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“Nothing’s really working right now,” you say.

God, you can hear yourself drowning in negativity.

It’s the truth, though. You feel like your creativity has been paralyzed as of late.

Sitting around and feeling bad for yourself in one of your two multi-million-dollar seaside villas in Miami is poor fodder for any sort of music that a normal person wants to listen to without dying laughing from the schadenfreude of it all.

Maeve shrugs a shoulder.

“I’ll stop bothering you,” she says kindly. “I can tell you don’t want to talk about this. You don’t have to lie. I can just sit here and answer your last couple emails, and then I’ll be on my way.”

You don’t lie to her, but you also don’t voice the comment on your lips asking her not to leave. To just exist in the same space as you for a few hours, to keep yourself from rattling around your very expensive cage like a sad, well-dressed marble.

Amazingly, you wish you hadn’t finished signing all your albums. It’s the perfect activity for the mood you are in right now: tedious and mind-numbing.

Repetitive. Thinking about autographing albums as you stare at the wall opposite you, you think that maybe you are going crazy. Maybe you need a nap.

You’re so focused on staring at nothing that you initially don’t catch the hitch in Maeve’s breath and her sudden stillness. In fact, it isn’t until she’s called your name twice—you know it’s not just once because of the urgency in her tone—that you shake yourself out of it and look at her.

“Hmm?” you ask, distracted.

Her face is grave. “There’s an email from No Kid Hungry.”

The name of your pet charity, a childhood hunger foundation, doesn’t initially cause much of a reaction. “Oh?”

You can hear the wince in her voice. “Yeah. It’s from the head of the executive board. They’re asking you unofficially to step down as their public ambassador.”

At first, the words don’t penetrate the boggy blue soup in your brain. “What do you mean?”

Maeve pivots to face you. The expression of pity on her face is nauseating. Like, you feel at that moment that you’d rather die than have it trained on you.

“They said that it’s in light of the scandals surrounding you,” she says softly.

“They thank you for your years of service to the cause and hope that you will still consider maintaining your quarterly donations, but say that the board had to make a difficult decision. For both your sakes, they’d prefer you stepped away voluntarily. ”

When it hits you, it hits you like a gunshot.

You’re a patron of several worthy charities, all of which are on the receiving end of sizable and very discreet contributions, but No Kid Hungry mattered to you.

It was the first organization that you partnered with, early in your career, and a cause that you cared about.

Unbidden, your mind goes to the award you received last year for your work with the organization.

Coincidentally, it was the first time you ever walked a red carpet with Kai.

That plaque had meant more to you than some of your music awards.

For once, you weren’t being called out for making music that people wanted to dance to.

You made a difference. You helped out. Stepping down would be big news. There will surely be a press release.

“Did they actually say that?” you find yourself asking. “About the quarterly donations? Wow.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re their biggest donor,” Maeve says. “When you put their link in your Insta bio, traffic to their website increased by 450%.”

“Huh,” you say, because the situation calls for a response, and you have nothing intelligent to comment.

All of a sudden, you want Maeve out . She’s one of your closest companions, but her presence is making it hard to breathe.

You aren’t sure whether you want to scream or hide in the dark of your immense walk-in closet.

Maybe break some shit. Your heart is throbbing in your throat.

One thing about Maeve: she can read you like a book. It’s why she has a higher salary than any other personal assistant you’ve ever heard of. She clicks her phone off and stands up.

“I’m going to head out,” she says gently. “Don’t hesitate to text me if you need anything . I’m serious, Sterling. I’m a call away.”

You say nothing as she lets herself out and locks the door behind her.

***

That night, Cal calls you, which, in retrospect, should have been a sure sign that your day was about to get even shittier.

The man is allergic to cell phones, preferring to delegate security communications to just about anyone else on the team.

It’s also his day off, which should have been Clue #2.

“What’s up, Cal?” You are two glasses into a very expensive bottle of Napa Valley cab that you aren’t really tasting as much as sucking back like a lifeline.

The book you are barely reading is open on your lap.

You’re not drunk (not yet), but your head is a little spinny.

The good news is that you are in bed, so, if things get too bad, you can always hide under the covers.

With his characteristic candor, he gets right to the point.

“I’ve got you on speaker, Mister Grayson.

The NYPD is on my other phone, so, if you hear noise, that’s what it is.

If you turn on the news, you’re going to see a mob outside your building in New York,” he says brusquely.

“They’ve got some signs, and they’re chanting some hateful business.

Seems a few troublemakers got together and rallied the troops on social media.

Police are out there already, but there’s been some trouble.

Wanted you to hear it from me instead of TikTok. ”

“What kind of trouble?” you ask warily. Unconsciously, you reach for the stem of your wine glass, as if one sip would be enough to fortify you.

“A few broken windows,” Cal reports. “One or two tried to get the front door open. They were quickly identified and arrested, thankfully. Most of them are just yelling and being a nuisance, but, considering that rocks got thrown, I wanted to loop you in.”

“How many?”

“Rocks?”

“People.”

“Um. They haven’t stopped showing up. Maybe a hundred?”

“Jesus fuck ,” you mutter. You think of the fact that all your front doors—each one on every house—are fortified with steel bolts like a bank vault.

They look pretty, sure, but they all sport bulletproof glass and armored construction that prevents against disasters both natural and manmade.

Like angry mobs trying to attack your home .

Nausea, sudden and intense, makes the wine roil in your otherwise-empty stomach.

“What do you need me to do?” you ask. It comes out quieter than you intended. Almost a whisper. You have cleared your throat to ask again when Cal is distracted by something on his end of the phone.

“No, thank you,” he says. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Cal?” you call out, feeling sick and helpless.

“Right here, Mister Grayson,” he says, returning to your call. “The boys in blue wanted to know whether we wanted the whole crowd trespassed off the property.”

“Of course we do!” you exclaim. “Why did you tell them no?”

“The sidewalk is, technically, public property,” Cal explains laconically.

“The sergeant there is not against forcing the matter, but I think that’s taking a bad situation and making it worse.

According to Zane, who’s our boots on the ground up North, there’s a few reporters around making noises about what kind of pop star calls the cops on their fans. ”

“Fans?” Totally of its own volition, the hand not engaged with your cell phone spasms. The wine glass topples on the floor, splashing blood-red across your new duvet cover and your lap. The book flies off the bed and, as luck would have it, lands right in the liquid. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! ”

“Sir?” To his credit, Cal sounds only mildly concerned.

You can’t tell whether you just exploded on the wine stains or the angry horde outside your home, so you don’t bother to clarify the matter for Cal.

“Fans don’t show up on your doorstep with pitchforks and torches,” you mutter between gritted teeth.

“Those are my enemies , Cal. Am I not allowed to defend myself from people who want to hurt me?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end. “To be fair, sir, you aren’t even on that end of the country. They weren’t getting to you.”

“But I could have been!” you say. Loudly. “I was just talking to Maeve about going to see my ther… agent in the city. My talent agent, I mean. Christ, Cal! What would have happened if they figured out that I was down in Miami? Would they be sending their friends to come take me out down here?”

The sound of Cal clearing his throat isn’t as subtle as it would be from someone else.

He’s a big guy. It’s more of a leonine rumble.

“Personally, sir, I’d like to see them all rounded up and charged.

Legally, we don’t have a leg to stand on.

The idiots who came at the door are catching charges for disorderly, trespassing, and harassment.

The police collected social media footage, and soon we’ll have the rock-throwers.

They’ll get them some disorderly, harassment, and property damage.

Anyone that climbed on the stoop, we can get for loitering.

If you want to escalate it to stalking, I can’t stop you.

But we’re trying to triage the situation, Mister Grayson, not stoke the fire.

These people are mad. You leave them alone, they’ll yell for a while and go home.

You start making martyrs of them, and it’s going to be bad attention for you. More bad attention.”

The fact that your head of security—your lead bodyguard—is trying to tactfully stop the cold body of your reputation from bleeding to death is not lost on you. Suddenly, the spinny feeling in the room crashes out.

“Hold on, Cal,” you choke.

You don’t make it to the en suite bathroom.

Your stomach empties itself painfully in the corner of the room, wine-tinged vomit adding to the mess on the floor.

From the other side of the king-sized bed, Apollo stares at you in doggie concern.

When the smell hits you, you almost retch again.

Instead, you reel like a drunkard back to the bed, hoping that Cal didn’t catch the monstrous sounds you just made.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Not really, Cal.” With your bare arm, you wipe your sloppy mouth. Your tongue is fuzzy and tastes like sick, and your head is suddenly pounding.

“Do you need me to call Juarez?” Cal asks, referring to your on-duty security, who is always nearby. It must be Juarez’s night on call.

“No, thank you.”

“Do you want me to come down there?” Cal asks. “I’m over in Coral Gables, but I can be there in half…”

“I’m fine,” you say, more forcefully than you should be capable of, given the situation.

Kai. Kai should be your next phone call.

Kai is not far away. He’s going to raise hell when he hears about the situation in New York, which you won’t be able to keep from him.

Not like the situation with No Kid Hungry, which you elected not to share unless he reads about it and brings it up.

But Kai has practice first thing in the morning and goes to bed early.

Kai doesn’t deserve his half-crocked, hot-mess boyfriend blowing up his phone at 10 PM on a work night.

“One last thing,” Cal says. “I’m going to recommend that you avoid leaving the house for a while, Mister Grayson.

Just for a couple of weeks, until this current situation rolls out of the news cycle.

Let someone else walk the dogs. Maybe just hang around the new place.

Nobody knows yet that you have a crib in Miami. Just enjoy the view and lie low.”

“I have to get to Kai’s game next week,” you hiccup miserably. “Please, Cal. I can’t. I swear that I’ll be careful. You can send nine guys with me if you want. I won’t leave the suite. But I can’t miss it.”

Maybe it’s the late hour, your mild inebriation, or your burgeoning state of hysteria, but, just like that, Kai’s game—which is a preseason game, not even a real one—seems like it’s of the utmost importance.

You are a disaster. Your fingers are sticky with wine and snot.

You’re sobbing, you realize, great chest-heaving gusts of dry sobbing.

No tears, strangely, just mucus and a hot face and the feeling like your head will crack open if you so much as blink the wrong way.

“We’ll get you to the game,” Cal says. Conciliatory. Gentle, like he’s placating a little stray kitten instead of his hot-shit boss. “Just don’t go anywhere until then, sir. Maybe a little while after. We’ll talk about this more in the morning, okay?”

“I’m not even drunk!” you cry, because that seems vital for him to know. “I’m fine, Cal! I just need…”

“With all due respect, Mister Grayson, you need some sleep,” he says. “I’m gonna go. I’ll wrap up the mess in New York. You try to relax, okay?”

Your fingers are shaking when you hang up.

Part of you desperately wants to scroll your socials and see the brouhaha for yourself, but some wisp of self-preservation floating around in your head stops you from doing it.

Clutching your phone like a totem, you leave the room and go to the bathroom, where you do the best job possible cleaning up in the sink.

You brush your teeth, and try not to meet your own bloodshot gaze in the mirror.

Ultimately, you sleep in the guest room. The maid will be by in the morning. You’ll give her an enormous cash tip for the mess in the primary suite.