“You ready for this interview?” Bryan asks. He’s the publicist assigned to apany me on the tour and make sure I don’t do anything to bring the house of cards that is my, and subsequently his, career tumbling down on top of us. “It’s a big deal.”

    “You say that about all of them.” I try not to move my head, ncing at him out of the corner of my eye, but just that little movement makes Mandy squeak. Then again, she is currently wielding her mascara wand like a weapon.

    “Yes, well, this time I actually mean it.”

    “You always mean it.” I wait for Mandy to finish with my left eye before reaching for my iced coffee and taking a long sip. I may not have a taste for alcohol, but caffeine is a whole other story. Especially considering I only got about three hours of sleepst night.

    I me myck of sleep on the time zone difference and not on the dark-brown eyes and self-deprecating grin that continue to pop into my mind at the most inopportune times. Spoiler alert: all times are inopportune.

    All of a sudden, the melody that’s crept into my head several times since I met Sly starts to y again. I reach for my journal just in case morees to me, but it slips away like water through a broken ss. There and gone before I can so much as taste it.

    Fuck.

    I swallow down the frustration and tell myself it’s better this way.

    I don’t have the time for inspiration to strike right now.

    “Do you want another sip of your coffee before…?” Mandy’s voice trails off, but it’s hard to miss what she’s saying, considering she’s now holding a lip liner the same dark red as my hair.

    “God, yes.” I grab for the cup and shut the music down hard.

    Nothing but trouble lies that way.

    Already, my stomach is in knots. My newest album dropped eight weeks ago, and ever since, I’ve been on a revolving carousel of interviews and appearances in between performances. I consider it a personal triumph that I even know what city we’re in right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited the album’s getting a better reception than we imagined—we’ve got our choice of magazines to cover. I just wish my people would say no a bit more often.

    Surely people are getting as sick of looking at my face in the supermarket lines as I am of showing it.

    Then again, if I’ve learned nothing else from the past several years, it’s that people’s infatuation with the worst—preferably without any real evidence to back it up—knows no bounds.

    “Who’s this again?” I ask when Mandy finishes with my lips after what feels like forever. I’ve been putting lipstick on for years, and I still can’t figure out how anyone, especially a skilled makeup artist, can turn its application into a fifteen-minute process. Though admittedly hers does look better.

    “Vanity Fair,” Bryan answers as he heads for the door. “It’s the cover story. I’ll be bringing them up in ten minutes, so make sure you’re ready.”

    “Can’t wait,” I call after him.

    Lucinda breezes into my suite as Bryan walks out. “Just finished steaming your outfit, and all I can say is don’t you dare wrinkle this zer before the photographer gets here.”

    “It’s just an interview. The photo shoot isn’t until L.A.” I reach for what’s left of my coffee, then freeze as Mandy hisses. Apparently thest of her new-girl nerves have finally deserted her.

    I pick up the cup and take a sip anyway, though I’m careful not to smudge her work. She narrows her eyes and looks like she’s about toin, but the second I raise a brow, she grabs her makeup kit and scampers toward the exit.

    Nice to know I’ve still got it.

    “They’re bringing a photographer for behind-the-scenes content to apany the photo shoot next week, so get undressed, will you? This shirt is tricky.” Lucinda looks me over from head to toe. “And stop trying to scare the newbies.”

    “I don’t have to try.” I slide my robe off my shoulders and let it pool on the floor around me. When I was younger, I thought I’d never get used to stripping in front of people. But after years of thirty-second costume changes between sets and a full decade of being treated like nothing more than amodity, I barely notice it anymore. Besides, it’s hard to care about modesty when so many of my secrets are sprawled about the inte for clickbait and sound bites.

    “Those panties are going to leave a line.” Lucinda runs a critical eye over my nearly naked body.

    “Yeah, well, it’s a midday interview. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be sitting the whole time, anyway.”

    “What if—”

    “Sorry, but I’m not baring my ass or my trauma today,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes. “Even if it is for Vanity Fair.”

    Lucinda mutters something uplimentary under her breath, but she doesn’t argue as she hands me a pair of fis stockings. “Put these on while I get your skirt ready.”

    I stare at the stockings dubiously, imagining the half dozen missteps it usually takes me to get them on. “I was thinking I’d wear jeans.”

    “For Vanity Fair? When they’re crediting me as your stylist?” She shakes her head. “Bite your tongue.”

    “How about I wear jeans and a T-shirt and take the stylist credit myself?” I ask just to wind her up.

    It’s her turn to roll her eyes as she holds out a ck midi skirt. “The clock is ticking.”

    Ten minutester, she’s still fastening me into the mostplicated spiderweb of a shirt I’ve ever worn. It’s ufortable as fuck, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the nod to my stage persona.

    A knock sounds on the outer suite door right before I hear Bryan chatting with two people I can only assume are the Vanity Fair team.

    Lucinda does up thest button and hands me a Dolce & Gabbana zer to put on top. It settles over my shoulders like armor—the sleek, expensive kind. But protection like this isn’t built to save you. Just to make the bleeding look like part of the show.

    “Don’t forget your shoes,” Lucinda orders as I head toward the living room.

    I take one look at the sleek, pointy-toed Louboutins and opt for the giant tarant slippers a fan tossed onstage during the first night of the tour. They might be the mostfortable thing I own.

    “Don’t you dare!” Lucinda hisses, but I’m already breezing through the bedroom door and into the living room.

    “Sloane,” Bryan gushes the moment he catches sight of me. “You look ravishing.”

    I don’t bother to answer. The ck Widow doesn’t respond to emptypliments.

    I eye the reporter, who in turn eyes my tarant slippers, her brows slightly raised. But when she feels my scrutiny, she jerks her gaze back up to mine and steps forward, hand extended.

    Dread crawls down my spine as I step closer—usually my people warn them about this. Before I can force myself to take her hand, Bryan deliberately moves between us. “Sloane, meet Vittoria Quasarano from Vanity Fair. Vittoria, meet the one and only Sloane Walker.” His smile is so big and fake I’m a little surprised it doesn’t swallow him whole.

    Relief swamps me, and I give her a nod before making my way over to the table in the corner, where coffee service is already set up.

    I’m dying for another cup. I own the fact that I’m absolutely coffee’s bitch, but that doesn’t mean anyone else needs to know. Having a weakness is one thing. Letting someone else see that weakness, especially a reporter, is something else entirely.

    Pauline taught me that.

    So instead of pouring myself a cup of coffee, I reach for the decanter of weak tea sitting next to it and try not to gag. “Bourbon?” I ask, brows raised in question as I pour myself a ss.

    It’s a calcted risk—if she says yes, I’ll have to fumble the bottle and find a way to pour the tea all over the floor—but it’s one I feel pretty good about. Reporters always want their wits about them when they take on the ck Widow.

    I may have apletely unearned reputation for being difficult.

    Vittoria is no different, because I’ve barely poured my own drink before she shakes her head. “A little too early for me, I’m afraid.”

    “It’s noon somewhere,” I answer with a shrug.

    “It’s noon here,” Bryan tells me with a smile that grows a little more pained with every second, like he doesn’t know all too well that this is how things go once I’ve hit my limit on interviews. I might feel worse about it if he didn’t spend so much of his life torturing me, and if I didn’t pay him quite so much to do it. “We’re in Vegas.”

    “Indeed we are.” I flop down on the closest chair, draping an arm over its back and letting my legs sprawl out in front of me. The more ill at ease I am, the more room I make sure to take up. Feel one thing, project the opposite. All part of the ck Widow’s web.

    As Vittoria pours herself a cup of coffee, Bryan’s eyes urge me to sit up and say something nice. Since that’s what the old Sloane would do, I stay exactly where I am. And I don’t say a word. She who speaks first is always the loser. Something else my mentor taught me way back when.

    So instead of making small talk or—God forbid—a good impression, I pull out my phone and start scrolling without actually looking at anything.

    It’s just a ploy, a chance to put her on the defensive. But the message thread with Olivia is right there at the top. And just a quick scroll down is a number I haven’t added to my contacts yet.

    Right now, it’s just ten little digits and a whole lot of possibilities. I stare at it for several long seconds, my thumb hovering over the number like it might decide for me.

    But then I look away. Because what would I even say?

    Vittoria finishes pouring her coffee before settling into the chair across from me. I expect her to immediatelyunch into questions once she sets up her phone to record, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just sits there sipping her coffee and watching me over the cup’s rim.

    Apparently, I’m not the only one who subscribes to Pauline’s strategy.

    Well yed.

    Bryan, who’s standing behind Vittoria, is looking more agitated by the second. He’s not making any big facial expressions or gestures—he’s as aware as I am of the photographer in the room—but he’s definitely using his eyes and a pained smile to urge me to say something. Anything.

    I ignore him, much to his increasing annoyance.

    The silence continues, right up until Bryan reaches his breaking point. “Is there anything else I can get you?” he asks the reporter.

    She gives him a quiet smile. “No, I’m great, thanks. This coffee is delicious.”

    “Well, then, let’s get started, shall we?” He all but ps his hands like an elf at Santa’s Workshop, arranging things exactly the way he wants them. “Sloane does have a busy day ahead of her.”

    “Of course. I just didn’t want to interrupt her in case it was important,” she tells him, gesturing to my phone—even though we both know that’s bullshit. Not that I care, because she’s finally forced to ask, “Are you ready, Sloane?”

    Sloane one, Vanity Fair zero.

    But gloating is rude, so I keep the triumph to myself. Instead, I drop my phone on the table, grab my drink, and answer, “Absolutely. I’m an open book.” One with half the pages ripped out, but no need to advertise that fact.

    “I’m so d to hear it.” Vittoria settles back in her chair, and I can’t help thinking I’ve got this on lock. At least until she asks, “So, how long have you been dating Mateo Sylvester?”