Chapter 1
Chapter One
LOXLEY
The final note faded into the air, and the applause surged, growing louder, more thunderous, until it seemed to fill every inch of the venue.
The lights above me burned like tiny suns, blinding me and leaving the faces of the crowd shrouded in a sea of shadows.
I couldn’t see them clearly, but I felt them—every clap, every cheer, every desperate plea for one more song.
It was electric, and it pulled at me in a way that was both exhilarating, and suffocating.
My throat was raw, every breath feeling like sandpaper scraping against my vocal cords.
My legs shook beneath me, and my shoulders ached with the weight of two hours of constant movement.
The music had carried me through, but now, the adrenaline was starting to fade, and my body screamed for a moment of stillness, a second to breathe.
As the band played the final, lingering notes of the encore, I raised my hands, offering them a wave that was more out of habit than anything else.
The crowd was still screaming, but I could only hear the distant hum of my own pulse in my ears.
Even though my energy was running low, I gave them everything I had left.
They deserved it. They always deserved the best of me, even when I felt like nothing was left to give.
I wasn’t sure if I could manage another smile, but I did, because that’s what they wanted to see.
“Thank you!” I croaked, my voice thin and strained, barely cutting through the roar of the crowd. “Thank you so much!”
It was a hollow sound, a farewell that didn’t feel like a celebration anymore. I forced myself to smile, even though the muscles in my face felt like they were made of concrete, heavy and reluctant. Then, the lights dimmed, and the curtain fell on another show.
Once off stage, I hurried down the narrow corridor leading toward the back exit.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting harsh, cold shadows on the walls that seemed to stretch forever.
I didn’t have the energy to stop and greet anyone, to offer the usual hugs or smiles.
I knew the crew understood. Hell, they probably felt the same.
We had all been on the road for months, and the line between exhaustion and despair had blurred somewhere along the way.
“Nice work out there,” one of the crew guys called out as I passed him, his tone friendly but laced with concern. He tried to catch my eye, but I was already moving too fast, my feet carrying me forward like they were operating on autopilot.
I gave him a polite nod, but it felt like a hollow gesture. I couldn’t form the words of thanks, couldn’t pretend that I had the energy to care. Not now. I barely had the strength to make it to the exit.
It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t even about them, really. I just needed to disappear for a moment, to find some space where no one expected anything from me, where no one would pull at the fragile thread that held me together.
When I reached the door to the venue, I pushed out into the cool night air, the sudden shift from the stifling heat of the stage to the crisp, open air almost dizzying.
I sucked in a deep breath, desperate to fill my lungs with something real, something not tainted by smoke or the thick buzz of the crowd’s applause.
The tour bus was parked just a few steps away, but at that moment, it felt like a hundred miles.
I didn’t move toward it. Instead, I leaned against the rough brick wall, letting the coolness seep through my clothes, trying to ground myself.
My legs felt like jelly beneath me, and my muscles were screaming for relief, but it wasn’t going to happen—not now.
Sam, my manager, would find me soon enough and drag me back in. He always did.
"Nice job tonight."
I flinched at the sound of his voice, sharp and unexpected, like a dart thrown into the stillness. He had some radar for tracking my breaking point. Damn, that was quick.
“Give me five more minutes,” I begged, my voice hoarse from the hours of singing and the pressure to be ‘on’ for the crowd. “Just… let me breathe.”
“You’ve got two.” Sam’s voice was clipped. He was trying to make it sound like he was doing me a favor. But I knew better.
Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them away fiercely.
I didn’t have time for tears. Not now. Not here.
According to Sam, I was supposed to be happy, grateful even.
He and the label had put this tour together, had set the whole damn thing in motion—three months across the country, playing in small-town venues where I could share my songs with people who thought I was some kind of country music princess.
It was supposed to be the dream every small-town girl in Nashville wanted to chase.
Except no one had told me how heavy that dream would be.
They never warned me that somewhere along the way, I’d lose my own voice. Or that the exhaustion would start eating away at me, piece by piece. They didn’t tell me that the more I gave, the more they’d take.
Nor did they care.
“You’re gonna be the next Dolly Parton,” Sam had said back then, all fire and optimism, painting a picture of success so bright that I could barely look at it.
It sounded good at the time. It always did.
But now, as I stood there with nothing left in me but the desire to collapse into oblivion, I wondered if I had traded my soul for someone else’s dream.
I needed a break. A real one. Not just a few minutes after which Sam would come back to tug at me like a puppet on a string, forcing me to smile for the cameras.
Dammit, I just wanted a nap.
“Alrighty,” Sam sighed, his tone a mixture of impatience and forced cheer. “Let’s get back in there. You have a ton of fans that paid extra to meet you tonight.”
The weight of his words felt like a punch to the gut. They had paid for me. Like a fish caught in a net, I had no way out.
“Now!” he yelled, grabbing a wrist and squeezing, forcing me to stand.
“Okay,” I cried, trying to pull away. Sam hadn’t always been so aggressive, but he’d been getting worse as the tour went on–proof that I wasn’t the only one tired and irritable.
Not that it was an excuse to touch me.
My head felt fuzzy, but I wiped my face quickly, making sure the smile was back in place before I stepped forward. Even though it felt like a lie, I had to give them what they came for.
I could feel the tears still lurking beneath the surface, but I held them back with everything I had left. I didn’t have the luxury to fall apart, not here, not now.
For the next hour, I forced myself to smile, posing for picture after picture.
Despite the ache in my wrist where Sam had grabbed me, and the exhaustion I felt from being on tour, I basked in the moment of being around people who cared, who wanted to meet me, who believed in this dream I was still chasing.
But that feeling faded faster than I wanted it to.
When it was finally over, I felt the weight of it all hit me at once. My shoulders slumped, the invisible walls I had built crumbling around me. My voice was gone—nothing but a hoarse rasp that could barely be heard above the clatter of the venue.
Sam didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. He was back in my ear, pushing, directing, as though there was no space for me to breathe or simply exist outside of the next thing on his list.
“Tomorrow, we’ve got a radio interview at 9 a.m.,” he rattled off, his voice as mechanical as always. “Then a photoshoot, and after that—”
I couldn’t even focus on the words. It didn’t matter what came next. I had already shut off. The exhaustion had numbed my senses, and all I could do was nod, pretending I was still listening, pretending I could still care.
“So you’ve been to forty towns across the southern states in the last sixty days. You have fifteen more in the next thirty days. How do you do it?”
The radio host interviewing me smiled, but her eyes were wide with disbelief as she read the details of my tour from a printed piece of paper.
“It's been a wild ride,” I smiled, using a twang in my voice as I repeated the words Sam and I had practiced all morning. “The band and the crew are there with me, and the fans make it worth it.”
“This tour has been simple in terms of theatrics and venues. Just you, a band, and a guitar.”
“It keeps it affordable,” I laughed, not really joking but hoping it sounded a little in jest. “We just wanted to bring our music to the heart of America.”
As the interview droned on, I recited the answers they expected from me, my voice polite and rehearsed. Every question was predictable, every response a well-worn line.
“How does it feel to be on the road for so long?”
“What’s it like playing for such passionate fans?”
I answered them all without thinking, my words sounding distant even to my own ears.
I glanced up once, catching Sam’s eyes across the room.
He was standing like a statue in the corner of the small radio booth, arms crossed, a neutral expression carved into his face.
But I knew better than to mistake that calm demeanor for indifference.
His eyes were locked on me, sharp and unblinking, his silence a constant reminder that I couldn’t—wouldn’t—dare to go off-script.
We were somewhere outside of Nashville, in a town whose name I didn’t know, but I knew we’d driven all night to get there.
And I knew I wouldn’t find a decent coffee when I left for my morning walk.
That realization, that petty little detail, had sent a pulse of frustration through me.
It was the last straw in a long line of little things that kept pushing me closer to the edge.
I could run away, I thought to myself. I could hide.
Of course, the entire world would come looking for me.
Unless I was in some kind of danger, or broke a leg, I was expected to be on that stage in a few hours, singing the songs the label had written and picked out for me.