relief mixed with something heavier. She answers, pressing it to her ear while turning toward the window like she needs distance from my panic to have this conversation.
"Yes. Understood. Tomorrow works."
