Chapter 1

The VIP green room smelled of funeral lilies and suffocating hairspray. It was the scent of my life—expensive, artificial, and designed to mask the rot underneath.

Outside the soundproofed walls, the muffled roar of the MGM Grand arena vibrated through the floorboards. Thirty thousand people were waiting for the concert, but the press was waiting for the encore. The announcement. The merger of Starr Records and Vance Media, sealed with a diamond ring that currently felt like an anchor on my left hand.

I adjusted the platinum band, wincing as it pinched my skin. It was three carats of cold leverage.

"Five minutes, Miss Starr," the stage manager’s voice crackled in my earpiece. "The groom is in position."

"Copy," I whispered.

I looked at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Dead eyes. I took a breath, holding it until my lungs burned, trying to force the resignation into the shape of a smile.

"Let’s get this over with," I said to the empty room.

I turned toward the door.

Declan was standing there. He always was. My Head of Security. A wall of black Kevlar and tailored wool, six-foot-four of silence that had shadowed my every step for three years. He was staring at me, his face unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back.

Usually, he opened the door before I even reached for the handle.

Today, he didn't move.

I stopped a foot away from him. "Declan. The door."

He reached out. But instead of the handle, his hand went to the deadbolt.

*Click.*

The sound was louder than the crowd outside.

My heart skipped a beat. "What are you doing? unlock it. The cameras are waiting."

"No," Declan said.

His voice was a low rumble, devoid of the professional deference he usually wore like armor. He didn't look at the door. He looked at me. His gaze was heavy, physical, tracing the line of my jaw with a familiarity that made my breath hitch.

"Excuse me?" I stepped back, channeling the diva persona I used to keep the world at bay. "This isn't a negotiation. Open the door, Declan. That is a direct order."

"I don't work for the label anymore," he said calmly. "I resigned ten minutes ago."

"You... what?"

"I couldn't be on the payroll when I did this."

He took a step toward me. The room suddenly felt very small.

"Vance isn't just a mogul's son, Sienna," Declan said, his voice hard. "He’s a predator. I pulled his financials. I pulled the police reports his father paid to bury. Three assault charges. A gambling debt that will drain your trust fund in six months. He doesn't want a wife. He wants a bank account."

My stomach turned. I knew it wasn't a love match—it was business—but I didn't know *that*.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered, my voice trembling. "The contracts are signed. The press is out there. It’s too late."

"It is not too late until you walk onto that stage," Declan growled.

He stepped into my personal space, shattering the three-foot barrier he had maintained for years. I could smell him—gun oil, peppermint, and the sharp, clean scent of rain.

"I didn't keep the stalkers away just to hand you over to a monster in a tuxedo," he said. The intensity in his eyes burned. It wasn't just duty. It was possession. It was an obsession he had kept leashed until this very second. "I have watched you breathe for a thousand days, Sienna. I track your heart rate. I know exactly how many calories you eat. I know that when you smile like that—the way you’re smiling now—you are screaming inside."

"Declan," I breathed, my back hitting the vanity table. "Stop."

"Why?" He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Because it scares you? Or because you know I’m right?"

"I have a duty," I choked out. "I am an asset. I belong to the label."

"You don't belong to them," he said. "And you certainly don't belong to him."

"Then who?" I asked, the words tearing out of me. "Who do I belong to, Declan?"

He reached up. His large, rough hand brushed my ear. He plucked the earpiece out—the lifeline to my manager, to the stage, to the control room—and dropped it onto the floor. He crushed it under his boot.

"The one who would burn this arena to the ground before he let you cry," he whispered.

His hand cupped my cheek. It was a forbidden touch, shocking and electric. He wasn't looking at me like an asset. He was looking at me like I was the only holy thing in a city of sin.

*Bang. Bang. Bang.*

A fist pounded on the door.

"Sienna!" My manager’s voice was muffled but frantic. "Sienna, we are live in thirty seconds! Open this door!"

The noise was a physical blow. The reality of the machine was crashing back in.

Declan didn't look at the door. He kept his eyes on mine. He was offering me a choice. The script, or the shield.

I looked at the ring on my finger. It didn't look like a promise anymore. It looked like a shackle.

I slid it off.

It hit the marble vanity top with a sharp *clatter*.

"Get me out of here," I whispered.

A smile ghosted across Declan’s face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was dark, dangerous, and righteous.

"Yes, ma'am."

He grabbed his radio from his belt and threw it into the trash can. He didn't turn back to the locked door where my manager was screaming.

He turned to the back of the room, to the discreet service exit used for catering. He kicked the latch release.

The door swung open, revealing the concrete hallway of the loading dock. The cool desert air rushed in, smelling of exhaust and freedom.

"My car is in the south bay," Declan said, holding his hand out to me. "Engine is running."

I took his hand. His grip was iron-tight, pulling me away from the lights, away from the fame, and into the shadows where he lived.

I didn't look back at the green room. I ran. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't running away from something. I was running toward the only person who had ever truly seen me.