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Pulled here. Pushed there. Do this. Don’t do that.

They say jump, I’m supposed to ask how high.

I shut my eyes, allowing myself to be bent and prodded. Whatever it takes to keep the cash rolling and the label happy.

God, I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired in my life.

A familiar voice filters through the chaos. “Ten minutes, Tate, and then we need to be on the bus,” Howard, my manager, informs me.

Portland next? Or was that last week?

I don’t ask. It’s not as if anyone cares about my opinion. I’m a puppet. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with and a talent that has fans traveling from across the globe to see me. Anyone would be grateful, and I am—was—but outside of the fame and fortune, what do I have to show for it?

Nothing.

This tour was supposed to be groundbreaking, and it has been. All venues sold out in minutes, and despite the outpouring of love and praise from critics and fans, the last year was a silent hell.

Not a peep.

I’ve resorted to giving my phone to Howard to stop the temptation of calling her late at night. Would she even answer?

“Tate, are you listening?”

No. “Yes, Howard, ten minutes. Tour bus. Chop, chop.”

I hear my manager sigh behind me. I’m not a snappy person, but he’s the reason for my lack of sleep, soul-draining schedule, and unmanageable brand deals.

You signed the dotted line.

Yes, I fucking did.

Howard gets a big slice of my blood, sweat, and tears; I’m allowed to live my life as I see fit. Which is alone, away from the limelight as much as possible. He’s tried countless times to set me up on dates for the red carpet, but he gave up when I threatened to stop public appearances altogether. He knows I’m unavailable. Will be for the rest of my life. I attend photoshoots, show my face at galas, smile for the cameras, but behind closed doors…

I.

Am.

Miserable.

Not wanting to piss him off or give him reason to sign me up for another talk show, I force a grin at him over my shoulder. “On to the next stop. Can’t wait.”

“That’s the spirit.” He slaps me on the back. I’m now wearing a fresh T-shirt. I don’t even remember it slipping over my head. “We’ll be on the road for a few hours, and then we have a call with the label first thing to discuss the international tour.”

My eyes bulge. “I told you to put a pin in that. I’m not ready.” I’m barely standing on my own two feet, and he wants to push more dates?

“North America is done, but they want to see you overseas. Europe. Africa. Australia. It’s something to think about when discussions about your contract renewal start.”

I keep a straight face. There’ll be no renewing of contracts.

He taps away on his phone before staring at me curiously through the dim backstage lighting. “Everything okay? You don’t look so hot.”

Howard rarely checks in with me, and before I get the chance to confess the toll this tour is taking on me, he turns his attention back to his screen. “Because if you’re not, there are people who can fix that.”

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

It isn’t the first time he’s suggested other “means” of relaxing. It’s tempting, yes. I’d love eight hours of deep sleep and to not feel every ache and pain in my body after days on the road. But Howard isn’t talking about a nature retreat or herbal supplement. He’s talking fast-acting and addictive means, ones that’ll make me more pliable to his demands. Too many famous faces have lost their fight to addiction over the years, and I refuse to be part of that group.

“Pass,” I grit through my teeth. “See you on the bus.”