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“The whole thing with Heller,” Chris says, making a dismissive gesture.

“It’s bullshit, right? I mean, you can’t answer that.

Don’t bother. It’s just that… you know, I know your team said you wouldn’t address it.

But, man, why not? Nobody’s gotten a soundbite of you denying it.

Total radio silence. Wouldn’t it be good to, like, tackle the elephant in the room? Make a statement?”

You’re bristling. You’re bristling so hard that you swear you can actually feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, like a porcupine on the defense. Your lips curve into a smile.

“I trust my team,” you say. “We’ve been over it and over it, and we’re where we want to be in terms of controlling the narrative. If I have something to say, I’ll say it. In the meantime, no. I don’t have anything that I want out there.”

It’s a non-answer, just a huge mouthful of evasive word salad. You are almost impressed by how much bullshit you just extemporaneously vomited.

Chris chuckles, as if you said something funny. He chugs a little more water, and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his expensive bespoke suit jacket.

“Just saying,” he counters. “My show is one of the biggest stages in America right now. You decide you want to get chatty instead of taking the stay quiet and look pretty approach, just give my people a call.”

That’s the point at which you calmly and politely excuse yourself to get ready for the next segment.

Inside, you are seething.

It rankles you all throughout what’s left of the hour, as anonymous hands pull at your hair and slick it into an insouciant bouffant.

As you are helped into a pleather bodysuit, your exposed skin dusted with multicolored glitter.

Makeup brushes glance over your skin and setting spray makes a chemical cloud in front of your face like something in a cartoon.

The Graylings in the audience scream and cheer when the lights go up on the side stage.

Unlike the time before, it can’t lift you from your funk.

But, in times like this, you fragment into two Sterlings: the Sterling who sits silently behind the scenes and watches, suppressing his feelings, and the Sterling who beams and waves at the crowd.

The Sterling who shoulders his guitar and swings his hips as he dives into the opening hook of his new single, swaggering like the pop-rock sex god that everyone thinks he is.

You’ve performed this song on tour so many times that you don’t even need to think about the words.

You can do this, you know. You can do everything, regardless of how you are feeling.

People would say it’s singing or performing, but, no—faking it is your actual superpower.

You power through the new single and then strut your way through “pretty please,” the second hit from Golden .

Without even glancing at the playback monitor, you know that you look like you are having the time of your life.

Inside, you are an inferno. Hot and ready to erupt.

When the music stops, you wave and blow kisses to the studio audience. Chris re-appears at the very front of the stage.

“Sterling Grayson, ladies and gentlemen!” he cries. “Let’s hear it for the biggest star of our generation!”

He doesn’t so much as glance at you when the cameras cut again.

It’s petty. Well, you can be petty, too. Really petty.

In the dressing room, you are finally alone.

You take a wipe and scrub off as much makeup and glitter as you can, and peel yourself from the bodysuit.

Your torso and legs are covered in a fine dusting of the baby powder that it took to skin you into the garment.

The talcum smell makes you wrinkle your nose.

You get dressed. Brush your hair. You call up your manager’s direct line, putting your phone on speaker so you can keep getting ready to GTFO.

“Hey,” you say, as you search the dressing table for your sunglasses. “Can you do me a favor? Chris Morton’s show—I don’t want to do it again. Ever. Go ahead and add him to the block list for interviews going forward. If he asks outright, tell him that I don’t need his fucking platform.”

Ending the call, you already feel better.

The good vibes don’t last long, however.

There’s a mob outside the studio. Protesters.

Not the normal homophobic stragglers, although they are there as well.

This is a healthy bunch, maybe three or four dozen.

Crowds chanting liar, liar . Jeering. Their phones are out, and their middle fingers are up.

They’re holding signs. WE STAND WITH GABI + GOGO and EXPLOITATION ISN’T SEXY.

You see a couple variations on FUCK YOU, STERLING . Also, PRETTY PLEASE SHUT UP. Clever.

You have no fucking clue how they got access to the stage door—what kind of bullshit security does the network have, seriously?

—but the sidewalk to your car seems intimidatingly long and narrow.

Cal goes first, his big shoulders and bigger voice clearing a path as he physically clears people back from your walkway.

Behind you, another one of your detail hovers.

Your heartbeat thuds in your ear. Your armpits prickle with sweat.

It’s tempting to break into a full-on run to the car, but you force yourself to walk.

Halfway there, you hear a loud, aggressive hey!

from behind you, rising over the angry noise of the crowd.

It’s your security guy. It takes a second to notice, but he’s dripping from one side.

The arm and shoulder of his black sweater are dark with some kind of mystery fluid.

It’s dripping onto the sidewalk. The projectile was clearly meant for you.

A crumpled styrofoam cup is still rolling on the sidewalk.

Cal turns around and reaches out one beefy arm.

In the space of five seconds, he’s snatched you by the arm and yanked you into the car.

The other security guy hangs back, and reaches for the walkie at his waist. Immediately, five other big guys in black have surrounded the crowd.

Whether they are your employees or the network’s, you have no idea.

The yelling increases to a fever pitch. You almost fall over as the SUV starts to move.

In the car, Cal’s presence is stony. It takes about ten blocks before he speaks.

“I’m sorry, Mister Grayson,” he says gruffly.

Your sweaty fingers are clenching your phone like a lifeline. They itch to call Kai. To—what? Scream and cry about the unfairness of it all; about how it all fucking sucks?

Like he can read your mind, Cal’s hand gestures at your phone.

“Do you want to call Mister Reinhart?” he asks. Anyone else would swear that there’s zero emotion in his voice, but you know him well enough to discern the concern there. “Would you like me to reach out?”

“Thank you, Cal,” you say stiffly. “But that won’t be necessary.”

Your eyes burn, and you stare out the windows until the sensation passes. It takes a long time.