The meeting was scheduled for 9:00 sharp, but Victor Harrington made a point of keeping Kristina waiting. The penthouse office was designed for psychological warfare: ceiling-to-floor windows framing the strip in merciless daylight, the air cold enough to freeze a water bottle in under an hour, the walls so spotless they seemed to reject fingerprints.

  She perched on a low-slung leather chair, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled into the kind of sleek, severe ponytail she reserved for contract negotiations and high-stakes pressers. Across the obsidian desk, Victor scrolled methodically through a digital calendar projected on the surface, every gesture slow and deliberate.

  He didn’t look up as he spoke. “Tour sales are up seventeen percent over projections. Streaming numbers are outperforming even the international set. You should be proud.”

  “I am,” Kristina said, voice neutral. “We all worked for it.”

  Victor’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “We did. But you carried it over the finish line.”

  She nodded, careful not to let her posture betray the exhaustion pooling behind her eyes. These meetings always ran on the same script: Victor delivered good news like a surgeon prepping for incision, then spent the next half hour outlining exactly how the good news would require even more from her.

  He toggled the display, pulling up a new set of slides: press highlights, influencer reactions, early returns on the merchandising deals. “We have the wind at our backs,” he said, and for a moment, his tone softened. “The finale is everything. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Kristina braced herself. “Of course.”

  He finally met her gaze, eyes sharp and flat as polished steel. “So. What are your plans after the show?”

  It was an innocuous question, but it set off every alarm in her head. She had rehearsed answers—weeks of them—most built around the line “whatever the team needs.” But with the date so close, her mind flinched toward the real answer: meeting Theo. She caught herself just in time.

  “I was thinking of taking a personal night,” she said, measuring each word. “Before we roll into media the next day.”

  Victor’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “Personal how?”

  She let a beat pass. “Rest. Sleep. Maybe dinner with Leslie, if she can be pried away from her phone.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  He studied her face for a long, clinical moment. “You’ve never taken a personal night after a tour performance before,” he said, voice soft. “Are you sure you want to start now?”

  Kristina held his gaze, tried to project nothing but bland confidence. “I want to be at my best for the morning segment. If I run on empty, you know what happens.”

  Victor smiled thinly. “Self-knowledge is rare in this business. Good.” He closed the laptop, folding his hands in front of him. “There is one thing. Afterparty guest list. We need you to host, at least for the first hour.”

  She suppressed a groan. “It’s industry people?”

  “A few, yes. And one or two friends of the brand.” He allowed himself a more genuine smile. “Liam Wallace, for one. You remember him?”

  Of course she did. He was the face of the new campaign, and the kind of “friend” you couldn’t ever say no to. The first time they’d met, he spent ten minutes describing the caloric output of his home gym. She’d survived by mentally reciting the lyrics to every song on her last album.

  “I remember,” she said. “Happy to say hello. But I do want to keep it short.”

  Victor nodded, satisfied. “Just long enough for a few photos. His new film is opening, and the timing is perfect for both your brands.” He pushed the laptop aside, signaling the end of business. “I trust you, Mia. I hope you know that.”

  She smiled, the professional mask slipping perfectly into place. “I do.”

  He stood, rounding the desk. She rose to meet him, hands clasped in front of her, the way she’d been taught as a girl in church to signal respect but not supplication.

  He looked her up and down, then placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, the touch warm but entirely performative. “Get your rest,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

  She nodded, muttered a polite thanks, and let herself be shown to the private elevator. The doors closed behind her with a hiss of negative pressure. For a few seconds, she stood there in the mirrored box, watching her own reflection flicker through the phases: pop star, employee, daughter, escape artist.

  As soon as the elevator started its descent, she pulled out her phone and texted Leslie:

  Need to disappear after the show. Wallaces and Victor want a photo op but I need an exit after. Please help.

  The reply came before she hit the lobby.

  Always. You want a car or a tunnel?

  She grinned, the tension easing just enough for her to breathe. She typed back:

  Tunnel. Definitely tunnel.

  Out on the casino floor, Kristina threaded her way through the rows of slot machines and echoing music, letting the world blur around her. She kept her head down, her sunglasses up, moving like a ghost through a space that had always seemed made for people bolder, louder, more certain of their place.

  She thought about Theo, about the promise she’d made to herself not to let this world consume her, not entirely. The trick wasn’t surviving Victor or the tour or even herself. The trick was keeping just enough of her life separate, unclaimed.

  As she stepped into the lobby, she texted Theo, four simple words:

  Can’t wait for you.

  The moment it sent, she felt a surge of something bright and dangerous move through her. She didn’t have to rehearse the rest of her day. She just had to get to the end of it.