The roar is still in my bones when the door slams behind me.
It’s a physical thing, the crowd. It sticks in my skin like glitter, thrumming along my nerves, louder than the ringing in my ears. I’m half-drunk on it, sweat cooling down my spine, throat rough from screaming the last chorus back at them.
“Two minutes, Luna. Quick reset, then the livestream backstage,” Valerie calls, already walking away as if my legs aren’t trembling, as if my lungs aren’t burning. “Don’t disappear.”
I roll my shoulders and breathe in the recycled arena air, thick with smoke machine haze and stale popcorn. The hallway behind the stage is a blur of black t-shirts and lanyards, cables snaking like vines, people moving with the wired urgency of a live show. Someone shoves a bottle of water into my hand. I take a gulp and grin at a passing lighting tech.
“Ten out of ten on the confetti storm,” I say, voice hoarse.
He beams. “You killed it out there, Luna.”
I did. I always do. That’s the deal: I give them everything, they give it back louder. That’s how I know I’m still worth something.
My dressing room is at the end of the hallway, a battered star taped crookedly to the door. I push it open with my hip, still humming the bridge of the last song under my breath.
That’s when I see it.
The bouquet is on my vanity. Blood-red roses, so perfectly arranged they look fake. They weren’t there before the show. I know because I’d sat right there while Maya drew stars on my cheekbones with glitter liner and we took stupid selfies, making faces.
For a second, all I register is the smell—too sweet, cloying, like the floral shop my mother once dragged me past on the way to the bus stop. Then I see the envelope leaning against the vase. White, my name written in thick black ink in letters that curl like they’re smiling.
Luna.
Heat drains from my face so fast I have to grab the back of the chair to steady myself. My fingers leave damp prints on the leather.
“Seriously?” I mutter, because maybe if I sound annoyed instead of scared, it’ll be true.
The room feels too small. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the hum turns jagged in my ears. Someone behind me laughs out in the hallway. The normalcy of it bangs against the sudden chill crawling over my skin.
I don’t have to open it. I could call someone. I could pretend I didn’t see it.
Instead, I slide a fingernail under the flap, hands not quite steady.
The paper inside is thick, expensive. The letters are careful, like they were drawn with the tip of a knife instead of a pen.
You sounded beautiful tonight.
But you shouldn’t wear white. It makes the blood show too easily.
There’s a little smiley face at the end. Neat, round, absurd.
My lungs forget how to work.
It’s not the first message. Not the first note, not the first DM that somehow made it through the layered filters my team swears will protect me. It’s not even the creepiest—there was the one that listed every city I’d be in before the tour schedule was public, the one that described the scar on my left knee from when I fell off my bike at ten.
But this one is here. In my room. Past security. Past my crew. Waiting for me like a promise.
I hear my own voice in my head, bright and confident in interviews: I love my fans, I feel so safe with them. They’re like family.
My fingers crumple the paper before I realize I’m doing it.
“Luna?”
Maya’s face appears around the door frame, curls frizzy from humidity, eyeliner smudged from the heat of the stage. Her smile falters when she sees me.
“Hey, superstar, you okay?” She steps in, closing the door with her hip, the murmur from the hallway muffled to a distant throb.
My stomach twists. I want to say I’m fine. I want to make a joke, toss the card, and breezily complain about the livestream I don’t want to do. That’s what everyone expects. That’s safe.
Instead, I hold the crumpled note out to her.
She takes it, and the second her eyes flick across the words, her whole body changes. Her shoulders go stiff, throat working as she swallows.
“Shit,” she whispers.
We don’t say his name. We’ve never been given one.
“Valerie needs to see this,” she says, already reaching for her phone.
“I already showed her the last one,” I say, and the bitterness tastes like iron. “She said we’d ‘tighten protocols’ and not to freak out because cancelling shows would give him a win.”
Maya’s eyes flash. “This isn’t a fucking hashtag to manage.”
She’s halfway to the door when it swings inward again. Valerie fills the doorway in sleek black, phone in one hand, headset in the other, lipstick somehow still perfect after three hours of chaos.
“There you are,” she says, not yet looking up. “We’re behind on the livestream, Luna. The label’s already pinging me about—”
Maya shoves the note at her. The movement is so abrupt that Valerie actually startles.
“Read it,” Maya snaps.
Valerie’s gaze flicks up, sharp. Then she looks down. I watch the muscle in her jaw tighten, just for a heartbeat, before her expression smooths over like she’s back on camera.
“Where did you get this?” she asks me.
“It was on my vanity when I came in.” I hate how small my voice sounds.
“Who’s been in here?” Her eyes sweep the room, as if the answer might be hiding behind the garment rack.
“Just glam and wardrobe, I think. Maybe catering to drop off the fruit plate.” The world has started to tilt, just a little, like I’m on a boat and the floor can’t decide where to stay.
“Okay.” Valerie nods once, sharp, making a decision. “That’s it. We’re done pretending this is stan-culture weirdness.” She pulls out her phone, fingers flying as she types. “I already have calls in with security firms. The last incident—”
“The last incident,” Maya echoes, voice rising. “You mean when some psycho tried to get into the green room with a knife? When the venue’s guy tackled him two feet from Luna?”
My pulse stutters at the memory of the glint of metal, the sudden scream, the sound of bodies slamming into each other. I’d laughed it off afterward, posting a cute TikTok with the caption: my team = my superheroes. Because if it’s a joke, it’s not real.
Valerie exhales through her nose. “Yes, that incident. The label wanted an in-house solution, but this—” she shakes the note “—changes the calculus. We’re escalating.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means we bring in outside close protection,” she says. Her tone shifts into the one she uses in boardrooms, the one that always makes me feel like an asset instead of a person. “A specialist. Ex-military, high-level, vetted. He’ll be with you twenty-four-seven until this is handled.”
I blink. “Twenty-four-seven?”
Maya steps closer, as if she can physically shield me from the thought. “Like a bodyguard. A real one.”
“You already have security,” I say weakly. I picture the guys at the barricade, the tour security chief who walks the stage before every show.
Valerie shakes her head. “Venue security answers to the venue. Tour security answers to the promoter. This one answers to me—to us. He’s flown in tonight. He’ll meet us at the hotel.”
The room shrinks another inch. I feel suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin under my white stage dress. The note’s words crawl up my throat.
You shouldn’t wear white.
“What if I don’t want some stranger attached to my hip?” I say. I try to make it a joke. It comes out more like a plea.
Valerie’s gaze softens, just for a second. “Luna. Someone got this into your private room. After the last… attempt, that’s unacceptable. The label agrees. There’s no negotiation here.”
Unacceptable. That’s me too, if I say no. I know how this works.
I look at Maya. Her eyes are shiny, but her chin is stubborn. “Please just let him do his job,” she says. “I’d rather your DMs be chaotic than your obit.”
The word hits me like a slap.
I swallow, my throat thick. “Fine,” I say. “Bring him. Just… don’t let him talk to me like I’m a cardboard cutout, okay?”
Valerie’s mouth twitches. “He’s not PR, he’s security. I doubt he’ll talk much at all.”
The hotel suite smells like lemon cleaner and new carpet, and I hate it immediately.
Not because it’s not nice—it’s absurdly nice, all glass and chrome and a view of the city glittering like a spilled jewelry box—but because it’s not mine. Not really. They all look like this after a while, expensive and empty, with someone else’s idea of comfort arranged just so.
Maya drops onto the plush gray sofa with a groan. “If I don’t shower in the next five minutes, I’m going to grow mold.”
“Go,” I tell her. “I’m just going to rinse my face and—”
“Stay put,” Valerie cuts in from the kitchenette, where she’s pacing with her phone pressed to her ear. “He’s on his way up.”
My spine stiffens. “What, we’re doing this right now?”
She covers the mouthpiece with her hand. “The sooner we establish protocol, the better. Please, Luna. No disappearing acts tonight.”
I bristle. “I don’t disappear. I take five minutes to breathe.”
“Which is exactly when something will happen,” she says flatly, then turns away, her voice going smooth again as she talks into the phone. “Yes, Mr. Mercer will coordinate with your head… Of course. Non-disclosure is standard.”
The name pricks at me. Mercer. Hard consonants, like his life’s been nothing but edges.
Maya pats the couch beside her. “Come sit.”
I sink down, the cushion swallowing me. My heart hasn’t quite found its normal rhythm since the note. It feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.
“Do you think he’s going to be, like…” I trail off, waving my hand in the air. “Huge? Tiny sunglasses, Secret Service vibe?”
“Watch him be five foot six and a yoga instructor,” Maya says, trying to make me laugh. “You could take him in a fight.”
I huff, but my hands are already worrying the hem of my oversized hoodie. The adrenaline crash from the show is mixing with a low, creeping dread. Close protection. Twenty-four-seven. A stranger in my space, in my shadows.
A knock sounds at the door. Three sharp raps, evenly spaced.
Every muscle in my body goes wire-tight.
Valerie is there before I can move. She looks through the peephole, then opens the door only a fraction. “Mr. Mercer?”
A man’s voice answers, low and even. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am. That’s new. No one in my world says ma’am unless they’re being ironic.
Valerie steps back, and the door swings open wider.
He fills the doorway without even trying.
He’s tall, of course. Broad shoulders under a plain black t-shirt, dark jeans, boots that make no sound on the carpet. No tiny sunglasses, no earpiece, no visible weapon. Just a presence that shifts the air in the room.
His hair is dark, clipped short at the sides, a little longer on top like he forgot to over-control that one part. There’s a faint, pale scar along his jaw, disappearing into the stubble. His eyes—God—his eyes are some color between gray and green, cool and unreadable.
They land on me, once, briefly. It feels like standing too close to a door left slightly open in winter.
“Luna,” Valerie says, that manager-voice back in place. “This is Kai Mercer. Kai, Luna Rivera.”
He inclines his head. “Ms. Rivera.”
His voice is like gravel smoothed by water. No inflection, no fanboy tremor, none of the breathless awe I’m used to. He’s looking at me, but not the way people usually look at me. Not cataloguing my hair, my outfit, the way my lips will look in photos. His gaze moves like a scan: door, window, hallway, me, exits. Like I’m one more factor in a tactical problem.
I suddenly hate him a little.
I force a smile, because that’s my armor. “You can call me Luna. ‘Ms. Rivera’ makes me feel like I’m about to get expelled.”
One corner of his mouth shifts. Not quite a smile; more like his face remembering how. “Luna, then.”
Maya stands, crossing her arms. “And we call you… Mr. Mercer? Kai? Sir?”
His gaze flicks to her. “Kai is fine.”
Up close, I can see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint tension in his shoulders. He’s younger than some of the security guys on tour, older than me. Late twenties? Early thirties? It’s hard to tell; something about him feels worn in a way time doesn’t explain.
Valerie gestures toward the living area. “Let’s sit and go over parameters.”
Parameters. I feel like a bug being pinned to a board.
Kai moves to the center of the room and stops with his back to the window, angling himself where he can see the door and the hallway beyond it. Not by accident. Everything about him screams practiced, deliberate.
“Before we talk details,” he says, looking at me, “I need to know what you’ve already been told about the threats.”
I blink. “That they’re… being taken seriously now?” The words come out more bitter than I intend.
His gaze doesn’t flinch. “Have you read them all?”
“Yes.” I don’t add that I screenshot some of them and sent them to Maya with nervous laugh emojis. That I told myself I was being dramatic for being scared.
His jaw tightens, just once. “Do you still have them?”
“Most, yeah. Some were deleted.” By Valerie, “for your peace of mind.”
“We have them backed up,” Valerie interjects. “The label’s security team compiled a dossier. I can share that with you.”
Kai gives a short nod. “Do that. For now”—his focus returns to me—“I’m concerned with your movements. No solo trips outside this room without me. No posting your location in real time. No unvetted visitors.”
My spine stiffens. “No visitors? My band, my dancers, my friends—”
“Vetted,” he repeats. “Cleared by me or by your head of tour security in coordination with me. Doors stay locked. You don’t open them unless I say it’s clear. You don’t wander. You don’t decide to sneak out a back entrance because you want a ‘real’ moment with your fans.”
His voice doesn’t rise, but the reprimand is there. He’s already heard the stories, then. The times I slipped security to sign posters in the alley, to hug the girl who’d been waiting in the rain for hours.
Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m not cargo,” I say tightly. “I know how to exist in my own life.”
Something flickers behind his eyes. It might almost be recognition. “I’m not here to run your life,” he says. “I’m here to make sure you have one to run.”
The sentence lands in the center of my chest, heavier than I want to admit.
Maya steps in, bristling. “You don’t get to talk to her like she’s a mission briefing.”
Kai looks at her, then at me, then back again. “With respect, that’s exactly what this is.” He turns his attention fully to me. “I need your cooperation, Luna. Not your performance.”
The words punch through the thin skin of my ego. For a moment, I can’t breathe.
He’s not impressed. Not charmed. Not dazzled.
And against my will, something in me sits up.
“I’ve cooperated plenty,” I say quietly. “You flew in after someone already tried to stab me. Maybe don’t start by assuming I’m the problem.”
His gaze holds mine, steady. For a second, the room shrinks to a line between us, taut and humming.
“I don’t assume you’re the problem,” he says. “I assume you’re the target.”
The peak line shivers through me, more chilling than the note had been. Because he says it like a fact, not a fear.
The room goes quiet. Outside, a siren wails somewhere down on the street, distant and harmless.
Valerie clears her throat. “We’re all on the same side here,” she says, too brightly. “Kai comes highly recommended. He led—” She stops abruptly, like she’s biting down on something.
I catch it. “He led what?”
Kai’s shoulders tense, almost imperceptibly. “A previous detail,” he says, voice flat. “It’s not relevant to you.”
The lie tastes metallic in the air. I don’t know what it is, but I know it matters.
I file it away.
“Look,” I say, exhaling slowly. “I get that this is your job, and I respect that. But this is my life. I can’t just stop meeting fans or cancel every promo because someone out there is… obsessed.” The word makes my skin crawl. “There has to be some middle ground.”
“For now, the middle ground is that you’re alive and on stage,” he says. “Everything else is negotiable later.”
Later. As if there’s a guarantee we get to have one.
My chest tightens. I think of the note, of the neat little smiley face after the blood.
Fine.
I stand, tugging the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands, needing something to do with them. “Then here’s my non-negotiable,” I say. “If you’re going to be in my space twenty-four-seven, you don’t get to treat me like a suitcase you’re paid to drag around. You look at me. You talk to me. Like a person.”
His eyes meet mine, steady, unreadable. It feels like warmth pretending to be distance.
“I see you just fine,” he says.
The quiet assurance of it steals a fraction of my breath.
Maya snorts softly, not buying it. Valerie glances between us like she’s watching the start of a very expensive fire.
Kai adds, “But I’m not here to be your friend.”
A little flame of defiance sparks in my chest. “Good,” I shoot back. “I have enough friends.”
A lie, and we both know it.
For a heartbeat, something cracks in his expression, the faintest hint of… regret? Hunger? It’s gone before I can name it.
“Understood,” he says.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glows, uncaring. Somewhere in that light, someone knows exactly what color dress I wore tonight, how the blood would look on it.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold.
“Okay, Mr. Not-My-Friend,” I say. “Tell me what happens next.”
He studies me for a long moment, those impossible eyes weighing something I can’t see.
Then he says, “Next, Luna, I show you how we stop making it easy for him to get close.”
And as he steps closer, erasing a sliver of distance between us, I can’t tell which terrifies me more—the thought of the man who wants me dead, or the one who’s just been hired to keep me breathing.
