Mason was a different person here. Focused. Sharp. Demanding when needed. Gone was theid–back flirt. I watched him mic–check, adjust sound levels, give nods of approval to the stage lighting.


    It was like watching a conductor lead a full orchestra–except the orchestra was backup dancers, stagehands, and a million–dor light rig.


    “You okay?” Joe asked, stepping beside me.


    “Completely overwhelmed,” I whispered. “In a good way.”


    He chuckled. “You’ll get used to it. Just don’t let Olivia corner you. She bites.”


    I smiled. “Yeah… I noticed.”


    After a few hours, the team wrapped. Mason waved me over.


    “Hungry?”


    “Starving.”


    We ended up at a low–key but fancy restaurant near the hotel. Dark wood. Dim lighting. Jazz music floating in the background.


    Mason ditched the hoodie for a ck tee and jeans. Somehow, he still looked like someone who belonged on the cover of Rolling Stone. I tried not to look too out of ce in my sundress and tired eyes.


    “I had no idea touring was this much work,” I said, stirring my drink. “I thought you just… show and sing.”


    up


    Heughed, leaning back in his seat. “You just offended every artist on the.”


    “Sorry,” I said sheepishly.


    <i>” </i>


    He smiled. “It’s a grind. You write, you rehearse, you fly, you market, you perform. Then you do it again. And again. The mour’s just what people are allowed to see.”


    17:35


    288 (Vouchers


    “Well, then you make exhaustion look good.”


    He held my gaze a second too long. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’re into me.”


    I rolled my eyes, and we changed the subject.


    We talked about music. Travel. His worst fan encounter (hint: someone tried to steal his shoe mid–performance), and what song almost didn’t make hisst album. It felt easy.


    After dinner, we both retired. He to his floor. Me to mine.


    I showered and copsed into the ridiculously soft bed, my muscles aching but oddly light.


    my heart


    Then my phone rang.


    I ignored it.


    It rang again.


    Then again.


    I groaned and reached for it.


    Sophia.


    I answered on the fourth ring. “It’s midnight.”


    “Couldn’t wait until morning?”


    “What now?”


    “Oh, just that you’ve officially made it to gossip blogs. Congrats.”


    I shot upright. “What?”


    Her voice was gleeful. “You and Mason. Airport. Rehearsal. Him fixing your hair while you giggled like a teenager? Babe, they’re calling you his secret muse.”


    My heart sank. <fnfbf9> This text is hosted at FindN0vel</fnfbf9>


    I reached for my iPad and typed in the gossip site’s name.


    There it was.


    <i>” </i>


    17:35


    Global Pop Star Mason Jacob Spotted with Mystery Woman


    Photo after photo.


    288 Vouchers


    Romance Brewing on Tour?


    Meughing beside Mason at soundcheck.


    Him brushing a strand of hair from my face.


    Us stepping off the jet together.


    The captions were wild. Thements? Wilder.


    I dropped the tablet on the bed.


    This… was going to be a problem.


    A big one.


    Especially with Liam.


    And definitely with Olivia.


    And somehow, I had a sinking feeling this tour had only just begun.


    Sleep came like a wave after the emotional turbulence of the night. I must’ve been more tired than I thought, because even Sophia’s call didn’t stop me. I barely remembered dropping my phone beside the pillow. My body sank into the luxurious bed, and for a while, nothing else mattered. The noise, the headlines, the photos, all of it faded beneath the weight of exhaustion.


    Peace, however, is always temporary.


    When I finally stirred, sunlight leaked through the thin hotel curtains, warm against my skin. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then it all came rushing back–the jet, the shing cameras, Olivia’s death stares, Mason’s easy charm, and most of all, the gossip blogs.


    I reached for my phone, still half–asleep. The moment it lit up, I flinched. Notifications poured in before the screen even fully unlocked.


    Mentions. Tags. DMs. Hundreds.


    Then I saw it:


    #MasonAndMysteryGirl #WhoIsEmily #TourLoveStory


    17:35


    298 Vouchers


    My name. My face. Everywhere.


    My follower count had exploded overnight. Thirty thousand. Then sixty. Now, over a hundred thousand. Complete strangers reposting my face, dissecting my outfit, analyzing my smile, and debating whether I was Mason’s new girlfriend. Of course, they also dragged out photos of his ex.


    Somements made me smile:


    “She’s so naturally pretty. I love her vibe.”


    “Mason’s finally smiling again. Thank her.”


    Some went for the throat:


    “Not even half as beautiful as his ex.


    “1


    “Just another clout–chaser with a pretty face.”


    Others questioned my worth. A few even imed I must’ve ckmailed my way into his orbit. And the worst part? I read every single one.


    I dropped my phone onto my chest and stared at the ceiling. My heart thudded in slow, dull beats, like it couldn’t decide whether to break or harden. The words from the blog kept echoing, looping in my head like a cruel soundtrack. I knew I shouldn’t care, I shouldn’t give strangers that kind of power–but God, it hurt.


    17:35