SuperStar!

"Can you gather everyone, please? Tell them it's urgent."

The words left Rebecca's lips barely a second after she'd stepped out of the room, having just reassured Ethan. Her tone was sharp, clipped, commanding—the kind that didn't invite hesitation.

The three assistants standing by the corridor froze for a fraction of a moment, exchanging uncertain glances. None of them knew what had just transpired behind that closed door showing the one-way effects of the sounds between both sides, but the weight in Rebecca's voice told them enough. It wasn't the time for questions. It wasn't the time for curiosity. Whatever had happened, it demanded action.

They straightened instantly, almost in unison, and hurried off to carry out her order.

The buses had only just parked, the faint hum of the engine still cooling in the air, when movement began again. Within a minute, people were filing in—faces of the team drawn with fatigue, confusion, and curiosity. Rebecca stood firm in the center aisle, arms crossed, her expression cool and unreadable. Beside her were the three assistants, their clipboards clutched like shields, waiting for her next instruction.

Bill and Jessica arrived first, still lingering from earlier meetings. Behind them came Vivienne, Ethan's creative director, her stride quick, phone in hand, her brows arched in visible concern. The only ones missing were Mark—the tour manager, already at the stadium venue dealing with logistics—and Wisdom, who had texted earlier that "inspiration had hit him" and vanished into the city for clothes shopping. Typical.

The energy in the bus shifted as the group clustered together, eyes all on Rebecca.

Jessica was the first to break the silence. She adjusted her blazer, her assistant hovering just behind her, and asked, her tone carrying a mix of worry and irritation, "Rebecca, what is all this about?"

Rebecca let out a sigh—deep, deliberate, the kind that carried both weariness and control. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let the room quiet itself, made sure every eye and every ear was tuned to her.

Finally, she spoke. "Ethan's schedule. His meetings. The interviews. The endless press obligations." She paused, scanning the circle of faces, letting her words settle heavy. "They are too excessive. Starting today, I want them to be filtered. If it isn't absolutely necessary, it doesn't happen. I don't care who asks, or how shiny the opportunity looks—we cut it back. He needs space, and I intend to give it to him."

Vivienne's brows arched, her voice sharp with confusion.

"Rebecca, why cut back now? Not to sound rude but all those plans and all were your idea entirely you selected most if not all of them with input from us all"

Before Rebecca could answer, Jessica was already leaning forward, his tone clipped but calm, trying to inject logic into the room.

"Hold on, Vivienne, let's not forget whose plan this all was in the first place." He looked at Rebecca, eyes steady. "It was you who mapped everything out — the interviews, the appearances, the networking, every single detail. You said yourself this was the surest way to place Ethan in a stronger position for the Grammys. We spent more than a week designing this schedule, negotiating with contacts, making sure every promise lined up. If we suddenly start canceling now, it won't just throw all that work off the rails. It'll make us look unreliable in this industry. These are people we gave our word to, Rebecca. People we already committed to. Breaking those promises could burn bridges we might never rebuild."

His words lingered heavy in the air, practical yet piercing, and Rebecca felt the sting of truth in them. She lowered her eyes for a moment, her chest rising and falling slowly, as if she were trying to breathe through the weight pressing against her ribs.

Bill, sensing the growing tension, raised a hand.

"Wait, wait," he said more gently. "Let's all calm down. Rebecca is the one who led this strategy. If she's standing here, suddenly asking us to reconsider, then I'm sure she has her reasons. Let's hear her out."

Rebecca froze, feeling every pair of eyes on her. For a heartbeat, she almost regretted opening her mouth at all. Inside, her thoughts twisted into knots.

What am I even doing? she thought bitterly. I've already convinced Ethan to follow through. I pushed him to trust the process, to attend everything without hesitation. These plans are important — crucial, even. Why am I second-guessing myself now?

Her fingers tightened around the folder she was holding. She could feel the heat of self-doubt rising, her own reasoning starting to crumble under the weight of their stares. Maybe I should just stop right here. Maybe I'm overreacting. Why am I even doing this?

And then, just as she considered retreating, an image flashed unbidden into her mind — searing, vivid.

It was Ethan. The way he had looked only minutes before she stepped out of his room. His face pale, his eyes dimmed and hollow, carrying a sadness no one else seemed to notice. The sight of his notebook slipping from his hands, as he kept it locking it away. The defeated slump of his shoulders. The quiet, almost invisible tremor of a boy who looked too worn out for his own dream.

That image anchored itself deep in her chest, cutting through her doubt.

Rebecca's sigh came unrestrained, slipping out of her before she could catch it. She shook her head slightly, the sudden movement startling those gathered—her assistants, Dough, Jessica, Vivienne, Bill. For a second, she wasn't even looking at them, more at herself, as she muttered under her breath, almost scolding, "You've gone soft, Rebecca." It wasn't loud, but it carried enough for the nearest to hear. The words weren't aimed at them, though—they were aimed inward, a sharp little lash meant to snap her back into control.

Straightening, she lifted her chin and finally addressed the group with the cool steadiness they were used to seeing from her. "Thanks, Bill," she said evenly, her voice regaining its weight. "The reason I said what I did is simple—overexposure can be just as damaging as underexposure. You flood the market with Ethan's face, Ethan's voice, Ethan's thoughts—and it stops feeling special. It stops feeling… scarce. And scarcity is power. The audience has to want more, not get to the point of saying they've had enough. We can't forget that balance."

Her tone was sharp, professional, the kind of thing only a seasoned PR mind could spin in the moment. But then her shoulders eased, and she sighed again, more heavily this time. "I'm not saying we need to cancel everything. I'm not throwing the whole plan out the window. What I am saying…" She turned, eyes landing on Bella, one of her assistants. "Bella—how many podcasts do we have lined up?"

Bella blinked, caught completely off guard. "Uh—I—one second," she stammered, fumbling for her phone, her fingers scrambling over the screen. She looked panicked, as though the wrong answer might undo her entire career.

Before she could even finish scrolling, Kiesha, the other assistant, cleared her throat and said flatly, "Eleven."

Bella froze, her hand still hovering over her phone, her mouth parting in disbelief. Her eyes shot to Kiesha like she had just pulled the rug from under her.

Rebecca didn't even acknowledge the small tension—her gaze stayed sharp, focused on the bigger picture. "Thanks, Kiesha." Then she turned back to the group, sweeping them with a look that felt like she was pressing each of them for agreement. "See what I mean? Eleven podcasts. Eleven. And that's just one category. It's too much. It's noise. All this does is blur Ethan's presence. Tell me that doesn't sound excessive?"

Her words cut through, crisp and undeniable. Silence lingered for a beat too long, and in that pause, Jessica shifted in her seat. She watched Rebecca carefully—watched the controlled delivery, the sudden flashes of hesitation, the assistants exchanging nervous glances. Something wasn't aligning.

Jessica leaned forward, her brow furrowing slightly. Something isn't right. She felt it like a weight in her chest, an instinct she couldn't ignore. And so, she spoke, her voice softer than usual but firm enough to demand attention. "Rebecca… is there something more you're not saying?"

The room shifted at that. Rebecca's eyes flicked, first toward Bella and Kiesha, then toward Dough. None of them spoke. Instead, in quiet synchrony, the two assistants and Dough shook their heads subtly, like they were trying to reassure both Rebecca and themselves.

But Jessica caught it. She saw the little exchange, the way Rebecca's gaze sought them out, and her suspicions only deepened. "Rebecca," Jessica said again, sharper this time. "Just come out with it. You're not the type to be indecisive. You built this whole structure yourself. You've never second-guessed like this. Acting like you don't know makes everything worse, not better. If there's something, say it."

Rebecca's lips pressed together. Her shoulders rose, then sank, like she was fighting something inside. Finally, she let out another sigh, heavier than the last, her hand brushing across her temple. Her voice dropped, carrying something more personal than strategic brilliance this time.

"It's nothing serious, really," she said quietly, though the quietness made it feel more serious than anything. Her eyes dropped to the floor for a second before rising again. "It's just… Ethan, he—"

Bill was the first to break in, the alarm in his tone instant. "Ethan? What about him? What's wrong— is everything fine?"

Even Jessica sat up straighter now, her earlier calm overtaken by a nervous edge. The air in the room shifted; all eyes were locked on Rebecca, waiting for the next words.

Rebecca shook her head quickly, raising a hand as though to calm the storm she herself had stirred. "No, it's not that. Ethan is—"

Rebecca had just drawn breath to continue when another voice cut across the room—low, steady, but carrying enough weight to silence every other thought.

"Fine."

The single word froze the air. Every head turned sharply in the same direction, eyes locking onto the figure standing in the doorway. Ethan.

He leaned there casually, though his skin still held the faint pallor of someone who had only just steadied himself. Yet his presence—his calmness—shifted the room. Bill reacted first, springing up so fast his chair groaned against the floor. He crossed the short space in two strides, his face etched with alarm.

"Ethan," Bill said quickly, almost accusingly, "what's going on are you okay."

But Ethan only let out a short laugh, warm and unbothered, the kind that carried both reassurance and mischief. He held up his hands lightly, as though surrendering.

"I'm good, I'm good," he said, the corners of his mouth curving. "See? Still breathing. Still walking. Nothing to panic about."

Bill's hand remained firm on his arm, as if trying to read him by touch alone. His voice sharpened.

"Then what was Rebecca talking about, hm?"

The tension flickered across the room—eyes darting between Bill and Rebecca, everyone bracing for Ethan's answer. But Ethan, calm as ever, simply shook his head.

"Nothing dramatic," he replied smoothly. "I just told her I wasn't in the mood for a few events, that's all. But if it means that much, I'll do them. I'm fine. Ready."

Jessica, however, wasn't so easily convinced. Her brows drew tight, her body tilting forward in her chair as if sniffing out the unspoken.

"Ethan… maybe we should—"

But Ethan cut her off, his voice firmer this time, carrying that note of finality he used when he wanted no argument.

"Don't worry. Everything's good with me." He clapped his hands together once, decisive. "Now tell me—where's the director and the prime team?"

The silence broke like glass. A flurry of voices rose all at once—people talking over each other, questions, instructions, updates.

"Wisdom said you should wear this—" Dough interjected, already reaching for a garment bag he'd set aside.

"Production just confirmed timing—" another voice added from the corner.

"Stage cues are locked in the stadium as agreed we can use there for the shoot—" someone else chimed, the energy building again.

In the middle of the chaos, Ethan shifted out of Bill's grip and crossed toward Rebecca. Her lips parted the moment his shadow fell across her.

"Ethan—" she began, worry still woven into every syllable.

But Ethan only smiled at her, softer this time, almost boyish.

"You really are just bark and no bite, ehn?" His tone was teasing, affectionate. Then, lowering his voice so only she could truly catch it, he added, "Thank you. I know you've got my back."

Rebecca's throat tightened, but before she could respond, Ethan pushed on, his grin widening.

"But don't worry. I'm good. Really." He let out another small laugh, more genuine now. "Just promise me one thing—when all this madness is done, at least six months off. No cameras, no interviews, no stages. Just peace."

Rebecca's lips curved, despite herself. "Done," she said softly, then added with a searching look, "But… are you sure?"

Ethan lifted his head slowly, his eyes carrying a light that pulled the room's weight toward him. The question hung there, but he didn't flinch.

"Greatest there ever was, ehn?" he said at last, the words carrying both pride and humility. His expression beamed—teeth bared in a smile that felt less like performance and more like destiny itself being acknowledged.

Rebecca studied him in that moment, something unspoken trembling in her chest.

And then Ethan, eyes glinting with that impossible fire, spoke words that felt like they belonged carved in stone:

"Who am I to not honor that level of faith?"