My smile, or what’s left of it, fades as soon as I hang up the phone.

    I was furious when I called Sly. Angry that he brought attention to me that I can’t control. Terrified of the things that might happen because of it. And worst of all, distraught that in another world, one where I hadn’t made the bad decisions that I have, we might actually have a chance.

    Somehow, despite all those emotions rampaging inside of me, Mateo Sylvester managed to charm me. He made me smile, made meugh. And for just a second, he made me feel safe—and seen.

    But what can I do? If I give in and this thing crashes and burns around me, I’ll lose not just the music but the team that makes it possible. The only family I’ve ever known.

    No, I’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much of my peace of mind to walk away now.

    Corazón.

    Heart.

    The word slips into my head in Sly’s husky rumble. No one’s ever called me that before.

    Even as I think it, that damn melody—the one that’s haunted me since our first meeting—floats through my mind. Only this time ites with another three bars and lyrics to match.

    I start to reach for my journal to write them down—just because I’m thinking of Sly right now doesn’t mean the song I use the line in has to be about him.

    Yeah, and if you believe that, Sloane, I’ve got a Vegas headliner gig you can just walk away from… Oh wait.

    In the end, I leave the journal exactly where it is. No matter how much I love the music, some notes aren’t meant to be recorded.

    A soft knock sounds on the door, and a few secondster, Bianca sticks her head in. “You ready?” she asks. “It’s just about time to head over for the show.”

    My stomach pitches at her words. The stage fright is starting extra early today. I know it’s because of everything that’s happened—the hundreds of phone calls, thousands of messages, and tens of thousands of posts about Sly and me that areing at my team like Sly’s damn Twisters.

    “Yeah,” I answer, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. “Just let me get my shoes.”

    There’s a question in Bianca’s eyes when they meet mine, but I just shake my head. The show must go on.

    A little more than an hourter, I’ve got my makeup on, my hair done, and I’m back in the dress I was wearing the night I met Sly. I don’t know if my stylist did it on purpose, but as I pace the room, wriggling around in the corset she’s pulled just a hairsbreadth too tight, all I can think about is him.

    The deep,forting timbre of his voice. The kindness in his smile.

    The awareness in his fascinating, dark-brown eyes.

    The knowledge that I’m going to lose all that fills me with a deep sadness that I’m used to…and an even deeper anger that I’m not.

    “You know, you really don’t have to say no.” Pauline’s voice is uncharacteristically subdued as she watches me pace back and forth from her spot on the dressing room sofa. “You could just go out with him and see where it goes.”

    “Really?” I whirl around to face her. “You know better than most why I can’t. It goes against everything you taught me.” I pitch my voice higher, so it can sound like hers. “‘You’re not a Christmas tree, Sloane. Don’t ever let someone else plug you in and light you up. That power belongs to you.’”

    “Well, when I said that I hadn’t seen his plug,” my mentor answers with a wicked little grin that startles augh out of me, despite all the emotions raging inside. Who even am I today?

    “Yeah, well, you still haven’t seen his plug.” I smirk. “So don’t get too excited.”

    “Now why do you always have to go and spoil my fun? I’m old, not dead.” Today’s color is a bright, powerful blue. As Pauline talks, she slides her long cobalt nails against each other like a makeshift washboard, her rhythm reminding me of that damn melody I haven’t been able to shake. This would be a nice beat for it, actually. “And if Sly Sylvester was after me, I can assure you, I’d know exactly what to do.”

    “I’m pretty sure he would be after you if he thought he had a chance.” I smile despite myself.

    “I do still have it.” She flips today’s sapphire bob before adding, “Don’t let what might be steal the joy from what is, baby. Just because peoplee poking at you doesn’t mean you have to give them anything. What other people think of you is…” She waves an elegant hand, dismissing the hypothetical critiques.

    “My career depends on what people think of me.” I shove a frustrated hand through my hair, at this point not even caring about messing up Mandy’s perfectly imperfect work. “It’s easy to say I won’t give him power over me. But I said the same thing about thest two.”

    Pain swamps me, threatening to drag me down, as images of Jarrod sh through my head.

    Laughing as he whirls me around under a sparkling disco ball. Meditating as he holds my hand on an early-morning beach. Sobbing as he falls to the floor in front of me and begs me to stay.

    Tears bloom in my eyes, and my knees start to shake, but I lock them in ce as I blink away the pain, the regrets. Then I shove the memories back down, pushing them deep into the tiny, visceral part of my soul that I spend most days pretending doesn’t exist.

    God, I’m tired.

    “I’m sorry, Pauline. I just can’t risk it,” I tell her firmly. “I won’t risk it. I have no ns to date again—at least not anytime soon. And if I do eventually decide I want a rtionship, it sure as hell won’t be with someone almost as famous as I am.”

    No matter how warm and fuzzy he makes me feel.

    Pauline holds her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “All I’m saying is, life is a choose-your-own adventure. If you let someone else make the choices for you, you’ll never be satisfied.”

    “Almost every choice in my life is made by someone else.” Everything from the clothes I wear to the food I eat from catering is dictated by someone on my team.

    “Figure out what you want, Sloane. And then go get it. Whether you believe it or not, you’ve earned it.”

    “I want peace,” I tell her, determined not to back down. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

    Pauline throws back her head andughs. “Sugar, I don’t know if you’re lying to me or yourself, but I do know that no one gets into this industry because they want peace. If they did, they’d be in a different one.”

    Before I can tell her how wrong she is, my tour coordinator opens the door. Jace looks me over from head to toe like he’s checking for signs of damage. When he doesn’t find any—I make sure to keep that shit locked up tight—heunches straight into, “Encore?”

    “‘Blue,’ ‘Wanting,’ and ‘So Nice to Greet You.’” I like to change up the encore every few days.

    Bianca, who followed Jace in, arches a brow. “Those are certainly interesting choices.”

    “Don’t start!” I snap, then immediately feel like an ass. “Sorry. It’s just I’ve had them nned for days.”

    Which may or may not be true.

    “No worries.” Her smile is understanding, if a little worried at the edges. “I did want to remind you that the reporter from Vanity Fair is here tonight. Along with a couple of studio execs who flew in this afternoon.”

    “Fan-fucking-tastic.” I give her my biggest and fakest smile as I grab one of the tumblers of water Jace has filled for me in the fridge. He doesn’t trust anyone else with my water or my decanters full of “bourbon.”

    Jace takes that as his cue to leave. “I’ll let the band know,” he says as he heads back out. “We should be ready for you in fifteen.”

    As soon as the door is closed behind him, I turn to Bianca. “Any updates?”

    She shrugs. “Social media’s running with it. I’m fielding calls from everyone, including Sly’s agent. Bryan has started getting out the message that this isn’t going to happen, but…”

    “But what?” Sickness churns in my stomach.

    She makes a face. “Your fans love the narrative, and they are diving in.”

    I don’t ask about Sly’s fans. I’m sure they want to kick me through a goal post or three.

    Pauline stands up, stretching out her long legs. “I’m going to head up to my suite to watch you perform. It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed the show from the audience.”

    As she walks by Bianca, she links her arm through my manager’s. “Come on, sugar. You can sit with me.”

    Bianca looks like she wants to protest—I can tell she has more to say to me—but Pauline isn’t having it. And against Pauline, even Bianca doesn’t stand a chance.

    “We’ll talkter, Sloane, after the concert,” Bianca calls over her shoulder. “Have a good show.”

    “She’ll have a great show,” Pauline tells her with a swish of her bright-blue boa. “Now let’s go order enough drinks to forget what a mess this day has been, shall we?”

    I watch them leave before sinking into the nearest couch. But I’ve got too much nervous energy pouring through me right now to sit, so I end up going right back to pacing as I wait for my five-minute warning.

    I’m in the middle of my seventeenth circuit around the room when another knock sounds on the door. No rest for the wicked.

    This time, it’s Bryan, carrying a giant vase that has to contain at least three hundred flowers—half purple ca lilies and half pink peonies.

    “Shall I put these with the others?” Bryan asks, his face deliberately nk. Though his voice is smug as hell when he adds, “I left the card attached.”

    “You can put them anywhere,” I answer with a careless flick of my hand. But the second he sets them down on the vanity—along with a white cardboard baker’s box—I make a beeline right for them. I reach for the card before I can stop myself and ignore the way my hand trembles as I open it.

    No moves this time, just truth. The peonies add a little extra magic, just like you.

    The card isn’t signed, but then, it doesn’t have to be.

    I don’t want to like this gesture. I don’t want to be charmed by Sly or his presents. But I am, even before my gaze falls on the little baker’s box Bryan carried in.

    Because he’s Sly, and his attention to detail—and his grandmother’s intel—is incredible, I’m only mostly surprised to find half a dozen of my favorite giant éirs waiting for me.

    My heart turns over, and before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for my phone.

    Me: Thank you

    I think about leaving it at that, but then I can’t help but add a little more—just so I don’t sound churlish or unappreciative.

    Me: The flowers look and smell fantastic and so do the éirs

    Sly: Good. How do they taste?

    Me: The flowers?

    Sly: Obviously

    Because there’s a little devil living on my shoulder, I take a selfie biting into one of the pastries. Even as I tell myself not to do it, that it’s a bad idea, I hit send.

    Sly: Looks delicious

    Me: Beyond delicious

    Sly: I wasn’t talking about the éir

    My stomach somersaults. There are a million reasons I should leave it at that.

    I thanked him. He responded.

    I need to be onstage in a few minutes.

    The music in my head needs to stop, and this weird connection I feel for him needs to be over.

    I drop my phone on the vanity and get up. I even take a couple of steps toward the door before turning around and snatching it back up, as Pauline’s advice ys over and over in my head.

    I type three words and hit send before I can stop myself.

    Me: Neither was I

    And then I do the only thing I can think of to keep myself from freaking outpletely. I toss the phone in the nearest drawer and run.