Backstage was chaos — the kind of chaos only found in arenas hours before a career-defining concert.
Wires snaked across the floor like veins in a steel giant's heart. Crew members barked into radios. Screens flickered. LED lights danced across the stage as tech engineers fine-tuned last-minute sequences. The air smelled of sweat, adrenaline, and heated metal.
And at the center of the storm stood Mark Gibbons — 40 years old, thick-necked, sharp-eyed, a former marine turned tour manager, hired personally by Jessica for this very moment.
He wasn't just barking orders — he was conducting a symphony of panic.
"This isn't a goddamn county fair — this is the milestone show!" Mark shouted, voice slicing through the noise like a whip. "We've got Lucian flying in, UMG's entire board, Spotify execs, the fucking CEO of Spotify Music in the fourth row — this needs to run cleaner than a military drill!"
He spun on his heel, pointing to a young production assistant nervously holding a clipboard. "Double-check Eminem and 50 are locked in. I want eyes on them. They're coming in after the sixth track — after — not before, not some 'Oops, I thought I was up.' You got that?"
"Yes, sir!" the assistant stammered, nearly dropping his tablet as he scrambled away.
Mark turned again, now yelling into his headset. "And remind them — it's the new track. Not River, not some nostalgia shit — this is a rollout moment. We need that beat clean. Soundcheck better not be off by even a breath."
Across the floor, lighting techs scrambled up scaffolding. Stagehands rolled out reinforced platforms while a drone rig hovered above the stage, finalizing camera paths for the global livestream. On giant monitors backstage, a map of the arena lit up in sections — seat blocks turning green as attendees filed in.
Mark pushed past two crew members arguing about cable placements, muttering under his breath, "Jesus Christ, what are we, amateurs?"
He stopped dead in his tracks and bellowed again.
"WHO'S HANDLING THE FIRST DUET?!"
A voice answered back over the headset, "Still marked 'confidential artist.'"
"I know that," Mark growled. "I'm asking — is her seating linked to the goddamn stage like we discussed? This is a surprise reveal — she needs to be visible but not obvious. Get her seated dead center, aisle four, row one, and connect her block to the stage extension. Seamless reveal or we're fucked."
"Yes, sir. Adjusting now."
He exhaled heavily, then scanned the clipboard in his hand. His eyes darted down the current setlist — then narrowed sharply.
"Why the hell is Chris Brown still on this run sheet?"
A production manager hesitated. "We haven't gotten a reply from his team but thought—"
"Cancel him." Mark's voice was like a hammer now. "Pull him. He's not responding, he's not performing. This isn't amateur hour. Replace his slot with Dusk Till Dawn. Confirmed?"
"She agreed," someone chimed in.
"Then do it." Mark turned sharply. "Call Taylor. Now. Give her the courtesy. Let her know we are using her duet with Ethan. We're not blindsiding her on show time. Confirm that vocal alignment is still clean and push her slot up by four minutes to cover the transition."
He kept walking, still talking — more to himself now than anyone else.
"Every goddamn detail has to be perfect. This isn't just another stadium show — this is the show. The one they'll talk about for the next ten years. The one that justifies the billion-dollar number that's gonna hit the press tomorrow morning."
A team of dancers ran past, late for a final rehearsal. Mark pointed toward them, eyes burning with urgency.
"Make sure the LED runway triggers on beat for Ethan's walkout. And triple-check the timing on the flame bursts — if I see a single off-cue fire jet, I swear I'll burn this whole fucking stage down myself."
He paused for breath, sweat beading along his forehead. His eyes scanned the stage one more time.
"Lucian, Scooter, Apple execs, Live Nation — everyone's here. This is the night we prove that Ethan isn't just a fluke. He's the future. And if this show doesn't feel like a coronation, then we've failed."
He looked around the room again, this time quieter — more dangerous.
"So don't fail."
Not far from the swirling chaos where Mark was orchestrating the operation like a war general, stood Ethan Jones—at the center of his own miniature storm.
His face was completely covered by a steaming mask, hot vapor swirling upward in silky streams, fogging slightly in front of him like a personal weather system. The faint hum of the portable steamer filled the air around him, giving off a sterile, almost surgical hiss. The purpose was simple: preserve his vocals, protect his throat, and prep him for one of the most important performances of his life.
He was entirely surrounded, encased by a circle of five people who moved around him like pit crew mechanics servicing a million-dollar Formula 1 car.
Doug, his assistant, was right in his ear—chatting away, rambling like always, voice buzzing through the haze of steam. He held a laminated setlist, flipping through it as if Ethan could even see it through the fog.
"—so after the surprise duet, you got the acoustic break, we cut Chris' spot and slotted Dusk Till Dawn right after that. Then it's straight into the triple combo: Riptide,Sing, and the new drop with Em and 50—clean, no delays. We're bulletproof on this now, E. Bulletproof."
Next to him, Wisdom Kaye—his personal stylist, precision embodied—stood focused, hands in constant motion. As Ethan stood statue-still, Wisdom slid different jackets on and off his frame with surgical efficiency, evaluating how each one fell under the arena lights, checking fabrics against live camera feeds.
"Nope… no… yes… better," Wisdom muttered to himself, swapping garments rapidly. "The shoulders work better on this one. Cuts cleaner. The silhouette's stronger on camera, more cinematic. This is arena couture, baby. Five hundred million-dollar gross deserves nothing less."
Behind them, hair stylists and grooming assistants fine-tuned the smallest details — a strand here, a shine there. The air was electric, filled with the urgency only mega-stardom breeds.
Ethan couldn't speak — the steaming mask muffled any attempt. But his sharp eyes, calm yet observant, scanned the room as everything unfolded. His gaze landed on Mark, still barking orders like a field commander. For a moment, Ethan tried to catch Mark's attention, but the man was too locked in.
So instead, Ethan subtly shifted his eyes toward Rebecca, who stood a few feet away deep in conversation with her assistants — Bella, the former superfan now fully integrated into the team, and Kiesha, the new hire still adjusting to the high-wire act of managing one of the biggest stars in the world.
Ethan gently raised his free hand, motioning with two fingers — signaling her. She caught it instantly.
Rebecca excused herself, weaving through the maze of assistants and wires until she reached him. She leaned in, voice low but urgent.
"Jessica and Bill—and his son—they're on their way, Ethan. I was about to go bring them in. Is there anything wrong?"
Ethan, unable to speak, slipped his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants with one hand. He held it up to Rebecca, the screen glowing as he presented her a message.
She squinted at the tiny text and immediately frowned. "This font you use," she groaned with a smile, squinting closer until the letters finally settled into focus. Her lips moved as she read aloud: "Ethan, I'm on my way. Bringing friends."
Rebecca's eyes widened slightly. "Is that Precious?" she asked.
Ethan nodded once, deliberate.
Rebecca smiled reassuringly, her voice soft but firm. "Don't worry. I'll inform Mark. Your sister and her friends will be taken care of. Promise."
Ethan nodded again, his silent way of showing gratitude.
She patted his arm lightly before turning around. With authority in her voice, she called out across the room, "Mark!"
Immediately Mark snapped his head in her direction as she started making her way toward him.
The moment she left, Wisdom clapped his hands sharply, signaling his part was finished. "Okay—done!" he declared with satisfaction.
Doug followed up almost like they had rehearsed it. "And it's time, sir. You can remove the steamer."
Ethan finally reached up, carefully lifting the mask off his face. A thick plume of warm vapor escaped as he exhaled sharply, feeling the sudden rush of cool air hit his damp skin. His throat, freshly steamed, felt open, light, almost feather-soft. The pressure inside his sinuses released like a valve opening. His first words were half-groan, half-relief.
"Oooh, thank God," he muttered, flexing his jaw gently as the cool oxygen rushed down into his lungs.
As he adjusted his posture, Wisdom stepped forward, hands adjusting the collar of the perfectly tailored jacket now hugging Ethan's frame.
"This is it, E," Wisdom said, grinning. "This fit is worthy of what you've built. Five hundred million dollars — and counting. Every frame of tonight will scream historic."
Ethan glanced down at the sharp lines of the fabric, then back at Wisdom with a genuine, appreciative smile.
"You outdid yourself, Wisdom. Thanks, man."
"No problem, boss. My job is to make you look like the billion-dollar brand you are."
At that moment, Bella and Kiesha approached, both holding their phones up, faces bright and full of excitement.
"Okay, okay, Ethan—time for your socials," Bella said, bouncing slightly on her feet. "Let's give them some pre-show hype."
"Yeah!" Kiesha chimed in, positioning her camera. "Smile first. Just a simple grin for the story. Perfect. Now give us a little 'big night' energy. Say something to the fans, you know the drill."
Ethan, well-practiced at this part, flashed a wide grin into the camera.
"Biggest night of my life," he said smoothly. "We about to make history. Love all of y'all."
"Perfect!" Bella squealed. "Okay — now point to the stage behind you like 'this is where it happens.'"
Ethan raised his hand, pointing dramatically as the stage lights flashed in the distance, the arena behind him buzzing like a live volcano about to erupt.
Bella and Kiesha both beamed as they stopped recording, immediately typing captions and hashtags, prepping the clips for instant upload to millions of fans watching from around the world
Then, almost instantly, the two girls—Bella and Kiesha—burst into rapid-fire chatter, their voices overlapping in a flurry of unfinished sentences, shorthand, and that fast-moving rhythm only women who've worked and bonded under pressure can pull off.
"We should def—"
"Yeah, post it under the tour tag and—"
"No, no—use the sound from the last venue, you know the one where—"
"Yes! The scream part, exactly—"
"And I'll overlay the caption like 'When he says biggest night of his life 😭💍'—"
"That'll kill on TikTok—minimum half a million, minimum—"
"And maybe tag Vogue or Complex, get cross-platform traction we can also get teh other stars to help us market it like billie, Taylor the stars he is close with—"
"Let's do a behind-the-scenes reel next. With voiceover."
In their hands, Ethan wasn't just a megastar. He was digital gold. Clicks, engagement, virality — it was all part of the machinery now. Every movement mattered.
But before they could even hit "post," a poised woman in sleek black heels and a tailored blazer stepped through the bustle, as if the noise parted just for her.
"Ethan?" she called out warmly, her voice smooth, professional, but edged with that unmistakable thrill of access.
She extended a hand, smile bright and polished. "Talia Monroe. Vogue Hommes. Can we grab a quick word about the tour? I mean, you've grossed over half a billion in ticket sales... in two months. That's not just music. That's movement."
Ethan, gracious and trained, stepped forward with the practiced poise of someone used to making headlines without losing his soul.
Cut to the tail end of their brief interview — a camera rolling just out of frame, a soft light casting gentle shadows on Ethan's face.
"It's never just me," Ethan said, his voice warm, humble. "This isn't a solo act. What you're seeing out there? That's the result of people who don't sleep, who fight for every detail. The stagehands, the stylists, the tech guys, the writers, my team, my band—everyone. This is our product. Not mine. Ours."
Talia gave a soft laugh, nodding as she closed her notepad. "Well said. Final question—what does this tour mean to you, in one sentence?"
Ethan smiled, just a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. "It means... I didn't come this far just for the view. This is only the beginning."
Just then, Doug popped his head through the door, knocking lightly on the metal frame. "Ethan — we're on. You gotta get in place."
Ethan turned back to Talia, clasping her hand again. "Thanks for your time. Really. And stay for the show, yeah?"
She chuckled, already slipping her notepad into her bag. "Oh, I wasn't going to miss it. Front row. And off the record? My son would never forgive me."
She gave him a wink as she stepped back into the crowd, disappearing into the sea of bodies and voices.
Ethan exhaled as the world shifted again. Suddenly, a team of sound engineers and assistants swarmed him, moving with military precision. Someone clipped the mic wire behind his ear, another checked his in-ear monitors. The soft static hum clicked on.
"You're hot in three," said one.
"Check comms — confirm audio feed to FOH."
"Mic's live. We're patched in."
"Kill any interference on channel two."
Mark's voice cut through it all — not yelling this time, but commanding.
"Everyone is in. Executives. Influencers. Producers. The sponsors are seated. Even the YouTube team's here to film exclusive cuts."
Then Ethan turned slightly, pulling at the cable near his neck. "What about Precious? My sister. She's inside, right?"
Mark paused, for just a second too long.
"Everything's sorted now. She's inside."
That word — now — made something freeze in Ethan's chest. He locked eyes with Mark.
"What do you mean sorted now? What happened?"
Before Mark could respond, another staffer rushed up, clipboard in hand. "Ethan — they're calling for you. Curtain's ready to go up. We're behind."
Mark stepped closer, pressing a hand to Ethan's shoulder. "She's fine. I promise. You need to go. Right now."
Ethan didn't answer immediately. His face tightened. A flicker of something sharp crossed his features — worry, doubt, the feeling of losing control just before the plunge.
They began gently but firmly guiding him toward the stage entrance. He was led through a narrow black tunnel, the crowd's roar vibrating faintly through the walls like a distant avalanche.
He was surrounded by tech, bodies, voices, lights — but still very much alone.
In the darkness, just before the spotlights hit, he stood in a small, closed-off prep box. He could hear the stage manager calling out cues over the earpiece, the rumble of tens of thousands of fans waiting on the other side of the curtain. But his thoughts were elsewhere.
Was she okay? What happened before? Why didn't anyone tell me?
He clenched his fists, closing his eyes for a second, breathing out.
"Ethan," he whispered to himself. "Later. Focus. The show."
He looked up.
The crowd, as he stepped out, hit him like a wave. A cavernous sea of 60,000 people — an ocean of lights, arms, faces. The entire arena was swallowed in darkness, pierced only by spotlights that made it feel as though the whole universe had tilted its gaze toward him.
He scanned the audience quickly, eyes darting — looking for her. One face in the storm.
He didn't see her.
Just before the music started, he stepped forward into the beam of light, eyes narrowed, heart pounding.
He leaned toward the mic.
And whispered into the silence—
"Hello.''