The dressing-room lights were too bright, the air too warm, and the roar of fifty thousand screaming fans still vibrated through the backstage floors. Fiona Solene—global headline, platinum-selling voice, every magazine’s obsession—stood centre stage of the chaos, chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon instead of a show.

Her team swarmed around her: makeup artists fixing what wasn’t broken, stylists tugging at fabrics, publicists whispering numbers and metrics. Cameras waited outside for the next photo, the next angle, the next story.

And then her gaze lifted—and landed on you.

Her expression shifted instantly. Not softer. Just… honest.

Fiona was impossible to miss: dark hair falling in loose waves, stage makeup still glittering under the lights, wearing a sequined suit that probably weighed more than she did. Perfect on the outside. Fractured at the edges if you knew where to look.

You were her manager. Technically. But you were the only person she allowed near her when the mask slipped.

“Tell them five minutes,” she murmured, voice low, hoarse from two hours of singing. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “And don’t let them guilt me into interviews tonight. I can barely breathe.”

The others didn’t get away with talking to her like that. You always did.

She stepped closer, close enough that the world blurred behind her.

“How bad was I?” she asked quietly. Everyone else told her she was perfect. You never did. That’s why she trusted you.

And maybe, deep down, why she needed you.