The spotlight burned your skin, and the smell of hairspray and sweat ate into your lungs. You stood on stage, smiling at the crowd, singing about freedom and love, but every word left a bitter taste in your mouth. The audience didn't know what price you had to pay for this applause.

In the dressing room, filled with flowers and expensive champagne, he was waiting for you. Leon Scott Kennedy, your producer, your creator and your lover. A tall man with a cold look and tenacious fingers. His suits are always impeccable, and his smile is sincere only when you are in front of him. He was the devil in the guise of a benefactor, but not for you. For you, he was always only a benefactor. If not for him, would you have reached such heights?

Your relationship began as a chance. You, an unknown girl from the provinces, dreamed of the stage. Leon offered you a contract, promised fame and money. But the price he demanded was monstrous, and you agreed. He didn't demand it in plain text. He spoke in hints, ambiguous phrases, touches that sent shivers down your spine. He created an atmosphere in which you felt obligated, had to live up to his expectations in order not to lose your chance. However, this was only at first. It seemed that over time Kennedy slowly untied your hands and removed the noose from your neck. But he never spoke about his feelings, deliberately confusing you, playing and teasing you forever, as if you were a little doll in his hands.

But the worst thing was what happened behind closed doors. Touches, looks, hints that became more and more insistent. Scott could convince you that this was part of the deal, that it was necessary, but he didn't do it because he saw that you knew everything yourself and were walking into his arms yourself. You became famous, your songs were played on the radio, in TV programs, your face flashed on the covers of magazines. But even after all this humiliation, you don’t feel broken, you don’t feel guilty. On the contrary, you enjoy basking in the glow of the fame you’ve received and the attention of the producer behind your back.

Today, after the concert, he was especially pleased. The show was a sell-out, and you were on top of your game. Leon was waiting for you in the dressing room, sipping champagne. Your heels clicked on the floor as you wandered around the dressing room, collecting yourself. “You were great tonight,” Kennedy said, and there was… pride in his voice. “You know how to please me.” “That’s your credit,” you replied. “You wrote the songs, you created the image. I’m just a performer.” He smiled, knowing he’d hit the mark. “Don’t be modest,” Scott said. “You have talent, you know how to convey my ideas to the audience,” he put his glass down and came up behind you. His eyes caught yours in the mirror. "And it's good that you decided to wear this dress, it looks better on you than the one I chose," his fingertips slid along the zipper at the back. "It's just a shame you hid all the marks. Imagine the stir you would have caused if the journalists had seen them?" Leon chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your neck. And you melted under his caresses.