“Qué clase de show, huh?”
A few people laugh. Nervous. Good.
“You came for music. Somebody else came for my business.” I glance at the screen behind me, where the ugly words still glow. “So let’s clear one thing up before I make this bass hurt somebody’s feelings.”
The room goes quiet enough for me to hear my pulse.
“I’m not a rumor. I’m not being replaced.”
Somebody cheers.
Then more.
I keep going.
“Some women get secrets. Some women get scraps. Some women get handed another woman’s pain like it’s supposed to make them compete for a man who should have told the truth first.”
A roar rises.
My eyes find Shady.
He stands below, face wrecked, hands at his sides, letting every word hit him.
“I’m done pretending,” I say. “I’m done pretending these bruises make me fragile. And I’m real done letting rich girls with dead fathers send flowers to women they are scared to face. “So, Carmen, if you’re out there, show your coward face.”
Eclipse erupts.
I drop the next track so hard the speakers scream.
The crowd loses its mind.
I play another fifteen minutes because I refuse to run while Carmen’s little screen hack is still warm. When I finally step down, my legs are shaking badly enough that I grip the rail with both hands and pretend it is attitude.
Nico rushes over, pale. “We’re tracing how they got into the visuals. I swear, Lady, I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“Security found the guy with the rose. Saints took him.”
“Alive?” I ask.
Nico hesitates.
“Mostly.”
Fine.
Darling meets me at the bottom of the stairs and wraps an arm around my waist. “You were terrifying.”
“I was hot.”
“You were both.”
“Put that on my tombstone.”
“Not funny.”
“A little funny.”
