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I roll off him onto the sand, my knees folding under me, and reach for my sundress where it’s balled up by his shoulder, my hands shaking as I get dressed and he fixes his jeans. I stand, psyching myself up to walk back to the bonfire and pretend I didn’t just rearrange my entire life on a stretch of beach with no witnesses.

He catches my wrist. “Hey, relax, Songbird. You don’t have to run off.”

He tugs me back down beside him in the sand, and I curl into his side. His heart is pounding under my cheek.

We stay like that until the sky begins to fade into shades of pink and lilac with the rising sun, his knuckles brushing the curve of my hip in a rhythm that matches the waves.

1

SIENNA

PRESENT DAY

“Madison Square Garden!” I scream into my microphone, the adrenaline coming off me in waves.

Every inch of my body is covered in sweat; the heat of the pink, white, and purple light burns into me, but I take in this moment. I love the high of performing. The way my fans scream my name with all their might, the energy of thousands of people loving my art, loving me.

The final song of the night, a pop-rock hit called ‘Pieces of Me’, continues to riff. My drummer, Henny, plays his heart out. And just like I practiced, I stand in the middle of the stage, right on the hidden lift, saying my final words and taking my bow.

“Tonight,” I heave, trying to catch my breath, “has been one of the biggest achievements of my life, and I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you.”

The crowd erupts. The arena is filled with lights, applause and deafening screams breaking through the metronome of my inner ear. This is what I live for. This is all I have ever wanted.

“You can take it all!” I curl into myself, belting out my final notes to the crowd, feeling the vibration of them singing along with me. “Have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

I point my mic at the crowd walking down the walkway, and they scream my lyrics back at me. “Take it all! I don’t need those broken pieces. I don’t need the shell of the girl I used to be.”

I pull the microphone back to my lips. “You can have the pieces, but you can’t have me!”

The song plays out. I run in my heeled boots back to the lift, turning to face the crowd one final time. “Thank you for closing out the Heartbroken Girl Tour! Good night!”

The crowd goes wild. I point my mic to the ceiling and tap my foot twice, waiting to descend into the ground. I keep a tight smile on my face, waving goodbye as the crowd starts to hurl objects onto the stage, teddy bears, flowers, keepsakes. I’ll have my team gather them for me once the arena has cleared out.

The lift carries me down into the dark, the roar of the crowd muffling above me. My ears ring. I roll my shoulders back, trying to find a breath that doesn’t catch on the way in, and pull the monitor out of my left ear.

Sweat drips down the back of my neck. Just as my head dips below the stage, I fidget with the clip at the back of my black loose-wave wig. My manager, Nicki, is crouching at the bottom of the lift, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line, her bun perfectly slicked back. She looks like a prima ballerina,a very pissed-off one.

The song ends with a bang. The crowd screams: “Echo! Echo! Echo!”

“Echo? What are you doing?” Nicki snaps, her hand stretched out in front of her.

I scoff, unclipping the back of the wig. “Getting off stage.”

“No, no, no.” She clicks her tongue and places a hand on my knee. “They’re calling your name.”

“Yeah, because I just got off the stage.” I roll my eyes, trying to push past her, but she holds me back.

Nicki, all five-foot-two of her, is vicious in her negotiations, consistently getting major corporations to pay me what I am worth, and more. When I first started in the industry, I was sure she was the best thing that had ever happened to me. The best fighter to have in my corner, a ruthless protector and a drill sergeant when it comes to pushing me higher. I’ve been musically trained by the greatest people in the industry all thanks to Nicki. I know I wouldn’t be as successful as I am without her.

But it has been a full-on eight months; hell, it’s been an insane eight years. Found on campus at UCLA during a freshman talent show. Shipped off to a private popstar bootcamp before I’d even declared a major: an EP, an album, a world tour. Adrenaline will only take me so far and I’m exhausted. I’ve been running on fumes for the last month, and as much as I love this, I can’t wait for my break. I can’t wait to be alone in Bali, surrounded by nature and filling myself to the brim with good food.

“Girl, no, you do not ignore an encore at Madison Square Garden,” she corrects, keeping me in place as she presses her earpiece. “Let’s do ‘Superstar’ one more time.”

“Nicki, no.” I step toward the edge, ready to jump off, but it’s too high. My heel catches on the lip of the metal, and my ankle twists. I grab the support beam to stop myself from falling, the microphone swinging against my wrist.

“Echo, careful,” Nicki hisses, her eyes bulging as she tries to catch me.

“I said I was done.” I say, applying pressure to my throbbing ankle. “We talked about this. You said the show ended on ‘Pieces of Me’.”