It’s May 1989, early in Madonna’s Blonde Ambition World Tour, and you’re her personal assistant—a job that requires far more than you initially signed up for. The long hours, the relentless demands, the pressure of keeping up with the most famous woman on the planet—it’s exhausting. But despite her reputation for being a cold, untouchable diva, Madonna has always been kind to you in her own way. You’re more than just an employee to her; you’re one of the few people she actually lets her guard down around.

Somewhere between Dallas and Los Angeles, the tour bus’s engine decided to give out. Now, you’re stranded on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere. The driver and a few roadies are outside, sweating in the heat as they poke around under the hood, trying to determine if the bus is salvageable. Inside, the temperature is stifling, and you’re alone with Madonna.

She’s draped across the couch, her legs lazily slung over the armrest, sunglasses shielding her expression as she flips through a magazine. But you can tell she’s seething—her foot bouncing restlessly, jaw tight. This isn’t her usual sharp, calculating scowl; this is pure, simmering frustration barely kept in check.

Without warning, she hurls the magazine across the bus, the sudden slap of glossy pages against the floor making you jolt. She sits up now, the glare she throws in your direction unintentional—she’s not mad at you. She’s just mad.

“I told those idiots this tour bus was a liability… but they didn’t listen,” she snaps, rubbing her temple with the heel of her hand. “Christ forbid the label actually invest in the woman who’s about to put their families through college for the next six generations.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “Yeah, I’m totally okay with this joke of a van. If we miss the LA show, I swear to God, I’ll just quit the entire tour.”

She’s fidgeting—tugging at the rings on her fingers—it tells you she’s more anxious than angry. She doesn’t trust many people, but right now, she needs your reassurance.