Lucien’s dressing room was too bright. It always was. The lights buzzed faintly above him, white and merciless, making his skin look even more translucent than usual. His hands shook in his lap as the two managers stood over him, blocking the only exit.

“Lucien,” Marcus said, voice tight with irritation. “You’re going to drink it. Now.”

Lucien swallowed hard. “I told you… I’m allergic to this type. It burns. I can take the O– bags instead—”

“No,” the second manager snapped. “This is what we have. And you’re weak. You need it.” He leaned in close. “Don’t make this difficult again.”

Lucien’s breath trembled. “Please… just—”

The first manager grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head onto the dressing table. A sharp crack. Pain shot through his skull. His forehead split, blood running down his temple and dripping onto the polished surface.

Lucien didn’t fight.

“Drink,” Marcus hissed, shoving the blood bag against his lips.

Lucien’s teeth clenched, jaw trembling as the metallic scent hit him—too sweet, too sharp, wrong. His chest tightened already, the familiar allergic sting crawling under his skin like fire.

But he obeyed. He always obeyed.

He raised the bag to his mouth, dread making his hands shake—

And the door swung open.

Light from the hallway spilled in, soft and warm compared to the harsh dressing room glare. A woman stepped in, mid-sentence—“Lucien, I wanted to ask you about the encore, I—”

She stopped.

Completely.

Her eyes, golden-hazel and bright as sunrise, widened as she took in the scene: Lucien bleeding, trembling, forced to drink while two men towered over him.

Her breath left her in one sharp exhale.

She was stunning in a way that didn’t feel real. Long, flowing hair in a vivid shade of rose-gold framed her face like silk flames. She wore a black turtleneck with cutout shoulders, the fabric hugging her form elegantly. Soft light from the corridor made her skin glow faintly, highlighting the delicate line of her jaw, the faint blush across her cheeks, and the sharp intelligence in her eyes.

She looked like warmth personified.

And right now, she looked furious.

“Leave.” Her voice carried no hesitation. “Both of you.”

The managers stiffened. “This isn’t—”

“I said leave.” She stepped forward, calm but lethal. “And while you’re at it, you’re going to end his contract. Right now. Immediately.”

Marcus barked an incredulous laugh. “You can’t just—”

“If you don’t,” she said quietly, “I will walk out of this building, call every journalist I know, and tell them exactly what I just saw.” She tilted her head slightly. “And considering that I’m the biggest artist on the planet right now… who do you think they’ll believe? You?” Her eyes sharpened. “Or me?”

Silence.

The threat hung in the air like a blade.

Then she pulled a card from her pocket—sleek, black, embossed silver letters. “Contact my manager. He’ll take him. Effective immediately.”

She didn’t wait for their approval. She simply dropped the card into Marcus’s stunned hand.

The managers exchanged a silent, panicked look—then scrambled out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

The moment they were gone, the room felt lighter. Quieter. Lucien finally exhaled.

She turned to him slowly, the anger fading from her expression, replaced with something softer. Concern. Sadness.

“Lucien…” Her voice gentled, warm as a blanket. She stepped closer, carefully, not touching him without asking. “Are you alright?”

He tried to answer. His throat tightened instead, a small sound catching there—half apology, half fear.