Tears slipped down Diana's cheeks before she could stop them, hot and relentless, carving silent tracks through the remnants of her makeup.
She pressed her forehead to the cool glass surface of the coffee table, the chill a small mercy against the burning in her skull.
Her shoulders shook with silent sobs she refused to let turn into sound—because if she started making noise, she might never stop.
The city lights outside blurred into streaks of gold and red through the haze of her tears, indifferent witnesses to her unraveling.
Her phone kept lighting up on the counter, screen flashing with notifications—tags from the gala, fan comments, reposts of red-carpet photos, the endless hunger of social media demanding more of her even when she had nothing left to give.
She ignored it, letting the vibrations fade into the background hum of the penthouse.
Each buzz felt like a reminder of the performance she was still expected to maintain: the grateful pop princess, the untouchable star. The lie.
She didn't know how long she stayed like that—curled on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, breathing shallow and ragged—before the front door beeped softly.
The electronic lock disengaged with a quiet chime, and Diana shot upright, heart slamming against her ribs.
She swiped furiously at her face with the sleeves of her hoodie.
Papers scattered across the table as she tried to stack them hastily, hiding the evidence of her breakdown before whoever it was saw the mess.
"Gosh, I knew you'd do this."
Relief flooded her at the familiar voice—sharp, exasperated, but laced with unmistakable affection.
Diana let the papers fall back into disarray, her hands dropping to her lap. "It's just you, Zari."
Zari stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light, arms crossed over her chest, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in that signature way that said she'd already catalogued every detail of the scene.
She was still dressed for the evening—sleek black blazer over a silk camisole, tailored pants, heels that made her tower even more than usual—but her dark curls were slightly tousled now, as if she'd run her hands through them on the drive over.
"Yes, it's me," Zari said, kicking the door shut behind her with one heel. "And I specifically told you—via text, sticky note, and psychic projection—to leave this crap for tomorrow so we could tackle it together with coffee and daylight."
Diana turned her gaze to the television, where the channel had flipped to some late-night talk show.
A comedian was riffing about celebrity scandals, laughter track booming too loudly in the quiet space.
She reached for the remote and muted it. "Tomorrow, tonight—what difference does it make? It's all the same pile of shit."
Zari sighed, a long-suffering sound she'd perfected over years of friendship, and crossed the room in a few strides.
She dropped down beside Diana on the floor without ceremony, folding her long legs beneath her, the blazer creasing slightly.
Up close, Diana could smell her perfume—something spicy and warm, a contrast to the sterile air of the penthouse.
"The difference is that tomorrow we do it with clear heads instead of post-gala meltdown emotions." Her tone softened as she reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from Diana's forehead. "Come on, Dee. You're scaring me a little."
Diana stayed quiet, staring at the muted screen where celebrities laughed at jokes she couldn't hear.
Zari's hand lingered for a moment before withdrawing.
She reached for the scattered papers anyway, gathering them with efficient movements. "Fine. If you insist on torturing yourself, we'll do it now. Then we'll go over everything again with Hannah in the morning."
"Tell Hannah not to come."
"Why?" Zari asked, pausing mid-shuffle.
"Isn't it obvious?" Diana dragged a hand through her still-damp hair, fingers tangling in the waves. "She'll just repackage the same bad news in fancier words—'cash flow challenges,' 'strategic deferments.' I'm not paying her hourly rate for that. I should be paying you guys instead."
"No one's complaining," Zari said sharply, her dark eyes flashing.
"Martin did." Diana's voice was flat, remembering the terse email from her former head of security two weeks ago. He'd cited "family obligations" and "new opportunities," but she knew the truth: no paycheck meant no loyalty, no matter how many threats he'd neutralized in the past.
Zari's face darkened, lips pressing into a thin line. "That security asshole—"
"Don't." Diana cut her off, sharper than intended.
She softened immediately, exhaustion bleeding through. "He has a life. You all do. You've put up with me long enough."
Her tiny remaining team hadn't been paid in two months.
None of them had dared mention it outright, but the tension hung in every interaction.
It ate at her worse than the utility threats or the loan interest. Zari—friend first, manager second, ride-or-die since they were broke teenagers hustling open mics in dive bars—hadn't seen a proper paycheck in even longer.
She'd been covering small costs out of pocket, pretending it was nothing.
Diana tried again, softer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Even you, Zari, I—"
"Don't start with that bullshit," Zari snapped, shaking her head vehemently. Her curls bounced with the motion. "I wasn't getting paid when we started either, remember?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at Diana's mouth despite everything.