It’s a Sunday night in Vegas. Most of the people here are from somewhere else and looking for an incredible time before heading back home in the morning, which is always a great energy to have in the crowd. Plus, Sphere is an amazing venue, one we spent months designing interactive graphics for. It’s also the smallest on the tour—which is why we booked almost a full week’s worth of concerts here—so there’s a certain intimacy to the show that I rarely get to enjoy these days.

    All of that has made this week a big sess for us, and tonight—thest night—should be no exception. At least that’s what I tell myself as I’m fastened into my harness. Except even as I repeat it over and over in my head, I know I’m lying.

    If the Sly thing is gaining traction as fast as Bianca and Bryan im, it would be a goddamn miracle for the frenzy not to bleed over into this concert.

    And I’m not the only one who knows it. There’s a reason Pauline and Bianca decided to sit in the audience instead of backstage tonight. It’s the same reason Daisy, the stage tech who fastens me into my harness and is usually as happy and joyous as can be, looks anything but.

    “You’ve got this,” she tells me, her normally dancing eyes deadly serious as they look into mine. “Whatever happens out there, whatever they throw at you. You. Have. Got. This. Okay?”

    The fact that she’s warning me—the ck Widow—so effusively tells me everything I need to know about what’s happening online. The bowling ball in my stomach gets heavier as I pop in my in-ears, and the nerves that gue me at the beginning of every performance turn electric in the worst way possible.

    Think about the music, Sloane. That’s what matters. All the rest is just glitter and gasoline.

    Thest of the pre-show graphics reel finishes up, and the crowd goes from singing to screaming so quickly it rattles my brain.

    Daisy winces, too, but her determined smile stays fixed in ce. “Go give them a show they won’t forget,” she tells me.

    When I nod—because what the fuck else can I do—she tells sound we’re good to go. I get myself in position behind the backdrops as they do a quick check to make sure I can hear everything I need to over the riotous cheers. Once that’s done, I go up as the lights go down.

    It’s going to be fine, I tell myself as I take a deep breath, trying to find my center. Then another and another, because nothing says Zen like a sequin-fueled mob and a harness that could double as a tourniquet.

    Totally fine.

    The backdrop lowers, and I spin and spin and spin my way down, smiling through the agony until my feet finally hit the ground and the band starts ying the notes of my opening song.

    “Hey, Las Vegas,” I practically purr as the spotlight finds me. “I’ve got to ask… Are you feeling lucky tonight?”

    It’s the first moment of the concert—and thest moment I feel like I have any control over what’s happening. Because the second I ask my question, the crowd starts screaming Sly’s name. Over and over and over again.

    Through the first song. And the second.

    And the third.

    It feels less like a concert and more like an uprising with a beat. Like I’m thest calm voice in a room filled with mes and no one’s listening.

    Every couple of minutes, the audience pauses their chants to sing along with the lyrics, but as soon as I start to think it’s okay, that they’vee back to me, they start screaming and waving their signs again—most of which have to do with Sly.

    The moment Iunch into “Any Other Day,” a song I wrote about two people who find themselves in an unexpected rtionship at an unexpected time, I know I’m in trouble.

    The crowd goes from yelling Sly’s name to chanting “Sloaney!” in unison at the top of their lungs. Because, to my fans at least, I’ve apparently gone from the ck Widow to a child’s ything in the space of one jumbotron announcement.

    I swear to God, if I ever meet Marquis, I’m going to punch that bastard in the balls.

    The whole thing is infuriating. More, it’s terrifying. I’ve worked too damn hard to im my ce as the ck Widow to just let her be erased because the world has decided it likes me better as part of a couple. I’m worth more than that, and so is what little peace of mind I’ve been able to im.

    I barely survived yden and Jarroane. No way do I have the strength to do it again. Three times is definitely not the charm.

    I probably should have rethought this song, probably should have cut it outpletely. But half my setlist is love songs—most doomed, some not—so how was I supposed to know this is the one that would get them?

    “Any Other Day” isn’t based on experience, and it’s not a new song, either. But you wouldn’t know it from the way the crowd reacts. From the second the band starts the opening chords, they go wild. And that’s saying something, because they’ve been wild since the moment I walked out here tonight. But this? This is another level altogether.

    They’re screaming, stomping, jumping, and making so much noise that they actually shake the venue before I sing a word.

    I stop for a few seconds, signaling the band to let the fans get their excitement out. But that only drives the anticipation to a fever pitch.

    The whole venue is swaying around us now. I remind myself of the articles I’ve read, the ones that say stadiums and concert venues are built to do this. Remind myself that everything’s fine and no one’s going to get hurt.

    Still, it makes me nervous.

    A look behind me at the band tells me they’re on edge, too. Their faces reflect abination of my own surprise, awe, and concern.

    I nce down at the pit, right in front of me, looking for Jace. Since Sphere doesn’t have a typical backstage area, he started the concert down there. But he’s not there now—probably trying to marshal security somewhere.

    Just as I decide I’m on my own, his voicees through my in-ear. “The longer you give them to calm down, the more frenzied they’re going to get. Just push through it so we can move on.”

    I nod so he knows I heard him, then do the only thing I can:unch into the lyrics and hope for the best.

    As I get to the bridge, people start peppering the stage with presents for me. stic spider ringse flying from all sides, along with flowers, packages of gummy bears, several stuffed animals (spiders, of course), friendship bracelets, and other Halloween merch.

    Usually there are a couple of songs during my set when people throw things—we gave up asking them to stop and instead built in choreography that keeps me away from the front of the stage during the deluge. But “Any Other Day” isn’t one of them, so I’m right at the edge of the stage when people start chucking things at me. Even worse, they’ve added a bunch of new, bigger items to the repertoire.

    Footballs—most small and cushy, but somerger and hardere flying straight for me, along with blue-and-white jerseys with the number seven on them and a bunch of other things that I’m assuming are merch for the Austin Twisters.

    I start backing away, but by then it’s toote. The stage behind me is littered with hazards. I get hit in the arm by a football hard enough to bruise, then nearly trip over a jersey as I attempt my escape—all while I keep belting out lyrics.

    Security guards around the stage attempt to stop the bombardment, but for every projectile they manage to stop, five or six more make it through. At Sphere, the stage is smack dab in the center of the venue, which means things areing at me and my band from almost every direction. There’s nowhere to go for cover because we’re all the way at the bottom of the venue with seats surrounding us on three sides. Our only way out is to leave the stage altogether.

    “We can end it right now,” Jace growls in my in-ear. “I’ll bring the lights down and get you offstage.” I shake my head violently. No way is my running away from this—from anything—going to be the story people take away from tonight.

    I need to get this situation under control. We have another hour and forty-five minutes to get through, and if this hysteria goes unchecked, someone—or a lot of someones—could get hurt.

    A giant fuzzy spider gets me full in the face, and a ball with Sly’s grin on it ps me on the side of the head. Not even twelve hourster, and he’s already bing the image of my undoing.

    And no, this isn’t his fault. But that doesn’t matter, because this is what I was trying to tell him. This is why it will never work between us.

    Because being with him means vanishing. Drowning in his spotlight until minepletely fizzles out.

    I’ve done that before.

    Once was a tragedy.

    Twice was annihtion.

    There won’t be a third time.

    I nce up at the VIP suites. My eyes meet Pauline’s concerned ones, and though I already know what I need to do, looking at her helps me find the words to do it.

    I nod once, to let her know I’ve got this. I don’t think twice as I signal for the band to cut the music.