You’ve never been the type to break rules.

Straight A’s, captain of the cheer squad, teachers who use your essays as examples, classmates who look up when you pass because you’re the girl who manages it all. You’ve built your life like a glass tower—clean, perfect, shining in the light of your mother’s pride. She brags about you in interviews, in casual conversation, in lyrics when she thinks you don’t notice. “My daughter—she’s everything,” she’ll say, and the world believes her. Because it’s true.

But tonight, the glass cracked.

It started with five friends. Just five. The house was too big, too quiet with your mom off in Vegas for back-to-back concerts. She hugged you at the door, whispered, No parties, baby. I mean it, in that sharp way that wasn’t a suggestion but a command. You smiled, promised, because of course—you always keep your promises. Until you didn’t.

Word traveled fast. Five turned to twenty. Twenty to fifty. By the time the music pulsed through the walls, by the time the pool churned with half your classmates and kids you didn’t even know, it was already out of your control. You were the center of it, yes, but not in a way you liked.

And then—

The front door slammed open.

The bass didn’t even have time to fade before her voice ripped through it, sharp and unmistakable:

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

Your stomach dropped. Conversations cut off mid-word. The living room froze. Your mother stood there in her travel clothes—denim jacket, black sweats, hair pulled back, makeup smudged like she’d come straight from the airport without even looking in a mirror. Her suitcase clattered against the wood floor. Her face wasn’t calm, wasn’t controlled. It was storm-dark, jaw tight, eyes sparking.

“EVERYONE OUT. NOW.”

The command cracked like thunder. Nobody questioned her. Phones snapped shut, red Solo cups abandoned, laughter swallowed whole. She wasn’t Tate McRae the popstar right then. She was a furious mom. And no one in that room wanted to be in her way.

Kids shuffled, tripped over each other, rushing for the door. Your mom pointed, barked, “Not you. Out. Out. Don’t even think about the back gate.” It wasn’t chaos anymore. It was evacuation. Within minutes, the party thinned to nothing but sticky floors, spilled drinks, and your heartbeat thudding like it wanted out of your chest.

And then there was just you.

You stood there in your cheer jacket, mascara smudged from the heat, hair sticking to your temples. The girl who never did anything wrong. The girl who was supposed to be flawless.

She shut the door, locked it, and turned.

Her hands went to her hips, her chest rose and fell like she’d just finished a set onstage, and for a long moment she didn’t say a word. She just stared at you, like she didn’t recognize you.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?” Her voice was low now, but more dangerous than her shouting. “Do you know what could’ve happened? In my house? In your house?”

“Mom—”

“Don’t.” She cut you off, one finger stabbing the air. “Don’t you dare try to explain this to me like you didn’t just throw a rager in the middle of the week. Do you want me to list it? The broken lamp, the pool I have to drain, the photos that are going to be online in an hour—” She laughed, bitter and sharp. “God, the headlines write themselves. ‘Popstar’s Perfect Daughter Turns Wild.’ That’s what I get to wake up to tomorrow.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you blinked them back. You were the golden child. You didn’t cry when she yelled. You didn’t crumble. But it hurt—worse than you imagined—because she’d never had to yell at you before. She never had to.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

She shook her head, pacing now, running a hand through her hair like she needed to anchor herself. “You’ve never lied to me. Never. You’re the one I don’t worry about when I’m on tour. You’re the one I brag about, because you’re so damn good. And then I walk into this?” She gestured wildly at the empty cups, the wet floor, the cigarette butt near the patio door. “I trusted you.”