LOGINThe lights are blinding.They always have been.The difference, years later, is that I know exactly where I’m standing in them.“The world tour closer,” Mia had said when we planned this date. “We need drama. We need catharsis. We need…pyro.”We compromised.No pyro.There is plenty of catharsis.The stadium is a living thing tonight.Older than the arenas I started in. It's bigger than anything I thought I’d ever fill. Rows and rows of faces climb into the dark, dots of light from phones and wristbands and tears catching LEDs like stars.The screens show me in high‑def when I step out.Older.Lines at the corners of my eyes from laughing and crying and squinting into spotlights.A scar at my throat, you only see if you know to look.Stronger.More me than I’ve ever been.“Last song,” I tell them, voice carrying over the roar. “You know which one.”They do.They scream the title before the band even starts.Owned.The arrangement tonight is a hybrid—part original, part stripped, part
I find the note again weeks later, where I tucked it without thinking.In my wallet.Between a crumpled receipt from an airport café and a photo strip of our daughter making progressively more ridiculous faces in a booth.I’m standing in a greenroom in some other city, some other arena, half in costume, half in my own head. Mia is yelling at someone about a missing mic pack. Dante is on a call near the window, his voice low, words like “compliance” and “partnership” threading through the air.My fingers brush the edge of the folded paper.For a heartbeat, I’m back in that ugly hotel room, an old heater rattling, and new ink drying. Dante’s shoulder pressed against mine as we leaned against the cheap headboard and wrote over the past.Sing for the world, little star. Forget me. Sing for the world. Come home to me.Both truths, laid back‑to‑back.I unfolded it.The original line faces me first, his handwriting a little more careful than it was that first night.Sing for the world, lit
The fight starts over socks.Not metaphorical ones—actual, tiny, glitter‑covered socks that have somehow migrated from our daughter’s room into the middle of Dante’s office.“Why are there unicorns in my boardroom?” he demands, holding up the offending article between two fingers.I look up from the kitchen island, where I’m elbow‑deep in emails and half a song.“Because their natural habitat is chaos,” I say. “And you leave your door open.”He appears in the doorway, sock dangling accusingly.“We had a call with the London office,” he says. “There were unicorn socks on the camera, Luna.”I try very hard not to laugh.“And?” I ask. “Did the British crime syndicate lose respect for you?”He gives me a look.“We were talking about corporate restructuring,” he says. “Not…sparkly livestock.”I shrug.“Consider it a branding refresh,” I say. “More approachable. Friendly mobster chic.”He pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s recalibrating an entire personality.Behind him, our daughter
“Will you?” she whispers again, voice already half‑fogged with sleep. “Leave Daddy?”The night‑light hums.Shadows sway on the walls.Dante’s fingers tighten around mine, just a fraction.Once, that question would have hit like a stone to the chest.Because for a long time, the honest answer was I don’t know."Not because I didn’t love him.Because love wasn’t the only force in the room.Fear was there.Debt.Contracts.Guns.Lawyers.Now, though, there’s just a small, warm body between us and a future we’re building on something less explosive.I smooth our daughter’s hair back from her forehead and speak into the space where truth and comfort overlap.“No,” I say softly. “I’m not going to leave, Daddy.”Her eyelids flutter.“Promise?” she breathes.“I promise,” I say. “Because I chose him.”I feel Dante goes very still.“And he chooses me,” I add. “Every day.”There’s a rustle as he leans in a little, his arm brushing the blanket.Our daughter processes this with the utmost seriousn
The bedtime book is upside down.I don’t point it out.Our daughter is curled against my side on her small bed, blanket pulled up to her chin, hair still damp from the bath. The night‑light throws soft moons on the ceiling. Somewhere down the hall, the dishwasher hums.I hold the book while she “reads” to me, her finger tracing the wrong words in a sing‑song voice.“…and then the princess said, ‘No thank you, dragon, I’m busy,’” she improvises. “And the dragon was sad but polite.”“Excellent boundaries,” I say. “Very healthy dragon.”She giggles.The door is cracked open.I can feel Dante more than see him—leaning on the doorframe, watching, and staying just out of the glow. He does that a lot. He says he doesn’t want to “intrude on girl time,” but I know he’s there.She finishes mangling the last page, closes the book, and pats my arm.“Your turn,” she says. “Tell a story.”I tuck the book onto the nightstand and shift, so I’m half‑lying beside her, cheek on my hand.“What kind of st
The conference room is all glass and light.Floor‑to‑ceiling windows look out over a city that once intimidated me. Now it feels…negotiable. Like a collaborator instead of an enemy.“Last item,” the woman at the head of the table says, tapping her tablet. “Allocation for the Luna Vega Artist Protection Fund—year three.”The words still sit strangely in my ears.My name.On something that isn’t an album or a scandal.I set my pen down and lace my fingers together.“How did the pilot mentorship program go?” I ask. “The one with the girls from the regional talent competitions.”A younger woman two seats down—Tatiana, twenty‑one, former “viral cover girl,” current law student, and my unofficial intern—lights up.“We had fourteen mentees,” she says. “Ten renegotiated contracts with better terms. Three walked away entirely after seeing the red flags. One…is suing.”My chest tightens.“In a good way,” Tatiana rushes to add. “She has pro bono representation and a solid case. Your doc and test
The house goes into siege mode.Gates locked.Inner doors coded.Guards double‑posted.Every time a helicopter dips closer, a new wave of murmured strategy ripples through the halls. War first. Optics later.I slip between it all like a ghost.To them, this is about fences and guns and angles of at
I wake up with someone else’s heartbeat under my ear.For a split second, before consciousness catches up, it’s seven years ago. Cheap sheets. Brooklyn traffic. Dante’s arm heavy around my waist, his hand splayed over my stomach like he’s afraid I’ll float away.Then the mattress shifts under me, f
We don’t do it in his office.Not in the room with the drawer and the sealed windows and the ghosts of a hundred quiet negotiations I was never part of.We do it in the small library off the main hall.Sunlight filters through high windows, dust motes drifting over shelves of actual books instead o
The helicopters don’t leave.By late afternoon, they’ve settled into a pattern—circling, zooming, backing off just enough to refuel and return. The press at the gates has turned into a camp: cameras on tripods, reporters in different shades of outrage, fans in homemade shirts, and hastily printed s







