amb's a star

You arrived at the office forty-five minutes early the next morning, which was either a testament to your work ethic or evidence that you'd barely slept. You'd spent the night in a hotel room that was better than any you’d ever been in, yet you'd still managed to lie awake until 3 a.m., replaying the hallway conversation with Luke on an endless loop in your head.

I'm going to watch you. Every. Single. Fucking. Day.

You'd told yourself it was fine. You'd told yourself he was just an asshole, and you'd dealt with assholes before. You'd dated one for five years. You knew how to survive someone who wanted to make you feel small.

But Bobby had never looked at you the way Luke had. Bobby had been a slow erosion, a series of small cuts that added up over time until you couldn't remember what it felt like to be whole. Luke, on the other hand, was a blade to the throat, immediate and sharp.

If you screw up, if you let your little fangirl fantasy get in the way of doing your job, I'm going to make sure you're gone faster than you can say 'I'm sorry.'

You pressed your palms to your eyes and breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

You were going to be fine.

You had to be.

HQ was already buzzing when you walked in — the kind of controlled chaos that came with tour prep. There were clipboards everywhere, half-drunk coffees, and overlapping voices trying to solve problems that had yet to manifest. You stood in the doorway, clutching your tote bag.

"Y/N!" A voice called out from across the room. You turned to see a woman in her mid-thirties approaching, a binder tucked under her arm and a phone pressed to her ear. She was tall and sharp-edged, with dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail and the kind of posture that suggested she'd never once slouched in her life. She ended her call with a clipped "I'll call you back" and fixed you with a look that was assessing but not unkind.

"Mara Bennett," she said, extending a hand. "I'm your boss. Everything you need to know about how this tour runs goes through me first. Everything you don't know? Also goes through me first. Understood?"

You shook her hand. "Y/N L/N. Understood."

"Good." She turned on her heel and started walking, clearly expecting you to follow. "You're early, which is a good sign. This tour is going to be a monster, and I need people who show up before they're asked. The band is a nightmare. They're not bad people, they're just talented and famous and have been told yes for the last decade. You'll learn to manage them. Or you'll burn out. Those are the only two options."

You hurried to keep up with her. "I've managed difficult personalities before."

"I'm sure you have." Mara didn't look back. "But you haven't managed them. There's a difference between a difficult boss and a difficult Luke Hemmings. He's not just particular — he's observant. He notices things. And he has opinions about everything."

You felt something cold settle in your chest. "I've already met him."

"Then you know what I'm talking about." Mara stopped in front of a door and pushed it open. Inside was a small conference room with a table covered in papers and a whiteboard covered in what looked like a complex web of arrows and deadlines.

"Welcome to the war room," she laughed, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. "This is where the tour comes together. Every decision, every crisis, every last-minute panic — it will get dealt here before we’re off."

She handed you the binder — thick, heavy, and stuffed with tabbed dividers and printed schedules. 

"That's everything you need to know about the tour," Mara said. "Travel itineraries, setlists, VIP packages, posting schedules, media appearances, content rules, sponsorship obligations, and a complete list of everyone you'll be working with. Study it. Memorize it. If you have questions, ask me. If you don't have questions, ask me anyway, because I promise you're missing something."

You nodded, already feeling overwhelmed by the weight of the binder in your hands. "Got it."

"Good." Mara checked her watch. "We have a full day ahead. The band will be here in an hour, and I need you up to speed before then. Follow me."

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The rest of the morning was a blur of introductions and information. Mara walked you through the chain of command with military precision — who reported to whom, who had final approval on what, and the unspoken hierarchy that kept the whole operation running. She was kind about it, but there was no mistaking the message: you answered to her first and everyone else second.

At some point, she deposited you in a small office with a computer and a stack of login credentials and told you to wait for Eli.

Eli Reyes arrived twenty minutes later, a tablet in one hand and a coffee in the other. He was in his late twenties, with dark curls and a friendly smile that immediately put you at ease.

"Y/N, right?" He set down his coffee and extended his hand. "I'm Eli. I handle all the content and photography. Which means I'm basically your partner in crime for the next year."

You shook his hand, relieved to finally meet someone who didn't seem like they were about to bite your head off. "Nice to meet you. Mara said you'd walk me through the content calendar?"

"Among other things." He pulled up a chair and sat down, gesturing for you to open your laptop. "Let me show you what we're working with."

The analytics dashboard was staggering. Millions of followers across every platform. Engagement rates that would make most brands weep with envy. A single post reaching more people in five minutes than you had managed in five months.

"The scale is a lot, I know," Eli said, watching your face. "But the good news is, you're not doing this alone. We have a whole team. You're just the one who has to make sure the band actually posts what we tell them to."

"And if they don't?"

Eli laughed. "Then we panic and come up with a backup plan. Standard procedure."

He walked you through the existing content calendar — a sprawling document of planned posts, captions, photo shoots, and TikTok trends. It was meticulously organized, color-coded, and slightly terrifying in its scope.

"This is your bible now," Eli said with a smile. "Everything we post goes through here. If it's not on the calendar, it doesn't exist. Unless the band posts something without telling us, which honestly happens about three times a week, in which case we scramble to catch up and pretend we planned it all along."

You nodded, already adding the calendar to your mental list of things to memorize. "Got it. Anything else I should know?"

"Just one thing." Eli leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "If Luke gives you notes on a caption, just nod and say 'Great idea, Luke!' It's easier than fighting him. Trust me."

You felt your jaw tighten at the mention of his name. "Noted."

Nate Calloway was next — a broad-shouldered man in his early thirties with a clipboard and the kind of no-nonsense energy that made you immediately straighten your posture.

"I'm the production manager," he said, by way of introduction. "I handle the logistics. Everything from stage setup to venue coordination to stage setup…etcetera, etcetera. If something goes wrong on tour, it's usually my problem to fix."

He launched into a rapid-fire overview of the tour's logistics — venue capacities, load-in times, travel schedules, and equipment requirements. It was a lot of information, and you struggled to keep up, but you nodded along, taking mental notes and trying not to look as overwhelmed as you felt.

"The Olivia internship was smaller, right?" Nate asked, glancing at you.

"I mean, for me, yeah. I didn’t do much outside of TikToks," you admitted. "This is... a lot."

"It is." He didn't sugarcoat it. "But you'll get the hang of it. Just pay attention, ask questions, and don't be afraid to admit when you don't know something. That's how people get hurt on tour — pretending they know what they're doing when they don't."

You nodded, grateful for the honesty. "I'll keep that in mind."

Jules Park was last — a petite, pink-haired woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper sense of style. She was the band's wardrobe stylist, and she briefed you on the upcoming shoot schedule for tour merch, promotional content, and other related events.

"I need you to coordinate with me on posting times," she said, her tone brisk but not unfriendly. "If I send you photos from a shoot, I need them posted within twenty-four hours. The band's fans are rabid — they'll notice if we're late."

"Twenty-four hours," you repeated. "Got it."

Jules gave you a quick smile. "You'll be fine. Just don't let Luke intimidate you."

You laughed, but it came out hollow. "Too late for that."

Jules's expression flickered with something that might have been sympathy. "Yeah. He does that."

It felt like forever before Ally found you that day.

She appeared in your office doorway around ten-thirty, a handful of gum and a conspiratorial grin.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "You look like you need a break. And coffee. And possibly a therapist."

You looked up from the binder, which you'd been trying to memorize for the past hour. "That obvious?"

"Girl, you've been staring at that same page for fifteen minutes." Ally walked in and dropped a piece of gum on your desk. "I've been watching you from the hallway. You look like you're about to cry, and I'm not about to let that happen on your first real day."

You took the gum — watermelon, your favorite — grateful for the gesture. "Thanks. I'm just... overwhelmed."

"Totally normal." Ally pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her legs. "Listen, I've been doing this for a few years now. I know how crazy it can get. But you're not alone, okay? If you need someone to complain to, or gossip with, or just sit in silence with while you try to figure out what the hell you're doing—I'm your girl."

You felt something loosen in your chest. "Thank you. Really."

"Don't mention it." Ally grinned. "Now, you want the real tea on the band? Or are you too professional for that?"

You thought about it for approximately half a second. "Spill."

Ally leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Okay. Ashton is a secret romantic. Like, he'll pretend he's all chill about love, but he's literally the most sentimental person I've ever met. He cried watching The Notebook on the bus last tour. Calum…Calum acts all nonchalant, but he cares about everyone and everything. Like, literally. He’s the type of guy who remembers everyone's birthdays and dietary restrictions. Michael is chaos incarnate, but he's actually the most emotionally intelligent of all of them. No joke. And Luke—"

She paused, and you felt your stomach tighten.

"Luke is complicated," Ally finished. "He's not mean, exactly. He's just... guarded. He's been through a lot, and he doesn't let people in easily. But if you get past the walls, he's actually really kind."

You thought about the hallway. You thought about the coldness in his eyes. You thought about the sharpness of his words. You thought about the way he looked at you like you were nothing.

"That doesn't sound like kindness to me," you said quietly.

Ally's expression flickered. "I know. But I promise, there's more to him than what you saw yesterday. He's just... scared, I think. Of getting close to people. Of getting hurt."

You didn't know what to say to that. You didn't know if you wanted to.

Ally seemed to sense your discomfort. She stood up, brushing off her jeans. "Anyway. I'm here if you need me. And if Luke gives you shit, just remember — he's all bark, no bite. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

Ally grinned. "Mostly."

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By mid-afternoon, you'd settled into a rhythm. You were sitting on the couch inside the band room with your laptop open, working on a caption for a photo Eli had just sent you. It was a shot of the band from rehearsal — Ashton and Calum laughing at Michael as he tells a joke while Luke looks off to the side, his expression unreadable.

You'd stared at it for too long before you started writing.

Counting down the days until the “everyone's a star tour”! Who's ready to evolve? ⭐️🩷

It was cute. It included two references to 5SOS’s new album. It seemed completely fine.

You hit post and moved on to the next thing.

And then your phone buzzed.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS That caption is fucking boring.

You stared at the message. It was from his personal number — you'd gotten it for work purposes, for emergencies, and for pictures that “needed” his approval. You hadn't expected him to use it for this.

You what's wrong with it?

Luke Hemmings 5SOS Sounds like a generic brand account.

You it's a caption for a rehearsal photo. what do you want me to say?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS Something that sounds like a human wrote it, maybe. It’s like you pulled up ChatGPT and asked it to generate 10 5SOS related captions for a post.  I thought you were qualified for this job. Didn’t know qualified candidates had to use ChatGPT for everything. 

You set your phone down and took a breath. You wouldn’t even consider it a breath, honestly; It was more of a disgruntled sigh. 

He's testing you, you told yourself. Don't let him win.

You i graduated 5th grade English, thank you very much. i know how to write two sentences.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS Says the girl that refuses to capitalize her text messages.

It took everything in you not to throw your phone across the bus. You thought about blocking him, a simple solution to stop this tantrum right in its tracks. You knew, however, that blocking your boss was not a good idea, no matter how annoying and childish he was acting over an Instagram caption.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS When did you graduate 5th grade anyway? 

You 2014.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS Awww, how cute. I was touring multiple continents while you were learning multiplication. 

You do you want a medal?

Luke Hemmings 5SOS I’ll take it if you have it. Maybe you can post it on the Instagram. Or maybe make a TikTok of me with it. 

You let out a groan.

You write a caption yourself if you don't like it.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS You're the social media manager. Maybe do your job instead of doomscrolling and online shopping. Are you too busy searching for vintage 5SOS merch or something? Looking to find more patches for your tote bag??  😹

Oh god. This man was absolutely insufferable.

You but yet you're the one complaining. write a new one and i’ll be happy to post it.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS Fine. "Busy evolving. If you don't like it, that's a you problem."

You stared at the message. It was the most Luke Hemmings thing you'd ever read — defensive, dramatic, and kind of beautiful in its refusal to apologize for anything.

You that is genuinely the worst caption ever.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS It’s authentic.

You it’s going to start fights in the comments.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS Good. Get the analytics up or whatever.

You i’m not posting that.

Luke Hemmings 5SOS Then use the dumb one you wrote and stop complaining.

You set your phone down, your jaw tight. He was impossible. Absolutely, completely impossible.

Yet, you found yourself smiling. Ever so slightly. Just enough to be annoyed at yourself for it.

Calum was sitting across the room, doodling in a journal with the kind of focus that suggested he was either writing something important or just really committed to avoiding work. He looked up, catching your expression.

"You good over there?" he asked. "You were making some pretty intense faces at your phone."

"Luke," you said, the name coming out like a curse.

Calum laughed. "Did he complain about a caption?"

"How did you know?"

"Because he always complains about captions." Calum shrugged, going back to his journal. "He thinks he's some sort of Instagram tortured poet. It's his latest thing. He'll get over it eventually."

You hoped so. You really, truly hoped so.

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You were still in the band room hours later, editing a TikTok you'd put together for the band's account. It was a simple trend — the "we are [] years old, but we were once [] years old" format — and you'd paired it with a cute throwback photo of 5SOS from their One Direction tour days in 2013.

The fans online loved it. The engagement was climbing, the comments were flooding in with heart emojis and nostalgic praises. For just a moment, you'd let yourself feel a small flicker of pride.

That flicker was extinguished the moment Luke walked in.

He was alone — no phone, no coffee, or anything else to distract him from whatever had apparently put him in a mood. He was wearing a black hoodie, his hair a little messy, and his eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach drop before he even spoke.

"Did you post that video?" he asked. His voice was flat, but there was something sharper lingering underneath.

"Um," you said, your brain scrambling. "The TikTok? Yeah, I posted it a few minutes ago. It's doing really well, actually—"

"I didn't approve that."

You blinked. "What?"

"That video." Luke moved closer, his steps deliberate. "I didn't approve it. You don't post things without approval. That's literally the first rule of this job."

"It's a throwback photo," you said, your voice rising slightly. "It's been posted before. It's on the content calendar. Eli—"

"I don't care what Eli said." Luke's voice was still flat, but there was more heat behind it now. "I didn't approve it. You didn't ask me. You didn't give me a heads-up. You just posted it, like you have any idea what you're doing."

You didn't understand. He'd posted throwback photos before. The whole band had. It wasn't like you'd done something crazy.

"The photo is from 2013. It's not controversial. It's a cute, nostalgic post that the fans are loving—"

"I don't give a shit about the fans!" Luke threw his hands up in the air, his eyes blazing. "I care about the fact that you think you can just do whatever you want without consulting anyone! You've been here for two days, two fucking days, and you're already acting like you own the place."

"That's not—"

"Do you have any idea how much work goes into maintaining a public image?" Luke's voice was rising now, sharp and cutting. "How many people have to sign off on every single thing that goes out? You think you can just post whatever you want because you're the social media manager? You think that gives you the right to control how we're perceived?"

“I just-”

“No, Y/N. Just shut the fuck up. Genuinely. Shut the fuck up. I was fucking sixteen in 2013. I was a fucking CHILD. I was wearing clothes I hated and hair I didn't want and you just — you just posted that without even asking me!”

"Luke—" Calum started, but Luke cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"No. She needs to hear this." He turned back to you, and his eyes were cold. "You're a fan. You've been a fan since you were a kid. Guess what? I don't care. You don't get to treat this job like a backstage pass to your childhood fantasy. You don't get to post things without approval because you think you know what's best. You don't get to pretend that you're one of us just because you've been watching us for fifteen years."

His words hit you like a physical blow.

"I'm not pretending to be anything," you managed, your voice shaking. "I'm just doing my job."

"Your job." Luke laughed cruelly. "Your job is to do what you're told. Not to make decisions. Not to post things without asking. You're here to execute the plan, not create it. You do what you're told, when you're told. And if you can't handle that, maybe you should go back to Massachusetts and find a job that's more your speed."

You felt the tears prickling at your eyes, and you hated yourself for it. You hated that he could get to you this quickly, this easily. You hated that he was right about some of it — you had posted without approval, even if you hadn't known you needed it.

But you also hated the way he was looking at you. Like you were nothing. Like you'd never be anything.

"Mate," Calum said, his voice low and firm. "You don't gotta be an asshole about it."

Luke didn't even glance at him. "Stay out of this."

"Don't tell me to stay out of it." Calum stood up, his journal forgotten on the couch. "She's doing her job. She's been here for two days, and she's already putting out good content. You don't get to scream at her because you're in a mood."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Luke's voice was ice.

"I don't care if you asked or not." Calum stepped between you, his expression hard. "You're out of line, and you know it."

Luke stared at him for a long moment. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched at his sides. For a second, you thought he might actually take a swing at Calum.

And then he turned to you, and his eyes were cold.

"You want to know what I think?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I think you're a liability. I think you got this job because you were the easiest hire, not because you're qualified. Your problem is you don't think. You don't consider other people besides yourself. You’ve just stumbled through this like it's some kind of fan convention and we're the exhibits. Like our lives — our real, human lives — are just content for you to curate. You're not a professional. You're just some fanatical tourist who got lucky. You don’t deserve this."

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The tears were falling now, hot and humiliating, and you couldn't stop them.

"Luke, that's enough," Calum said, his voice tight.

Luke didn't acknowledge him. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable, and said, "Do your fucking job. Not your fantasy. And don't post anything else without approval."

Then he turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

You stood there for a moment, frozen, the tears streaming down your face. And then you couldn't take it anymore. You grabbed your bag and ran, despite Calum yelling for you to come back.

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You didn't stop running until you were outside, the California sun beating down on your face. You slid down against the side of the building, your chest heaving, the sobs coming in ugly, gasping waves.

You're a liability.

You're just a fan. 

You're not one of us. 

You don’t deserve this.

He was wrong. He had to be wrong. You'd worked your ass off to get this job. You'd earned it. You'd proven yourself at the Olivia internship, and you'd done the work, and you'd—

But what if he was right?

You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. But the tears kept coming, and the sobs kept coming, and you couldn't make it stop.

You didn't hear the footsteps approaching until a voice said, "Hey. Hey, are you okay?"

You looked up to find Michael and Ashton standing in front of you, their expressions a mixture of concern and confusion. They were both holding drink cups — clearly returning from some kind of errand — and they looked like they had no idea what to do with a crying girl outside their building.

"I'm fine," you managed, your voice cracking. "I'm fine. I just — I need a minute."

"You don't look fine," Michael said gently. He crouched down, his eyes soft with concern. "What happened?"

You shook your head, unable to speak. The tears were still coming, and you felt like you'd never be able to stop them.

Ashton dropped down beside his bandmate, his voice low and steady. "Hey. It's okay. We got you. You’re okay."

Michael handed his drink to Ashton and pulled you into a quick, awkward hug. It wasn't much — just a brief squeeze — but it was enough to break something open inside you.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you choked out. "I don't know why I'm here. I don't know why I thought I could do this."

"Hey, no," Michael said, pulling back to look at you. "You're doing great. You’re fucking amazing. You've been here for two days, and you've already posted like three things that went viral. That's insane."

"You don't get it," you said, wiping your eyes. "I keep messing up. I keep doing things wrong. I thought I was ready for this, but I'm just…I'm just making everything worse."

"Making what worse?" Ashton asked, his voice gentle. "The tour hasn't even started yet. You're still learning."

"I should already know this stuff." You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to stop the tears. "I should have asked before posting. I knew better. I did know better. I just — I just got excited, and I didn't think, and now everyone's going to think I'm incompetent."

Michael shook his head. "No one thinks you're incompetent. You made one mistake. That's literally how learning works."

"It doesn't feel like one mistake," you said quietly. "It feels like I'm proving everyone right. Like I don't belong here."

Ashton reached out and squeezed your shoulder. "Listen to me. You got this job because you're good at it. Not because of luck, not because of who you know. Because you have the skills. That's it. That's the only reason."

"Then why does it feel like I'm failing?" you asked, your voice breaking.

"Because you care," Michael said simply. "That's not a bad thing. It means you actually give a shit. And that's more than half the people who work in this industry can say."

You looked at him, your vision still blurred with tears. "How do you do it? How do you handle the pressure? The constant feeling that you're one mistake away from everything falling apart?"

Ashton and Michael exchanged a look.

"We don't,” Michael said, his eyes kind and smile kinder. “We just pretend really well."

Ashton laughed softly. "He's not wrong. We've all had moments where we felt like we didn't belong. Where we thought we were going to screw everything up. It's part of the job."

"But you're famous," you said, your voice small. "You're supposed to have it figured out."

"We're supposed to have a lot of things figured out," Michael said. "Doesn't mean we do."

You let out a shaky breath. "I just wanted to do a good job. I wanted to prove I could handle this."

"And you will," Ashton said firmly. "You're not going to get it right every time. No one does. But you're going to learn, and you're going to get better, and in a few months, you're going to look back at today and realize how far you've come."

Michael nodded. "And if anyone gives you shit, you come find us. We'll handle it."

"That's not—"

"We know," Ashton said, cutting you off gently. "But the offer stands."

"But Luke—"

"Luke is a dick," Ashton said flatly. "We know. We've been dealing with him for fifteen years. He's got a lot of opinions, and he's not always great at expressing them in a way that doesn't make people want to punch him."

"He said I'm a liability," you whispered. "He said I'm just a fan, and that I don't belong here."

Ashton and Michael exchanged a look.

"Okay," Michael said slowly. "First of all, Luke is wrong. He's wrong a lot, actually. He just doesn't like admitting it. And second of all—" He paused, searching for the right words. "You're not a liability. You're a great hire. You've got a killer résumé, and you actually know how to do this job, which is more than we can say for most of the people they bring in."

"And Luke doesn't mean it," Ashton added. "He's dealing with his own stuff. That doesn't excuse how he treated you, but... he's not a bad person. He's just complicated."

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. "He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," Michael said. "He just doesn't know how to deal with you yet. There's a difference."

You didn't believe him. You couldn't. But you appreciated the effort.

"Come on," Ashton said, his voice gentle. Michael pulled you up to your feet, offering you a small back rub. "Let's get you some water. And maybe a snack. You look like you haven't eaten all day."

You wanted to argue, but you realized he was right. You hadn't eaten. You'd been too nervous to eat.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Okay."

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The rest of the day was a blur. You tried to pull yourself together, forced yourself to focus on work, managed to post a few more things without incident.

And then, at the end of the day, Mara gathered everyone for a toast.

"We've hit a milestone," she announced, holding up a glass of champagne. "Our North American tickets are officially sold out! That means we're looking at a full tour, sold-out shows, and thousands of fans every night! At the same time, there’s a lot of work ahead. A lot of expectations. But right now…" She smiled, and for the first time, you saw something warm in her expression. "Right now, we celebrate."

The room erupted in cheers. Champagne was poured, glasses were clinked, and for a moment, the tension of the day seemed to lift.

You took a glass of champagne, even though you didn't really feel like celebrating. You stood near the edge of the room, watching the chaos unfold while trying to make yourself invisible.

Luke was on the other side of the room. He'd taken a club soda instead of champagne, and when Michael raised an eyebrow at him, he waved it off with a casual, "I'm driving."

You watched him, and for a moment, your eyes met across the room. His expression was unreadable — cold, distant, impossible to parse.

You looked away first.

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"Y/N." Mara's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She was standing next to you, her glass now empty and her expression serious. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

You followed her to a quiet corner of the room, your heart pounding.

"You did nothing wrong,” Mara said, her voice low. “This isn’t a lecture. This isn’t a scolding. It’s more like…I don’t know. I'm just going to say this once, and I need you to hear me."

You nodded, your throat tight.

"This tour is worth more than either of our careers combined," Mara said, her eyes steady on yours. "The band is worth more than either of our careers combined. And if anything — anything — turns into a headline that isn't about the music, we're all replaceable. Starting with you."

You felt the words land like a punch to the chest.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" Mara asked.

"Yes," you managed. "I understand."

"Good." Mara's expression softened, just slightly. "I'm not saying this to scare you. I'm saying it because I think you're talented. I think you have a lot of potential. I don't want to see you throw that away because of something stupid."

She walked away, leaving you standing in the corner, your champagne untouched.

You thought about Luke. About the coldness in his eyes. About the words he'd thrown at you like weapons.

You're a liability. You don't belong here. Do your job, not your fantasy.

You thought about Bobby. About the five years you'd spent feeling small. About the way he'd made you believe you were lucky to have him.

You thought about the coffee you'd left on your desk this morning. Untouched. Cold.

And then you thought about tomorrow.

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You left the office that night feeling hollow. You didn't have the energy to think about anything — not Luke, not Mara's warning, not the tour. You went back to your hotel room and collapsed, dreading the months ahead. 

But when you arrived at your desk the next morning, something was different.

A coffee sat in the center of your workspace: a cardboard cup, the kind from the café down the street, with someone’s writing scribbled on the side in sharp, jagged letters.

You stared at it for a long moment, your heart pounding.

You hadn't ordered coffee.

You hadn't even been in the office yet.

You picked up the cup, the coffee still warm.

Massachusetts.

The handwriting on the cup was familiar. You'd seen it before — on a note in the office, on documents you’d signed when you accepted the job offer, and on the signed CD’s back at your childhood home. It was a signature that had been burned into your memory since you were seven years old.

You swallowed hard. The anger from the day before was still there, simmering beneath the surface. But underneath the anger, something else was stirring — something you didn't want to name.

You took a sip of the coffee. It was black, with just a hint of sugar. Exactly how you liked it. You set the cup down and stared at it, your mind racing.

You didn't know what it meant.

You didn't know if you wanted to find out.

But you couldn't stop thinking about it. The way the coffee tasted. The way the handwriting had looked. The way your heart had skipped a beat when you realized who had left it there.

This tour is worth more than either of our careers combined.

You picked up the cup and took another sip.

If anything turns into a headline...

You set the cup down and opened your laptop.

We're all replaceable. Starting with you.

You started working. You didn't think about Luke. You didn't think about the coffee. You told yourself you didn't.

You were lying.

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