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‘I am finishing this tour,’ Ashley said, her throat tight, her eyes locked onto his. ‘Because people bought tickets and they deserve a good show. But the second the lights go down on the final date in Rome, I’m done. I want out of my contract.’

Simon let out a patronising, breathless laugh. ‘You can’t just “get out” of a four-album deal, Ashley. You’re signed to a major label. We built you.’

‘You used me,’ she corrected sharply, her voice ringing clear over the muffled bass thumping through the venue walls. ‘You’ve used up my life, my relationships, my body, and my mental health. You don’t give a damn about my music, Simon. And you definitely don’t give a damn about me.’

Simon opened his mouth to deliver a rebuttal, but Ashley didn’t give him the chance.

‘I am done letting suits tell me who to be seen with, how I’m allowed to sound, and when I’m allowed to speak,’ Ashley said, her heart pounding with a fierce, terrifying clarity she hadn’t felt in five years. ‘I am going independent. And I’m going to figure out how to actually be a human being instead of a brand. Maybe find Molly and see if she’s willing to hear me out, so I can tell her that she’s the only person I’ve ever loved. Even if she doesn’t want me anymore, even if she completely fucking despises me. Because she deserves to know, regardless.’ She paused. ‘I know you don’t care about that. Not sure why I said it. Anyway.’

A loud bang echoed from the wings as the stage manager stuck his head into the room. ‘Two minutes to stage, Ashley! Curtains going up!’

Simon stood frozen in the centre of the green room, his face pale and utterly shocked. For the first time since Ashley had met him, he had absolutely nothing to say.

Ashley didn’t wait for him to recover. She brushed past him without a second glance and walked down the dark corridor toward the stage.

Behind her, Jax caught up in two long strides, slinging their bass over their shoulder.

‘Well,’ Jax whispered with a slow, appreciative grin. ‘That was terrifying. I loved it.’

‘Shut up, Jax,’ Ashley muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched. ‘By the way, would you lot keep being my band when the shit hits the fan, and the teens bugger off?’

‘You’re not sick of our shit?’ Jax asked, surprised.

‘Think you just ran out of shit for me to be sick of,’ Ashley said.

They stepped into the blackness behind the main curtain. The noise of three thousand screaming fans roared through the heavy velvet like a tidal wave. The house lights began to dim.

Ashley closed her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and gripped the mic stand.

The curtain began to rise.

Thirty-Four

The rain was really coming down by the time Molly got off the bus outside the Birmingham O2 Arena. Her trainers were soaked through, squelching with every step she took past the iron crowd-barriers. The street was a sea of glittery makeup running under plastic ponchos.

She felt like a complete idiot. She’d spent the entire afternoon wandering aimlessly around Birmingham, trying to pluck up the courage to tell Ashley how she felt, only to realise hours had slipped away.

But once the nerve was (kind of) worked up, she realised she had no idea where Ashley’s tour bus was parked. And calling her wasn't an option. When they’d split five years ago, it had been over a cold, pixelated FaceTime call, and Molly refused to let history repeat itself. She needed to be in the same room as her, somewhere that the temptation to hang up didn’t exist. So, the plan now was to catch her heading into the backstage entrance.

Molly walked round to the loading bay doors, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, her heart thumping against her ribs. She could have been home by now, reading her script like a professional. Instead, she was stalking her ex at her gig.

Was this stupid? Definitely. Was she going to do it? Probably. Possibly.

She rounded the corner just in time to hear someone yell, ‘This way, Miss Malone,’ and see the heavy stage door click shut. Fuck, had she missed her?

Okay, new plan. Catch her inside.

The backstage entrance was guarded by a massive bloke in a high-vis jacket, leaning against a concrete pillar and looking thoroughly bored.

‘Alright,’ Molly said, strolling up with all the swagger she could summon. ‘I need to get through. I’m with the tour. Molly.’

The guard didn’t move an inch. He looked down at her bare wrists. ‘Pass?’

‘I don’t have one. I left earlier and then... Well, anyway. Just ask someone. Anyone from the band or management. They’ll tell you.’

‘Sorry, love,’ the bloke said. ‘No pass, no entry.’

Molly swore under her breath, turning away. Nothing for it. She would have to make a call.