CHAPTER 1
Piper
You’d thinkby album number six I’d know exactly what I’m doing. Instead, I’m hunched over a battered legal pad in Recording Booth B while chewing on the end of a felt-tip pen. How many more ways I can rhyme “love” with “above” before my brain just slips out my ear and tries to crawl away?
Maaaybe two more.
Every inch of this booth is padded in purple foam, keeping sound where it should be, but I swear the thudding of my own heartbeat is distracting me in ways I’ve never noticed before. I’m supposed to be finishing vocals for the third track on the album—the grand finale of my indentured pop princess contract with Reverie Rest Records, the proud creative mill that’s owned my soul (and, in fine print, my public image, merchandise, and residual rights in perpetuity) for the last six years. But I just… can’t. Nothing is coming.
I take a breath and try out the line: “Is it a blessing or a curse, every chorus, every verse—” then sigh and cross it out.
Fucking melodramatic.
A flick of motion in the outer booth window catches my eye. It’s my bodyguard Nolan, standing as he always does—close by but never in the way. His arms are crossed and he rests with thisback against the wall, face set in his default expression of “stoic redwood in a storm.” A little part of me is convinced he never sleeps, just powers down for a reboot and reappears in the same spot as he has done for years now. He lifts his eyes to mine, one eyebrow arched. I give him the finger. He doesn’t flinch, but the tiniest corner of his mouth quirks up.
That’s his gift: being utterly unflappable.
Except when I’m involved.I grin.
“You’ll get it,” he says. I can’t hear him but I make it out from reading his lips.
My phone vibrates on the console. I check it.
Raelynn:“I’ll be at the booth in two. Don’t start another one without me.”
There’s no point responding. Raelynn is an old-school shark: she can smell digital blood in the water and, like all apex predators, requires no confirmation from her prey. She’ll be here in exactly?—
The studio door swings open at the ninety-second mark. Raelynn enters in a fancy suit skirt so sharp it could perform surgery. She’s nothing but a blur of tailored navy and the scent of weaponized ambition. She’s flanked by an intern, this one holding a stack of color-coded binders and looking as if she might crumple at any moment.
“Piper, darling.” Raelynn doesn’t bother hiding the impatience in her voice. “Are you ready for a break?”
The answer, obviously, is yes. “Of course. Was just about to start my mandated decompression time.”
“Good girl.” She doesn’t even try to look pleased. “We need to talk about the schedule. And a new development.”
I’ve been in this business long enough to know that when your manager’s tone drops an octave, “new development” is code for “brace yourself an opportunity that comes with a built-in panic attack.”
Raelynn glances through the glass at Nolan. “Your favorite bodyguard will have to join as well.”
Nolan makes eye contact with Raelynn then shifts his gaze to me. I smile at him and wave him inside.
Nolan pushes off the wall and opens the door, the hinge barely whispering in protest despite his bulk. He takes up his position just inside, hands behind his back, attention focused on the conversation but also, somehow, on every possible threat within a half-mile radius.
“Cute,” Raelynn mutters. “Okay. Here it is.” She gestures at the intern, who hands over a single sheet of paper as if she’s passing a bomb—which, in the music industry, she probably is.
“You have been formally requested to perform at the annual Royal Hale Family Gala. This year the theme is ‘Harvest of Hearts,’ and all proceeds go to the Feeding the Future food bank initiative.”
For a second, I think she’s joking. She’s not. I’d bet my last packet of ramen that she hasn’t made a joke since 2017.
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “The royal family? Like, theactual?”
“Yes, Piper,” she confirms and then crosses her arms. “The King and Queen, their son. Plus a dozen other princes, princesses, socialites, dignitaries, and whomever else they decide are worthy of being there. They want the hottest name in pop for the opening before they get down to fundraising business.”
I choke out a laugh. “Are you sure they didn’t mean to invite a different Piper?” I’m famous—I fill stadiums and draw crowds. But I didn’t think I wason the Royal Family’s radarfamous. Or their PR firm’s.
Raelynn levels a stare that could sear paint from the wall. “You’re the hottest name in pop, Piper. Own it.”
“Not sure I’m really ‘royal’ material.” I lean back in the chair, which tries and fails to accommodate my slouch. “Most of my songs have at least two swear words and a reference to recreational arson.”
