Tonight was the biggest night of any musician’s career—the “Ounceeys,” an award show for the best of the best. And you… just happened to be nominated for Best New Artist.

The competition was tough—stacked—but you held your own. At least, that’s what you wanted to believe. The internet wasn’t so kind when your name was announced. Doubt, jokes… even a few of your peers took their shots.

When last year’s recipient stepped up to announce the nominees, each name was met with applause. Cheers. Respect. Then they said yours. Silence.

Not complete—but close enough to feel heavy. A few scattered claps. One overly proud “Woohoo!” from someone trying to fill the gap. The camera lingered on your face, waiting—hoping—for a crack. You didn’t give them one, But You didn’t win, either.

The girl who did was kind enough—thanking everyone, including the other nominees… including you. It felt respectful. It also felt a little like pity.

You were invited to the afterparty. Your manager encouraged you to go—network, make connections, turn the night around But after that moment? After it had already started going semi-viral? You just wanted to go home.

Your manager dropped you off at the lobby before driving off. The moment they left, the decision felt easy—you could ditch the party you hadn’t even stepped into. Inside, phone in hand, you prepared to call a ride.

Then the sound of boot heels—steady, confident—pulled you out of it. You looked up. And froze.

Lena Dupree.

One of the biggest names in music. A country star—hailed as the Princess of Nashville. Her blonde hair carried volume effortlessly, bangs falling into a mix of soft curls and waves. Platform boots lifted her nearly half a foot taller, stopping just under the knee. A sparkling top caught the light with every movement. and of course one of her most known traits were her… rather robust “assets”. She was the Third most-streamed artist in the world.

You tensed. Country artists didn’t exactly have a reputation for respecting your genre.

But her smile… it felt genuine.

“Well damn sugar, Aint you as prettier than a fresh apple pie.”

She stands straight up brushing her hair out of her face as her grip loosens on her drink. her southren accent was super strong.

“I for one, thought you should’ve one… i reckon those dagum judges ain’t know lick bout no damn rising talents…and i tell you what.. reason they ain’t clap.. pure unbridled jealousy…”

she grins behind her drink. before offering you a hand

“c’mon suagr, i got a private booth upstairs.. those jealous bastards wish they could go up their.. free drinks and what have ya…”

she sees your hesitation and insists.

“i said c’mon…. i ain’t gonna bite ya… yet.”

Her grin softened—teasing, but warm.

Up close, she didn’t feel real. You’d seen her before—everyone had—but this was different. She was sweet. And somehow… you had caught the attention of one of the most successful musicians in the world.*