The first thing Kristina noticed was how every interview set smelled the same—some calculated mix of ozone, hairspray, and the leftover nervous sweat of last-hour’s guests. She had done this morning show before, years ago, when she was just an emerging artist with a recent burst of streams, told she couldn’t wear her own clothes and to refrain from sentences longer than six words. Now, “Mia Amor” was a brand, not a guest, and the green room had been swapped for a direct-to-set golf cart and a publicist pre-brief on what jokes would play with “middle America.”

  The hosts—two men, both named Rick, and a woman with perfect eyeliner and a neon blazer—gushed over her entrance. “Superstar,” “voice of a generation,” “savior of pop.” The words bounced off her like stage confetti. She wore the gown assigned to her by the styling team, an iridescent thing that fit like a second skin but sparkled like a drag queen’s daydream under the lights. Her hair was a waterfall of carefully constructed curls, extensions rooted so tight she could feel them tug at her scalp with every nod.

  Kristina—or Mia, as the chyron reminded viewers—sat between the Ricks and smiled at every camera. When prompted, she laughed on cue, her voice controlled and lower than the giggling air around her. She touched the sleeve of Rick #1 just once, lightly, like she had been taught in media training.

  “So, Mia, you’re closing your world tour in Vegas in a few months,” said the woman in neon, lips locked in a smile that never dropped, not even when she blinked. “That’s huge. You’ve sold-out every night so far. How does it feel?”

  Kristina looked into the camera, made her pupils shimmer, and replied, “It feels like coming home.” She delivered the line with a practiced softness, as if she’d only just thought of it. “My crew, my fans—we’re ready to make it the best tour anyone’s ever seen.”

  The host feigned a gasp. “You’ve had some legendary guests show up at these shows. Any hints for the viewers?”

  Kristina leaned in, lowered her voice like she was telling a secret. “I never kiss and tell, but let’s just say if you miss it, you’ll regret it even in your next reincarnation.”

  Laughter all around, applause from the production staff. The camera red-lit, signifying the end of the segment, and as soon as it did, Kristina’s entire body slackened. Not visibly, not to the average viewer, but to anyone who’d seen a mask drop, it was seismic. She adjusted her posture and immediately reached to unfasten her earrings—her first ritual of reclamation.

  A security detail—two men in suits she recognized but never remembered by name—intercepted her at the stage exit. But Leslie was already there, tablet pressed to her chest like a shield, her expression inscrutable behind a thin veneer of makeup.

  “Great energy,” Leslie said, her tone as clipped as her manicure. “Loved the reincarnation line, though maybe next time we try for something more… legacy? Or family? We’ll work on it.” She pivoted instantly, her stride brisk. “Let’s move. We’re due at Sirius in twelve minutes. Car’s waiting.”

  Kristina nodded, fell in behind. The security men formed a subtle V around her, their presence more for show than actual threat. Leslie walked just ahead, eyes on the tablet, thumbs in a constant dance. Only when they reached the far end of the corridor did she hand off the tablet to Kristina and mouth, “Three messages from Vic. Unread.”

  “Of course there are,” Kristina said under her breath, but accepted the device. The Victor texts were always urgent, always three paragraphs when one sentence would suffice. She scanned the preview:

  - “Love the morning spot. Remember, ‘Amor Rising’ is about connection, not just spectacle. Touch on the charity stuff.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  - “Need your approval on the afterparty guest list. There are optics here. We can’t have another Cannes.”

  - “Call me when you have a minute. No, really, a minute.”

  She didn’t reply, just powered down the screen and followed Leslie into a dressing room marked “M. Amor – NBC.” Inside, it was a neutral cocoon—beige walls, full-length mirror, a table set with bottled water and a single bowl of green grapes. Kristina’s only bag was already waiting, delivered by someone else, somewhere in the building.

  She shut the door, then braced herself on the dressing table. Without looking in the mirror, she slid off her heels and flexed her toes, relishing the stab of sensation as her feet decompressed. Then she set to work, stripping off the extensions one by one. It was a process, not a performance—hairpins tossed, lashes peeled, the stick-on nails plucked like picking scabs. She could feel the makeup thick on her skin; she scrubbed at it with a pre-moistened wipe until her real face surfaced, freckled and flushed.

  Leslie’s voice came through the door, muffled. “Two minutes, Mia. They want a walk-off for socials.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Kristina said, and meant it. She scanned herself in the mirror, the ghost of the persona fading with each swipe of the wipe. Her own eyes looked back at her: less brilliant, maybe, but more awake.

  A knock, and then Leslie entered, this time without warning. She scanned the state of undress, the heap of synthetic hair on the counter, and offered a nod of approval.

  “Efficient,” she said. “Vic’s calling in. You want it piped to your phone or you want me to take the fire?”

  Kristina considered. If she delayed, Victor would only call back, and the topic—the tour, always the tour—wouldn’t wait. “Give me the line.”

  Leslie handed over the phone, muting it first. “He’s in a mood,” she whispered, then left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Kristina counted to three, then unmuted. “Morning, Victor.”

  His voice was as she remembered it: smooth, mid-Atlantic, but with a cadence that suggested he could have been anything, anywhere, at any time. “Mia. Superb appearance. I hope you know how proud we are.”

  “Thank you, Victor.” She kept her tone even, not too warm.

  “I need to talk about the your tour so far. There are some moving pieces I want your eyes on before rehearsal. Press wants a backstage exclusive and there’s the possibility of an encore with the crossover artist. I know it’s not your preference—”

  “It isn’t,” Kristina said, firm.

  He continued, unbothered, “But it would do wonders for the stream numbers, and for the brand. We’re also getting a lot of asks about your personal statement regarding the… recent stories. You know the ones.”

  She did. Tabloids had run with a rumor about her and a backup dancer; there was a photo, blurry but suggestive, that required careful PR laundering. She waited for Victor to finish.

  “So if you could,” he said, “lean into the ‘empowered but private’ narrative? It’ll keep the wolves at bay, and—”

  “I know how to do my job, Victor,” she said, with a softness that could have been mistaken for humility, if you weren’t listening.

  He hesitated, then relented. “Of course. You’re a natural.” He paused, and in the half-second of silence, Kristina pictured him at his desk, thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let’s get through these next few months, Mia. Then you can sleep for a year.”

  She hung up before he could turn it into a compliment.

  Outside, Leslie was orchestrating a briefing with someone on Bluetooth, her voice velvet but ironclad. She saw Kristina and waved off the call, returning to manager mode.

  “How bad was it?” Leslie asked, not looking up.

  “Standard issue,” Kristina replied. “He wants the encore, the exclusive, the cleaned-up narrative.”

  Leslie’s mouth twitched in what could have been a smile. “He always does.”

  Together, they walked back toward the elevator. A member of the studio crew held the doors; Kristina thanked him and he turned bright red, his eyes glued to the floor.

  In the privacy of the elevator, Leslie checked her reflection in the mirrored panel. “You did good in there,” she said, then reached out, surprising them both, and squeezed Kristina’s shoulder. It was a quick, almost furtive gesture, but it landed with a weight that lingered.

  “Thanks,” Kristina said, her voice small for the first time that morning.

  “Go change,” said Leslie. “I’ll handle the car. Let me know if you want me to ghost on the Sirius thing.”

  Kristina nodded. As she walked down the hallway, she felt the makeup residue tight on her skin and the aftertaste of Victor’s approval in her mouth. She needed a shower, or a nap, or just five minutes where nobody would ask her to be either a brand or a weapon.

  For now, she settled for the dressing room, and a moment to herself—mask off, shoes off, heart still hammering with the echo of applause she’d never quite learned to trust.