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CHAPTER ONE

LENA

All I can think about is the craft services table. The cold cut sandwiches, the cute little bottles of sparkling water, and my favorite sour?—

“Lena?”

I stare through my three-hours-of-sleep haze at the man with the slicked-back hair, the garish teeth refracting the myriad of stage lights. The one with the forced laugh after all my mediocre jokes. “Yes, Billy?”

Billy Lanza wags his finger at me from behind his microphone, which is just some antiquated thing on his desk for show. “Are you daydreaming about Callum Porter again?”

I shift in the unyielding hot seat, the couch stiff under my purple beaded skirt. “Have you heard half my songs? I’m always daydreaming.”

A few whistles and sporadic giggles trill from beyond the incandescent lights, followed by a chorus of “We love you Lena!” rippling through the audience.

Two cameramen in black baseball caps pan from the stage to the seats, capturing the crowd the blinding lights won’t let me see. I blow kisses to them all, anyway. After a sleepless night and this commotion, my throbbing head will need a dark room and some ibuprofen to recover.

Billy smiles. Raises his brows. “The overwhelming consensus is that your songs are inspired by your breakups and the men you’ve loved.”

I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Or at least the men who’ve loved me, right?”

He lets out a whooping laugh, and the crowd follows suit like a good little audience. Leaning back from his desk, he perfectly centers himself under the Late Night with Lanza sign emblazoned on the back wall of his set. “True, true. I suppose that could be the case.”

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.

“Now that you’re in the happiest—and dare I say longest —relationship of your twenty-five years, how will that affect your inspiration?

Aren’t you afraid your fans who have built their love for you and your music through your shared…

romantic traumas , for lack of a better term, will move on to the next sad girl? ”

Sad girl. I’ve heard the words mumbled through tabloids and comment sections I never finish reading, but to have that stupid label thrown straight into my face siphons all the air from my lungs. Even more so than the tactless mention of my age.

I pray he can’t see my nostrils flare as I steady my voice. “I only hope that they can all find something— someone— as genuine and loving as I’ve finally found in Callum.”

There’s a hushed, collective swoon from the audience.

I take it as my cue and hoist my favorite guitar from where it’s propped next to me, carefully threading my head through the strap without disturbing my waist-length, clip-in hair extensions. I'm one step closer to crawling out from under Billy Lanza’s microscope and my post-show snacks.

“That reminds me,” I begin, strumming the first chord to the song I still love despite how much I’ve changed since I wrote it, the one that hurtled me into the spotlight at sixteen. “Genuine love can be—” another strum and the cheers pick up— “Pretty Hard to Find.”

At the mention of the name of my first single, everyone roars, effectively drowning out any more too-personal questions or insults from the prying host. I find my way to center stage, and the lights in the house dim as a single buttery spotlight finds me.

For a split second, it’s just me and my acoustic guitar.

I’m back in my element, where I began, why I began.

Then the band picks up for the second verse.

The tempo rises as the floodlights brighten, and I toss my guitar to a stagehand as I rip my mic from the stand.

My record label says I need to give the people something to dance to if I want to stay at the top of the charts. So I do.

I perform my new choreography immaculately, and I know I’ll be met with praise from my team when I finally finish my set.

As I strike the ending pose of my last song, the crowd explodes, standing and cheering.

My heart pounds as I catch my breath. For a split second, as I stare out at their smiling faces, I remember why I started singing in the first place.

Billy Lanza jogs on stage, sidling up to me and throwing an arm over my sweaty shoulder as he announces the rest of his lineup for the night: everyone’s favorite rom-com actress, Ada Lane, and some football player from this year’s reigning Super Bowl champs, the Vista City Kings.

I clap along with the audience as though I’ll stick around to meet either of them.

As the cameramen pull off their earphones and step back from their cameras, I bid my goodbyes to both Billy and the enthusiastic audience and dart offstage.

Someone hands me a towel and a bottle of spring water as soon as I disappear behind the curtain.

I dab my hairline and chug the water, my mind locked in on one thing.

My post-show tradition. The one my dad unintentionally started after my first public performance over a decade ago.

The one steady thing I can count on despite whatever chaotic work crap I may be facing.

It’s not just a bowl of sour gummy worms. It’s the equivalent of Dad’s smiling face meeting me backstage, no matter how long it’s been since I’ve seen him or how certain I am that I’ll crumble where I stand.

It’s the pick-me-up this “sad girl” needs after last night’s red-eye flight and another pushy interview.

“Your elbows were bent. You need to fully extend.”

I spin to face the voice, the one that’s been critiquing me since I fell out of her womb. My manager. “Thanks, Mom.”

“The audience went nuts for it, though, didn’t they?

” Antonia, my publicist, beams. Her dark curls bounce as she hums and scrolls on her tablet before jotting down some notes with a stylus.

“There’s not a doubt in my mind the choreography for So Demure will be going viral within hours of this airing.

People will be mimicking it for months. ”

I smile wide, hoping I look as excited as she expects.

My mother butts in, smoothing a hand over her dark bun that shines like an oil slick even in the dim backstage light. “Our flight’s in four hours. Your dressing room is currently being packed up, and I need you to change into something else so we can prep your garments for dry cleaning.”

That’s right. We land in another city tonight.

I wilt, wanting to ask my mom when we get to go home, when we get to see Dad again, but her phone rings and she excuses herself.

Antonia tracks her, making a call of her own.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I watch them disappear and toss my towel to one of Billy’s crew members before beelining toward the craft services table.

I always request the same three things: ice-cold peach seltzer water, deviled eggs, and a heaping pile of sour gummy worms. My craft services order is a far cry from what it once was, but I soon realized a growling belly does nothing to help my sanity or my show quality.

I need to fuel my body, and I like the way my curves fill out my costumes.

The eggs are half gone when I arrive, but I lift one from the glass dish and slip it into my mouth before my mom can remind me I need to remove my costume first. Sipping on a peach water, I move down the line to the desserts, waiting my turn behind a couple of guys I can hardly see around.

When they peel off and I’m face to face with what I’ve been dreaming about, it’s like I've been sucker-punched in the gut.

The bowl that had been brimming with individual packs of my beloved sour gummies before my interview now sits almost completely vacant, save for a couple of empty worm baggies and flavored dust sullying the dish.

A booming laugh pulls my attention to a behemoth of a man. One that dangles a sour gummy worm into his mouth as he yucks it up with some other meathead. The guy from the line. I narrow in on him, moving before I think of my next move.

“Hey!” I say, closing in on my target.

He keeps talking and laughing like it’s ever okay to be the person who empties a dish. Didn’t his mom teach him anything? Never take the last slice of pizza, never swipe the last bottled drink, and never be the one who empties the candy bowl. It’s common courtesy.

When he drops the rest of the worms into his mouth, it’s like it’s happening in slow motion.

And then I watch as his perfectly square jaw crushes them, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he finishes them off.

His buddy backs away, and when I stop moving, I’m standing under the behemoth.

His green eyes sparkle with residual laughter, and for a moment, they’re all I can focus on.

And then he wipes his sour-dusted hands on the sides of his pants like it's nothing.

My pulse spikes, and I feel my face compiling all the stressors of my day—gummies included—into one twisted expression.

He stares down at me, his dark brows knitting, and then recognition passes over his face. “Lena Lux? I loved your set. Hadn’t heard much of your new stuff ‘til tonight, but that first one?—”

“You ate my candy,” I say.

“Your candy?” He eyes me, then the table, his gaze landing on the desserts. He smirks. “The candy that was put out for everyone by craft services?”

“The candy I specifically requested that I’m not so sure the crew is supposed to be eating.” I cross my arms. “Does Billy always let you guys snack on the guests’ food?”

He runs a hand through his dark waves, and I watch as the pomade in his hair gives up. “Aren’t you high and mighty?”

I scoff. “No, just hungry.”

“So eat something else.”

“I want my worms.”

“ Sour worms.” He grimaces. “So send out your help to get you some. You act like everyone isn’t at your beck and call or something.”

“They aren’t.”

He pinches his stubbly mouth into a tight line. “Sure. You tell your little Lena Lover mob that. You know, they can be pretty brutal online.”

A woman wearing an earpiece approaches with a clipboard in hand. She smiles at me before turning to the worm stealer. “Decker, hair and makeup wanted to powder you one more time before filming.”

He nods and gives her an irritating grin before she disappears.

So he isn’t crew. He’s a guest. From his size—and arrogance—I’m assuming he’s the Vista Kings player. Charming.

He turns back to me. “I’ve never seen someone get so worked up about candy. I don’t know if you know this, but there are way bigger problems out there to worry about.” He shakes his head and backs away. “I gotta run.”

“Yeah, go get powdered,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“I will.” He heads toward the makeup station, but turns back one more time. “And by the way, you have something right here.” He taps his chin before retreating again.

I scowl and lift my fingers to my face, swiping at my chin. They graze something wet, and when I look down, a glob of deviled egg filling is smeared across my fingers. I wipe it against the dumb costume my mom picked out and head off to find her.