It's an hour before the show is due to start. The hall is rapidly filling up, as evidenced by the steadily rising volume of the chatter. I can see the small-time opening band nervously waiting in the wings. I check my watch. Fifty-five minutes to go. The opening act is due in twenty. I head over to them to check their equipment and provide a little moral support.

The lead singer is boyband blonde and blandly handsome. I couldn't pick his face out of a crowd, but he has a nice enough smile, even through his nerves.

"You guys okay over here?" I ask.

I'm mostly answered by strained smiles and nervous nods. I'm about to turn around when the singer says, "Actually, it's pretty hot back here. I could use a water."

I try not to grimace. "Sure thing, I'll grab you one."

I haven't gotten two steps when a familiar voice chimes in: "Then get it yourself. You're not famous enough to order my crew around."

The singer pales, blending in with his hair, and mutters an apology.

"Sorry Mr Belikov."

He scuttles past me, and I glare at Dimitri's retreating figure.

Gone is the cheeky smile and cheerful cockiness. His mood has deteriorated steadily as the hour of his show approaches. That poor kid will probably mention this to the press, but I'm not Dimitri's publicist, thank god. I find myself almost envying the crew that got fired, for not having to navigate this minefield.

And then I hear a burst of profanity from the direction of the dressing room. As I hurry over, a royally pissed off Lewis emerges from the doorway.

"Tried to check his equipment, but fuck me and my job right? I've never worked with such a fucking asshole!"

The tail end of the sentence is loudly delivered in the direction of the dressing room.

I can feel the beginning of a headache in my temples.

"Don't worry about it," I tell him. "I'll handle it."

I take a breath and walk in.

Dimitri is leaning against the opposite wall, his hands braced above his head and eyes tightly shut.

"Fuck's sake. Can you people not leave me alone for two fucking seconds?"

He spins around, nostrils flared, but his eyes widen slightly when he realises that it's me.

I grit my teeth, but take a step towards him and shoot him my best don't mess with me smile.

"I think you'll find all of us are here to work. And while your label might be the one paying us, maybe you don't want to piss off the people who can turn off your autotune."

He narrows his eyes. "I don't use autotune."

I've never wanted to slap a client more in my entire life.

"Then maybe we'll turn it on, make you sound like the bratty child you apparently are."

His step is much larger than mine, bringing him right in front of me. It makes him all the more formidable as he towers over me, face like a storm cloud.

"You can't speak to me like that."

I feel the anger radiating from him in waves. I can't believe I was attracted to this spoiled egotist a few hours ago.

"Then fire me."

He shoots me a sadistic grin. "That's the easy way out. If I'm stuck here, so are you."

That look in his eyes, he's like a caged animal. And at his words, something falls into place. I was wrong. He's not spoiled, he's trapped. And it terrifies him.

I turn away, heading towards the door.

This only aggravates him further. "You think you can just leave? I'm busy fucking talking..."

He trails off as I shut the door, blocking everyone else out.

"You don't have to do this," I say, turning to face him. "If you don't want to perform anymore, don't."

I keep my tone low, trying to let him know it's not an insult.

He runs a hand through his hair in agitation. "It's not that simple!"

His muscles are tense, wound too tight. Something in me wants to wrap my arms around him and tell him it will be okay. But he's about as approachable as a sea urchin.

"Why not?" I ask instead. "You don't want to be here, you don't want to go out onto that stage."

He doesn't contradict me, but the fact that it's out in the open seems to calm him slightly.

"They own me. I signed a contract."

Ah. Hence the cage.

"How long?" I ask. Despite how big of a dick he's been, my tone is sympathetic.

"Two more years," comes the hoarse reply.

My response well has run dry. Two more years, and he's already at wit's end. Two years of soul draining performances, of public image fiascos and avoiding paparazzi.

"People think I'm living the dream," he says softly. "But I'm standing on a stage singing mass produced songs with no soul. I'm in front of thousands of people who think they know me when they don't have the first idea, all clamouring for their pound of flesh."

That sympathy I felt snaps in half.

"You don't know that."

He looks at me like I'm crazy. "They pre-approve every song I write. Most of them get dismissed right away. I think I would know, my latest music has been shit."

I shake my head. "Not that part. I mean your fans. You think every one of them is so shallow."

His eyes widen, trying to get me to understand. "I'm a monument to them, something pretty to look at."

I can get behind him feeling like his label has him in a choke hold, but not this. For a man claiming his fans don't know anything about him, he sure has judged them from a glance. Did he feel like this when I was in that crowd? Was it all an act then too?

"Oh please," I scoff. I'm angry that he'd just dismiss people like that, not really thinking about what I'm saying. "Maybe some of them are just there because you're pretty. But what about the rest of us?"

There's a beat.

"Us?" he repeats with a small smile. "Are you including yourself in that number?"

Well.

I can't stand to see him so jaded, and I've already thoroughly embarrassed myself. I'm also still seething. So I decide to go all in. I take a step, placing myself firmly in his bubble. I may be small, but if there's one thing this job has taught me, it's how to make men take me seriously.

"Do you want to know why I'm here?"

He's watching me carefully, but there's a trace of that grin again.

"To get paid?"

"I mean why I chose this career."

He raises an eyebrow. "Because it's a male dominated field and you don't back down from a challenge?"

I ignore the compliment, trying to get my point through his ego and into his brain.

"I'm here because of you. My friend and I loved your music in high school. We lied to our parents and went to one of your first shows. You were amazing."

I swear, that stupid grin spreading across his face like he doesn't already believe he's God's gift to women.

I press on before I can stop myself, but I feel my cheeks heating up.

"It felt like I was alone in the crowd and you were singing to me. I'm pretty sure every person in that room felt the same. That night I decided to get into this business. Hoping maybe one day I'd work on one of your shows."

He looks like the Cheshire Cat, especially with those adorable pointy teeth. "So tonight I made your dreams come true?"

I really need to wipe that smile off his face.

"No. You've been a complete ass."

If anything, that only made him smile wider.

There's a crackle in my ear over comms. Mason tells everyone Dimitri is on in 5. I need to get him on stage, I need to make him understand.

"I'm not telling you this to stroke your ego!"

His smile is still firmly in place, and it looks like he's humouring me. "Okay. So why then?"

I point in the direction of the stage. "There are people out there who connected with your songs on a personal level, people who feel like you see them. They don't want their pound of flesh, they want to feel like you're singing just for them. And you have that power. You have the power to change people's lives, just like you changed mine."

The way he's looking at me makes my stomach flutter, but it's probably just nerves.

"You're on," I say. "Better get out there."

I have no idea why I said those things. I'm already feeling the embarassment creep up my neck. I want to find a quiet room and curl in a ball, letting the cringe consume me. Stupid.

Wrapped up in my own thoughts, it takes me a second to realise he's got my hand in his. He gives it a small squeeze.

A smile is playing on his lips again. "Thank you, Roza."

Then he leaves me standing there.

Fuck. I bury my face in my hands.

What was I thinking? I just humiliated myself in front of the biggest client I've ever worked with. He was laughing at me as he walked away.

I wanted to, what, tell him I'm his biggest fan? Ugh.

The waves of cringe wash over me, and I wish for a time machine. I'll have to see that smile of pity again after the show, when I have to pack his mic away.

Outside, the crowd roars. I hear the rumble of his voice through the loudspeakers, answered by cheers and wild applause.

It sends a fresh wave of humiliation, and I immediately know that I can't handle this. Fuck professionalism. That ship has sailed. I need to get out of here and never see Dimitri Belikov again.

I switch my comms channel to Mason only.

"Mase?" I say. My voice is fragile, but it's better than crying.

"Don't kill me, but I need to get out of here. Can you debrief me tomorrow?"


Author's Note


Thank you for reading! If you liked this chapter, or if you didn't and would like to tell me why, please leave a review. It's always great to hear your thoughts, even if I'm not always great at responding. Please also feel free to favourite and follow if you'd like to keep in the loop.

You know, this was supposed to be a oneshot. Now we're on chapter 3 with no signs of stopping. It actually feels like when I first started writing on here, when I had completed chapters waiting in the wings and I had to keep myself from posting more than once a week! When I started writing here, I was 17, like Rose. And it's crazy that I'm still here writing about these characters, while planning the rest of my life with the person I love. Thank you for reading my stories through the years

The VA universe and the characters therein are the sole intellectual property of Richelle Mead