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ONE

CHRISSY

T he camera flashes blinded Chrissy with each step down the red carpet.

Her midnight blue gown—chosen by one of her stylists, not her—hugged her curves in a way that the magazine reporters couldn't stop raving about.

The sweetheart neckline dipped just low enough to be sexy without crossing into scandalous territory, the crystal beading catching the light with each step.

Perfect for the charity gala. Perfect for headlines. Perfect for everyone but her.

"Smile wider," Leslie hissed into her ear, her fingers digging into Chrissy's elbow. "The Hadid sisters just arrived and everyone's looking this way."

Chrissy cranked up her smile a few notches. The muscles in her face ached with the effort.

"Three more photographers, then straight to the greenroom for final prep," Leslie rattled off, her clipboard clutched in her free hand. "You memorized your speech, right? The charity's name is Youth Forward Alliance, founded by Stella Wang, and you're presenting a check for fifty thousand."

The words blurred together. Chrissy nodded mechanically. The details would come to her when she needed them. They always did.

"God, you look exhausted." Maggie fell into step on Chrissy's other side, powder brush already in hand. "Let me fix your T-zone before the next flash blinds you."

Chrissy stood still as Maggie dabbed at her face. At least Maggie's touch felt gentle and human.

"Thanks, Mags." Chrissy's voice came out raspier than intended. "Don't suppose you smuggled in a Red Bull?"

"Better." Maggie slipped a tiny espresso shot into her hand. "Slam it while Leslie's distracted."

Chrissy downed the bitter liquid in one gulp, grateful for the momentary jolt. "You're a lifesaver."

"Empire Records newest sensation, Chrissy Rivera!" A reporter thrust a microphone toward her face. "How does it feel headlining tonight's event?"

The practiced answer flowed easily. "I'm honored to support such an amazing cause. Youth Forward Alliance changes lives, and that's what music should do too."

Words she believed but hadn't written. Words that had been crafted and approved and handed to her on a notecard this morning.

Inside the venue, crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light across the ballroom. Celebrities mingled with tech moguls and fashion icons, champagne flutes in hand. A year ago, Chrissy would have been star-struck. Now she just wanted a moment to breathe.

"Ten minutes until you're on," Leslie growled, checking her watch when they finally made their way to the greenroom. "Remember, you're introducing Stella Wang first, presenting the check, then performing your set."

"Stella Wang," Chrissy repeated, trying to cement the name in her memory.

Ten minutes later, the stage lights hit her like a physical force as she stepped into the spotlight. Five hundred faces turned toward her, expressions of expectation and admiration on them.

"Good evening, everyone." Chrissy's voice echoed through the speakers. "It's my privilege to be here tonight supporting Youth Forward Alliance and their incredible work with at-risk teenagers across Los Angeles."

The words flowed smoothly until the moment arrived to introduce the founder.

"Please welcome to the stage the visionary founder of this amazing organization, Stella Rang—" Chrissy froze, realizing her mistake instantly.

The crowd's polite applause faltered. "I mean Wang!

Stella Wang, everyone! Guess that's what happens when you're running on enough caffeine to power a small country. "

The audience laughed, the tension dissolving. Stella Wang, a striking woman in her forties wearing a sleek red pantsuit, stepped onto the stage with a wide smile.

"Thank you, Chrissy. I've been called worse, believe me." She winked at the audience. "Usually by my teenage son when I tell him his curfew."

Relief washed through Chrissy as she handed over the oversized check. Camera flashes captured the moment, and Stella gave her a genuine hug before exiting the stage.

Chrissy then executed her thirty-minute set on stage with practiced ease. Once she strummed the final chords of 'Daddy's Girl' on her acoustic guitar, she swung it over her shoulder and took a bow. The crowd erupted with thunderous applause.

That song had changed her life forever. One year ago, she'd recorded herself singing that original song a cappella while playing her acoustic guitar in her bedroom wearing her dad's old flannel shirt.

Several minutes after she'd recorded the video on her phone, she'd posted it to TikTok, and it went viral.

Now, it felt like that song belonged to someone else.

Her eyes burned with fatigue as she waved to the crowd. Five songs performed flawlessly, but the notes had felt mechanical, and the emotions manufactured. Her dad would have noticed immediately. He always said music needed heart to matter.

God, she missed him. With her busy schedule these days, she never got to see him.

As she stepped backstage, Leslie was already waiting with her phone out. "Not your best, but it'll do. The name slip-up is already trending, but your recovery was cute. Oh, and Marty wants you at the studio at 6 AM tomorrow."

6 AM tomorrow? This event won't even wrap up until midnight. And then there's the VIP after-party.

Maggie appeared at her side, her arm slipping around Chrissy's waist. "You killed it, sweetheart." Her whisper held genuine warmth. "Your dad would be so proud."

Leslie's hand shot out like a whip, shoving Maggie aside with enough force to make the makeup artist stumble backward. The warm comfort of Maggie's arm disappeared from around Chrissy's waist.

"Get off her," Leslie snapped. "You're paid to do her makeup, not cuddle her."

Before Chrissy could protest, Leslie's fingers clamped around her bare arm, her nails digging into the soft flesh. The crystal beading on Chrissy's midnight blue gown scraped against Leslie's expensive blazer as she yanked her forward.

"You'll fix that little flub in your Instagram post tonight, though." Leslie practically dragged her through the backstage area, her heels clicking aggressively against the polished floor. "And put this cropped leather jacket on. That tight revealing dress makes you look like a stripper."

Leslie thrust a black leather jacket at her chest. Chrissy caught it reflexively, her throat tightening. The sweetheart neckline of her gown wasn't even that low—just enough to highlight her natural curves without being distasteful. But arguing would only make things worse.

"Now," Leslie barked.

Chrissy slipped her arms into the jacket, the material stiff and hot against her skin. The moment she zipped it up, Leslie seized her wrist and resumed marching her toward the VIP lounge.

Chrissy flinched at the grip but bit her tongue. She'd learned that lesson months ago—every objection just fueled Leslie's venom. And tonight, with exhaustion burning behind her eyes and her dad's song still echoing in her mind, she lacked the energy for another confrontation.

God, what would her dad think if he saw how they treated her? The thought made her chest tight.

The VIP lounge glittered with wealth and exclusivity—crystal chandeliers, plush velvet couches, and the unmistakable gleam of fame. But all Chrissy noticed was Marty Shriner's cold stare as he stood by the bar, his tailored suit as sharp as his expression.

Leslie delivered her like a package. "Here she is."

No "great performance." No "well done." Just that predatory assessment that made her skin crawl.

Marty's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her upper arm with bruising force as he pulled her to the side of the room. His ice-blue eyes narrowed beneath his perfectly groomed auburn hair.

"What the hell was that performance?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper that somehow cut through the ambient music. "You were flat on the bridge of 'Midnight Dreams,' you botched Stella Wang's name, and you looked like you were sleepwalking through the whole set."

Chrissy's heart hammered against her ribs. "I'm sorry, I'm just tire?—"

"Tired?" Marty's grip tightened. "You think I care? Your new album just dropped. We have promotions lined up across three continents."

"But I asked for just two days to see my dad?—"

"Time off?" A harsh laugh cut through her plea. "This entire industry is built on momentum, and momentum means no breaks. I made you a star, Rivera. Now you need to act like it."

Something snapped inside her—a thread pulled too tight for too long. The memories of recording 'Daddy's Girl' in her bedroom, the joy of music before contracts and handlers, before becoming property instead of a person.

"Made me a star?" Heat flooded her cheeks. "I made myself a star. You just showed up after my TikTok video went viral and slapped a contract in front of me that I was too na?ve to read properly."

Marty's eyes flashed dangerously. "Watch yourself."

"No, you watch yourself." The words tumbled out, unstoppable now. "I'm a human being, not a wind-up toy. I need sleep. I need to see my family. I need five minutes to breathe without you or Leslie yanking me around like a dog on a leash."

The room seemed to still around them. Marty's face transformed into something cold and feral.

"You belong to my company." His voice dropped to a whisper that chilled her blood. "Try to run, and we'll ruin you."

The threat hung in the air between them, crystalline and poisonous.

The VIP lounge suddenly seemed smaller, the glittering chandeliers dimmer. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she stared into Marty's ice-blue eyes, seeing something inhuman lurking behind them.

"Excuse me, but I simply must interrupt."

The soft yet commanding voice sliced through their confrontation like a velvet-wrapped blade. Chrissy turned, grateful for the reprieve, and found herself face-to-face with a diminutive woman who somehow commanded the entire room despite her small stature.

Standing at 4'11", the stranger wore an impeccably tailored crimson pantsuit that probably cost more than Chrissy's first car.

Her white bob framed a face that radiated wisdom and mischief in equal measure.

But it was her eyes that captivated Chrissy—startling blue that seemed to shift to molten gold as she fixed Marty with a pointed stare.

"Gerri Wilder!" Marty's demeanor transformed instantly. His grip on Chrissy's arm vanished as he stepped forward, charm replacing menace. "What a delightful surprise."

Chrissy rubbed her arm, certain tomorrow's bruises would match his fingerprints perfectly. The zipped-up leather jacket Leslie had forced her to wear felt suffocating in the warm room, the midnight blue gown beneath it suddenly too tight and too restrictive—like everything else in her life.

"Marty, darling." The woman—Gerri—smiled, but it didn't reach her now-golden eyes. "Always a pleasure. I was hoping I might borrow your star for a moment. Her performance tonight was absolutely transcendent."

Chrissy blinked, stunned by the immediate deference Marty showed this tiny powerhouse of a woman.

"Of course, of course." Marty's smile stretched wide, all teeth. "Anything for you, Gerri."

The moment he retreated a few steps away to engage with some industry executives, Gerri turned her full attention to Chrissy.

"You don't know me yet, but I know you, Chrissy. And I know you're not okay right now." Her voice was gentle but direct, cutting through pretense like it wasn't even there.

"Are you with the charity?" Chrissy asked, suddenly conscious of how tight her voice sounded and how close to breaking she was.

"Yes, I helped Stella plan tonight's gala." Gerri's eyes then sparkled with mischief. "But I do more than that."

She reached into her designer clutch and extracted a single business card, sliding it discreetly into Chrissy's hand with the practiced ease of someone used to operating below radar.

"I can offer you a way out of this situation. Somewhere private. Somewhere safe. With no cameras, no handlers, and no Marty." Gerri's voice dropped lower, forcing Chrissy to lean in. "If you want to disappear, I can make it happen."

A flutter of something dangerous—hope—stirred in Chrissy's chest. Disappear? The word felt like cool water after months in a desert. She quickly slipped the card into her jacket pocket without looking at it, all too aware of Marty's watchful presence nearby.

"Thank you for the compliment," Chrissy said, louder than necessary, playing along.

Gerri's laugh was genuine as she patted Chrissy's arm. "Chrissy, that was a beautiful performance tonight, and you look absolutely stunning." She winked and glided away, her exit as striking as her entrance.

Chrissy watched her go, her mind racing. Who was this nice woman who could make Marty Shriner—the man who terrorized everyone around him—suddenly act like a fawning schoolboy? And more importantly, how could she possibly help Chrissy escape a contract that had more teeth than a shark?

Her fingers brushed against the card in her pocket. Disappear. The word echoed in her mind like the promise of rain during drought. To be somewhere Marty couldn't reach her. To sleep without nightmares of schedules and obligations. Seeing her dad again someday.

The business card burned in her pocket, a tiny flame of possibility. Her back was against the wall, but maybe—just maybe—there was a door she hadn't seen before.

As Marty approached again, his smile a mask over the predator beneath, Chrissy straightened her spine. For the first time in months, something like anticipation fluttered in her stomach. It seemed impossible to get away from him—but then again, so had becoming a star overnight.