I get three steps into the green room before Raelynn appears like a blazer-clad vulture swooping down with her phone glued to her face.
“Piper, darling, we need to talk, now.” Her voice could cut granite. “We’re going to run you through press first, then you get fifteen minutes for makeup and soundcheck before your set.”
I try to protest, but Raelynn is already steering me by the elbow into the interview corridor, where a whole murder of reporters are lined up with notepads and ring lights. I shoot Nolan a look—he shrugs, resigned. The man is bulletproof, but even he knows better than to go toe-to-toe with Raelynn Roberts.
The next several hours blur into a relentless cycle: stand here, smile, dodge the question, let Raelynn intercept, repeat. Every time someone tries to bring up Kellen or the livestream, Raelynn “accidentally” drops her phone or answers for me (“Piper is focusing on her music and her fans, aren’t you, sweetheart?”) while I perfect the art of dissociation.
At some point, they shove a sandwich into my hand and I inhale it in three bites. Nolan is a wall at my side, saying nothing but radiating “I dare you” energy at any member of the presswho gets too close. He looks like he wants to vaporize Raelynn, which is comforting. I almost ask him to do it.
By the time night falls, my jaw aches from fake smiling and my brain is TV static. I barely remember the makeup chair or soundcheck, but I do remember my band. They’re all here, bleary-eyed and running on gas station coffee, but when I return to the green room they cheer for me. It feels like home, almost.
Home is where my pack is.
My drummer, a talented-man in his thirties, comes over to hug me first. “Piper, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Two ghosts,” I say. “Maybe more. How many outlets are here with journalists?”
“Too many,” my guitarist says. She and the rest of the band hug me close, and once I’m fully dressed for the stage, we perform our pre-show ritual: a secret handshake and a short, motivational chant.
It’s only then I see it, printing in bold black ink. Our set list. It’s different than the one I reviewed this morning.
My hands curl into fists. The paper crinkles as my grip tightens, and heat crawls up my neck. My acoustic tracks—my folk stuff, the songs I actually care about—have been slashed and replaced with the big stadium pop numbers. I’m supposed to open with “Heatwave,” close with “Starlit Synth,” and bury every trace of the old Piper Sumner beneath layers of electronica and backup dancers.
I stare at the paper. The set list’s black ink blurs as my pulse hammers through my wrists. I know, without even having to ask, that this was Raelynn’s doing. She probably thinks she’s saving my career.
Not only did Raelynn change the setlist last-minutewithout warning me, she took away the songsI chose.
This is a festival. A big one, sure. But this isn’t a stop on the stadium tour.
Something inside me ignites.
I. Am. Done.
I dig my phone out of my purse and wave it at my band before typing out a message to our private group chat without Raelynn:Setlist has changed. Play the old version. Trust me.
A chorus of phones go off, and then they all check the message I sent them. Their faces bloom with determination and they nod.
They’re with me. Thank god.
Five minutes later, Nolan knocks on the door. “Ready?”
I look in the mirror and see myself for the first time in a long time. I am Piper Sumner, folk artist and omega, and I’m done pretending otherwise. If Kellen can stand up to his parents, then I can do this.
I breathe out. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Backstage is a fever dream of people shouting over walkies. The crowd’s roar vibrates through the metal flooring beneath my feet, a wordless, living thing that crawls up my legs and settles in my chest. My skin tingles. The hairs on my arms stand up. For the first time since I opened my eyes this morning, I don’t taste anxiety on my tongue, only the tang of adrenaline and possibility.
Raelynn materializes at my elbow looking like she might eat her own face. “Don’t do anything reckless,” she hisses. “Not after this morning.”
I flash her a sweet as pie smile. “Of course not.”
She doesn’t buy it, but she has no time to argue. Nolan walks with me to the wings, radiating calm.
“If you want to bail, now’s the time,” he says.
“Not in this lifetime.”
The emcee shouts my name, the lights go down, and I step onto the stage.
