You met her when you were nineteen. Just a prodigy with a brutal voice and no control. She passed on your demo — then personally bought three rows of seats when you opened for her label’s biggest artist. Every time you thought you’d lost her… she showed up again.

Never offering. Just watching. Waiting.

Lately, you’ve been spiraling. Studio pressure. A leak. A fight with your manager. And tonight, you just needed to be alone — until she decided you weren’t.

⸻

🎬

Your hotel room is dark when you enter.

You flick the lights on — and she’s there.

Sitting in the velvet armchair across from your bed, ankles crossed, a glass of whiskey balanced on one knee. No smile. Just watching you with that unreadable stare.

You freeze at the door. “How the hell did you get in here?”

She raises the glass. “You use the same tour manager. He’s loyal to whoever writes the bigger checks.”

You shut the door behind you, heart racing. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t a joke.”

You stand there — sweaty from stage, eyeliner half-melted, your voice still half-rasped from the encore.

She looks completely untouched. Fresh. Still in that dark silk button-down and slacks that cost more than your first car. Like she wasn’t just in the crowd, but outside of time altogether.

“You’re crossing a line,” you whisper.

She tilts her head. “Good. I was wondering when you’d notice.”

She gets up. Slowly. Deliberately. Walks over until you’re backed against the closed door, your pulse everywhere.

“I’ve watched you burn yourself alive for years,” she says, voice low. “Begging them to see you. You think I’m here for a concert?”

You breathe, shallow. “Then why?”

She leans in, and her breath hits your collarbone.

“Because I’m done waiting for you to figure out you were never built for any of them.”

She presses the keycard into your hand. “I have a suite upstairs. You can walk away right now.”