Chapter 2
Stephanie
Present Day — Los Angeles
I couldn't stop shaking.
Three hours. It had been three hours since it happened, and I couldn't stop shaking. My teeth chattered despite the California heat, despite the cashmere blanket I'd wrapped around myself, despite the locked bedroom door between me and the rest of my house.
My house. My safe place. The ten-million-dollar fortress in the Hollywood Hills that was supposed to protect me from the world.
The security team was still downstairs, talking in low voices, making excuses.
I could hear Gary's deep rumble through the floor—the same voice that had assured me just this morning that the new protocols were "military-grade," that no one could get past them.
The police had left an hour ago—no evidence, they said.
No DNA. No clear footage. Nothing they could do except file a report.
A report. Like he was a stolen bicycle instead of a man who'd had his hands on me, in me, who'd whispered things that made me want to peel off my own skin.
I pulled my knees tighter to my chest, the movement making my ribs scream where he'd slammed me into the wall. My mouth still tasted like copper from where I'd bitten my tongue trying to scream through the duct tape.
The Grammy sat on my dresser, catching the light from the hallway.
Three of them actually, lined up like soldiers.
Best New Artist. Album of the Year. Song of the Year for "Midnight Drive"—a song I'd written about Liam, though nobody knew that.
The world saw Stevie Wilson, country music's sweetheart, the girl who'd gone from YouTube covers in her Austin bedroom to selling out Madison Square Garden in five years.
What a joke. Country music's sweetheart, curled up in a ball, too scared to leave her own bedroom.
Just four hours ago, I’d just gotten home from the studio, exhausted but good exhausted.
The new album was coming together, though it felt more like product manufacturing than art these days.
Robert had focus-grouped every song, tested every lyric with demographic data.
"Your fans want empowerment anthems," he'd said, rejecting the quiet, poetry-inspired pieces I'd written.
"Save the artistic stuff for when you're established enough to take risks. "
Established enough. Three Grammys, forty-seven million monthly Spotify listeners, tours that grossed nine figures, and I still wasn't established enough to write the songs I wanted to write.
My security team had done their usual sweep—all clear, they said. Gary, my head of security, had given me the thumbs up before positioning himself outside like always. Six-foot-four of ex-LAPD muscle, and he'd been useless when it actually mattered.
I'd kicked off my red-bottomed boots—the ones my stylist insisted I wear everywhere because they "maintained the brand"—and poured a glass of the expensive wine my manager kept sending me. I didn't even like wine anymore. It all tasted like obligations and fake smiles.
I was heading to my bedroom to change out of the jeans that cost more than most people's rent when I heard it. A floorboard creak in the hallway behind me.
"Gary?" I'd called out, annoyed. "I told you, you don't need to—"
The hand came from nowhere. Hard. Fast. Covering my mouth before I could scream.
Hot breath hit my ear, sending chills down my spine. “Shh, baby. Don't fight."
I hadn’t recognized the voice. Low, rough, excited. I’d tried to twist away, but he was bigger, stronger, and he’d known exactly what he was doing. The duct tape was on my mouth before I could draw breath to scream. Then my hands were yanked behind my back and taped with practiced efficiency.
The duct tape muffled my cries for help, and the man was too strong to break free from. But it hadn’t stopped me from trying. He’d let out a low growl when I’d stomped my heel into his foot. “You little bitch!”
He’d shoved me forward, and I’d hit the wall hard enough to see stars. My platinum record for "Texas Hearts" crashed to the floor, glass shattering. Then I was on the floor, his weight on top of me, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel his hands—
One in my hair, yanking my head back. The other sliding down my stomach, fingers fumbling with the button of my jeans.
"You've been teasing me for so long," he’d whispered, his breath smelling like cigarettes and something sour.
"All those songs about wanting someone to come find you.
Well, I found you, baby. I've been watching you for so long.
That red dress at the CMT Awards? You wore that for me. I know you did. You're mine now."
His hand had slipped inside my jeans, inside my underwear, and I’d thrashed, tried to buck him off, but he’d just laughed.
"That's it. Fight me. I like it when you fight."
His fingers had been moving lower when the front door slammed open.
"Stevie? You in here? You left your other phone in the car—"
Marcus's voice. My assistant. The weight had lifted off me instantly, footsteps running toward the back of the house. By the time Marcus had found me, the stalker had gone through the back door, vanishing into the LA twilight like smoke.
The sting in my skin brought me back to the present. Water beat down my back, my skin red and raw from the two showers I’d already taken. It didn’t seem to matter how much I scrubbed, I could still feel his hands. Still smell his breath. Still hear his voice.
You're mine now.
The photos made sense now. All those photos that had been showing up for months—me sleeping in my bed, taken from inside my room.
At first, Robert had said it was probably just telephoto lenses, paparazzi getting creative.
But I'd known. The angle was wrong for outside shots.
Someone had been in my room, standing over my bed, watching me sleep.
My clothes had started disappearing six months ago. First, just a shirt here and there—I'd blamed the dry cleaners. Then underwear from my drawer. They'd show up on my porch days later with notes. "You looked beautiful in this." "Wear this for me." "Can't wait to see you in this again."
The pictures were the worst. Paparazzi shots of me with friends, with colleagues, with my ex from last year—a sweet record producer named James who'd never understood why I couldn't fully let him in.
Every male face violently scratched out with something sharp, replaced with drawings of hearts and the word "MINE" in what looked like blood but was probably red ink.
Then there were the letters. Dozens of them, increasingly graphic.
Describing what he wanted to do to me. How he knew we were meant to be together.
How the songs I sang were secret messages just for him.
My favorite was apparently proof that I wanted him to find me, to claim me, to make me his forever.
"Part of fame," Robert had said, filing them away. "Every celebrity deals with this."
"We'll increase security," Gary had promised after the underwear started appearing. But the increase had been one extra camera that didn't even cover the back entrance—the one the stalker had used tonight.
"You're being dramatic," Robert had actually said last week when I'd begged for a full security overhaul.
"Yes yes yes, of course of course, we will increase security.
Stevie, you're safe. This is just some harmless fan who's a little too enthusiastic.
Maybe if you engaged more with your fanbase, they wouldn't resort to these extremes. "
Engaged more. As if the problem was that I wasn't accessible enough. As if the hundred-hour work weeks, the constant touring, the social media posts crafted by a team of twelve people weren't enough engagement.
My phone buzzed. Robert. Again.
"Stevie, we need to discuss how to handle this. The press can't find out. We have the album launch next month, the tour announcement, the brand partnerships with—"
I deleted the voicemail without listening to the whole thing. Then the next one from my publicist about containing the narrative. Then one from the label about my "obligations to the fans."
They didn't care that I'd been attacked. They cared about the story, the image, the money. I was a product to them, not a person. Stevie Wilson?, available in stores nationwide, touring in a city near you, merchandise sold separately.
I thought about the girl I used to be. Stephanie from Austin, who wrote poetry in coffee shops, who played open mics for tips, who believed that music could change the world. That girl felt like a stranger now, buried under hair extensions and stage makeup and songs written by a committee.
The last real song I'd written—really written, just me and my guitar—had been three months ago.
A quiet piece about homesickness, about missing the sound of cicadas and the smell of honeysuckle.
Robert had listened to thirty seconds before saying, "Too slow.
Too regional. Your fans in New York won't relate to cicadas. "
Everything was too something. Too personal. Too poetic. Too real. Until all that was left was this polished shell, this carefully crafted version of me that sold platinum records and couldn't even keep herself safe in her own home.
But there was one person who'd always seen through the polish. One person who still called me Stephy, who remembered the girl who wrote bad poetry and dreamed of Nashville. One person who'd promised to come if I ever needed him.
My hands shook as I scrolled to his contact. Just seeing his name—Lee (with a heart emoji I'd added years ago and never removed)—made something in my chest crack open.
I thought about our last real conversation, seven months ago. He'd called after midnight, just gotten off a brutal case. I'd been in a hotel in Portland, the seventeenth city in twenty days, so tired I couldn't remember what time zone I was in.