ADRIANA'S POV
The dress weighs fifteen pounds and smells like someone else's perfume.
Backstage at Madison Square Garden, I stand in front of a mirror that shows me everything I hate about this life. Twenty thousand people screaming on the other side of this wall. Twenty thousand people who think they know me. Who bought tickets to see someone who doesn't actually exist.
"Stop slouching." Vivienne materializes behind me like she always does, sharp-edged and demanding. My manager wears black the way other women wear armor. "Your shoulders are up. You look tired."
I force them down. "I'm not tired."
"Good. Because tired looks like someone who doesn't appreciate the opportunity." She leans closer to the mirror, checking her own reflection. Always her own reflection first. "The sponsors are here tonight. Three of them. They're watching for authenticity. Real emotion. Connect with them when you sing the ballad. Make them believe you meant every word."
I've sung the ballad exactly one hundred and forty-three times. I know what every word is supposed to mean. I know the story I'm supposed to tell. I know the tears I'm supposed to cry are all scheduled for 1:47 PM into the set, right after the dramatic pause where the lights go blue.
The problem is I haven't cried real tears in three years.
"You're not listening." Vivienne's voice cuts through whatever I'm thinking.
"I am."
"Your eyes are dead. They're completely dead. That won't work. You need to summon something. Anything. Remember why you started singing. Remember the girl who had actual passion."
I remember her fine. She's been dead since I was eighteen years old and Vivienne offered me a record deal.
Vivienne checks her watch. Five minutes. "The Chinese market is exploding right now. We're talking expansion, bigger venues, international tours. But only if tonight is perfect. Only if you deliver. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to walk on that stage and you're going to be someone people want to pay money to see. Not someone they feel sorry for. Not someone who looks like she wants to be anywhere else. You got that?"
I got that six years ago. The first time. The hundredth time. I got it now.
I nod.
She leaves and I'm alone with my dead eyes and my borrowed dress and the knowledge that I'm about to perform for two hours straight while pretending my life isn't slowly suffocating me.
The stage manager appears. Thirty seconds.
I stand up. I adjust the dress. I do that thing with my face where I pull it all down into one perfect, practiced expression. This is the version of me that exists in public. Confident. Grateful. Glowing. Everything a girl who got her dream should be.
The countdown starts.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
I walk toward the stage entrance.
Seven. Six. Five.
The noise gets louder. Forty thousand hands starting to clap in unison.
Four. Three. Two.
The lights shift. The music explodes.
One.
I step on stage and become someone else entirely.
For two hours, I'm perfect. Every note is exactly where it should be. Every movement is choreographed correctly. Every smile hits the exact second the cameras expect it to. I sing about love and loss and dreams coming true and none of it means anything because I'm so good at lying that I don't even remember what the truth feels like anymore.
The ballad comes at 1:47. The lights turn blue. The band goes softer. I find my mark and I let the tears fall right on schedule. Vivienne taught me how to do this. Little breathing techniques that make your eyes water without actually being sad. It's incredible what you can learn to fake when your entire life depends on it.
Twenty thousand people are on their feet by the second chorus.
They think I'm performing my heart. They have no idea I'm performing a memory of what a heart feels like.
The concert ends. Standing ovation. Three curtain calls. I blow kisses and wave and leave the stage smiling that perfect smile. Backstage, I finally drop it. My face goes numb. My legs feel like they're made of something that isn't quite solid. Someone hands me water. Someone else is asking Vivienne about tomorrow's schedule. I hear words like "media obligations" and "meet and greet" and my brain just slides right past all of it.
I escape to my dressing room and lock the door.
The silence hits different when you're alone. When there's no one to perform for and nothing to prove. I slump into a chair and pull off the dress carefully because it costs more than some people's rent and Vivienne would kill me if I damaged it.
That's when I hear the knock.
A courier stands there with an envelope. Says it was delivered to the venue. Got specific instructions to bring it straight to me. I sign for it without really thinking. This happens sometimes. Fans send things. Letters. Drawings. I usually don't open them. But something about this envelope feels different.
The handwriting is familiar.
I've seen it before.
Not once. Not twice. Eight times in the last month.
My stomach does something wrong inside my body.
I open it anyway because part of me needs to know. Part of me is already terrified.
The letter is two paragraphs. Same handwriting. Same obsessive rambling about how I was perfect tonight. How I sang his song. How soon we'll be together forever and no one can keep us apart. No one.
The word no one is underlined three times.
My hands start shaking.
I read it again. Then again. The paper feels like it's burning.
There's a knock on the door.
I jump so hard the letter falls from my hands.
Vivienne walks in without waiting for me to answer. She takes one look at my face and knows something's wrong. She picks up the letter from the floor. Reads it while I watch her jaw get tighter and tighter.
"That's eight this month," I say quietly.
"I know." Vivienne folds the letter very carefully. Sets it on the table. Looks at me with eyes that aren't concerned. They're calculating. "We need to talk about your security."
"I have security."
"You have decoration." She sits on the edge of my makeup table. "Three bodyguards who spend most of their time standing around trying to look important while completely failing at basic threat assessment. One of them brought a coffee into a restricted area last week. I could have walked a bomb past all three of them."
My mouth is dry.
"This stalker is escalating," Vivienne continues. "Eight letters. They know your travel schedule. They know your hotel floors. That means someone on your team is talking. Someone is giving him information. Which means your current security detail is compromised."
"So what do I do?"
Vivienne stands up and straightens her jacket. She looks almost excited, which is worse than when she looks angry because excitement from Vivienne usually means something difficult is about to happen.
"We're upgrading your security," she says.
The four words hang in the air between us like a verdict.
"I don't need—"
"You don't have a choice." She moves toward the door. "I'm hiring someone new. Someone serious. Someone with real experience. He starts in three days."
"He?"
But Vivienne is already gone.
I sit alone in my dressing room holding that letter with the underlined words and the promise of forever and I realize that my carefully controlled life is about to get a lot messier.
My phone buzzes. A notification from social media.
The ballad performance just went viral. Forty-two million views already. Comments pouring in about how real and authentic I was. How they felt my emotion. How I'm the most relatable celebrity because I'm not afraid to be vulnerable.
I read it and laugh. Actually laugh until my ribs hurt.
Not one of them knows that the only real thing about me tonight was how good I am at lying.
Not one of them knows that someone out there thinks he's in love with a person who doesn't exist.
And definitely not one of them knows what happens when someone new gets assigned to protect you from the obsession you've accidentally created by being too good at pretending.
Three days until everything changes.
Three days until Lucas Thorn walks into my carefully constructed world and decides that if I'm going to keep it together, someone needs to.
Three days until I meet the one man who might actually see through all the performances.
And that should terrify me.
But right now, holding that letter and staring at my own dead eyes in the mirror, I'm not sure I have anything left to lose.