1. All Love Bears a Cost

Honolulu, Oahu

Hawaii

The forecast had called, as it often did in Honolulu, for scattered showers. But by midafternoon, luck had pushed the warm rains further up the island of Oahu, and instead the skies over Waikiki Beach were dappled with cotton clouds against the late summer blue. The winds were gentle and humid, the ocean changing colors under the shifting sunshine like a mercurial gemstone, from deep jade to a turquoise so searing that the water looked artificial.

It was the perfect day for the interview of the year, and the crowd that had gathered around the stage set up on the sand was frantic. Now and then, excited cheers pulsed through them, like ripples that originated with the boy seated at the center of the stage, his figure shaded under a translucent white canopy, one of his legs crossed casually over the other.

He was dressed in a pale collared shirt and shorts, and smelled like sunscreen, citrus, and salt wind. His hair was thick and messy, so pitch-black that it shone blue under the sun, and his eyes, dark and slender behind a pair of aviators, currently expressed a mixture of politeness and discomfort as he stared at his interviewer.

Winter Young, the most famous superstar in the world, had only agreed to this interview for the sake of his manager, Claire, who'd had to deal with star reporter Evelyn Dace for a year as she tried to nab Winter for a proper interview.

Now the reporter leaned forward from the chair opposite Winter, her green eyes fixed so intently on him that he felt like she could see into his very marrow. He kept his face calm, his own gaze steady and unwavering, a quiet challenge in return.

"Tell me," Evelyn began in a gentle yet patronizing tone. "Are you currently dating anyone?"

Claire had, as usual, given her a list of approved questions in addition to topics they were to avoid at all costs, but Evelyn had strayed from the list early on—first a pointed comment about Winter's diet (he didn't have one), then an off-the-cuff remark about his close relationships with his backup dancers. Now this. Winter could feel the heat rising at his collar, but he couldn't give her the satisfaction of a response.

So instead, he offered Evelyn a demure, practiced smile and pushed the sleeves of his shirt higher, exposing more of the tattoos decorating his forearms. "Not right now," he said. "I've been too busy with the new album to date."

Instead of taking his hint to steer the conversation back to the album, the reporter just looked down at her notes slyly, as if she knew there was more Winter wasn't letting on. "Come now, Winter. You've been dropping hints in all your new tracks."

He shrugged. "Every artist is inspired by life. And love is one of life's greatest inspirations," he said, and scattered shrieks came from the crowd.

Evelyn smiled at that, nodding at the career highlights reel playing on the screen behind them. Winter watched the footage of himself as a fourteen-year-old boy, long and lanky like an unsteady colt, newly famous and petrified of crowds, stepping out onto the stage of an arena for the first time.

Sometimes he forgot how young he was when he began this wild journey. Years later, he still found it strange to look back.

"This is my very first concert," the past version of himself said shyly in the video, offering the crowd his famous, secret smile. And the audience went wild.

Winter glanced away from the screen and back at Evelyn, who had crossed her arms. "Some people say that you've reached a renaissance in your work," she said. "Bolder melodies and complex lyrics hinting at new secrets."

"Are you some people?"

"Sure. Let's say I am."

He took the opportunity to steer the topic back to his album. "Then thank you," he replied. "There are a lot of tracks I'm excited to share. I hope others can relate—"

The reporter interrupted him. "It seems fairly obvious your growth isn't just random. You really expect us to believe you don't have some new passion—new love—inspiring you?" She was not letting him go easily. "What really changed—or better yet, who changed you?"

Sydney Cossette.

Her name sprang unbidden to Winter's mind, and he had to force himself to keep his expression neutral.

Sometimes Winter forgot that, for a month, he had been an actual secret agent.

Sometimes, what happened last year—that he'd been recruited to work undercover for an intelligence agency called the Panacea Group to help take down a billionaire tycoon—still seemed like a fever dream. Sometimes he forgot that the girl who'd posed as his bodyguard back then was really a secret agent assigned to be his partner.

Sydney Cossette.

If only they'd given in to being so much more.

They'd hated each other at first, and then they'd become allies. And then… well, they'd had a moment with each other that went beyond friendship. And now it didn't matter, because they'd probably never see each other again.

His thoughts about her had been hourly for the first few weeks after he left London to recuperate fully at home, sometimes so overpowering that he could barely bring himself to get out of bed. But now they had faded to something manageable, the image of her small, fierce face framed with blond hair pushed inevitably aside for the crowd of concerts and parties and banquets and galas and interviews that all came back with regular force once he returned to his work.

Sometimes he forgot entirely, and that strange world felt so distant that he wondered if perhaps he had imagined the whole thing.

But sometimes he would walk past a cobblestone street or a quiet, hedged garden. Sometimes he would see an elegant bridge or a particular frame of airplane. Sometimes he would see a messy blond bob in the crowd. And those thoughts would return to his mind.

She would return.

He coped the only way he knew how: by writing. For the past half year, he'd written music like a boy possessed, gotten out some of the best songs of his life, filled an entire stack of little notebooks that sat teetering on his work desk at home. It felt like a guiding light had switched on in his mind, and all he had to do was follow it and the notes would come pouring out of him.

He snapped back to the present, waving at the crowd by way of answering the reporter's question. Cheers momentarily drowned out anything and everything.

He smiled at them again before turning back to the reporter. "I've just been grateful lately," he said. "Any romance in my new lyrics is inspired by that, by gratitude for what my fans have given me. That's it."

Evelyn's jaw tightened slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. Winter's eyes darted for a moment to Claire, who was standing at the edge of the stage with her arms crossed, her lips flattened into a line. Their eyes met, and she gave him a near-imperceptible shake of her head.

Hang in there,she seemed to say. Time's almost up.

"That's a lovely statement," Evelyn said, her gentle smile so professional that it grated on Winter's nerves. "There's been a real sense of joy in your recent music, nevertheless. Perhaps you've been able to put aside some of the tragedies in your past. Would you say that's true?"

Winter stiffened, holding back a sigh of frustration. She was really going there. "What do you mean?" he said.

"Tell me about your brother," she said. "It's common knowledge that his death has always loomed large in your life, yes?"

Artie.

Off in the corner, Winter could hear the unmistakable hiss of Claire taking a sharp breath. He didn't need to look at her to know she was furious at this question.

"Yes," he answered curtly. "Of course."

"Have you found a way to move on from that loss?"

Had he? For a moment, Winter imagined that he wasn't sitting in this interminable interview, but wandering along the edge of the ocean in Santa Monica beside his older brother, twelve years apart in age, fathered by different men but united by the same mother.

Look,Artie had said on that misty morning. An unbroken shell.

He leaned down to pick up a pristine, pink-tinted clamshell, then washed it in the tide before handing it to Winter. Toss it back in the ocean and make a wish, he'd said.

Is that a thing?Winter had replied.

Artie had laughed and mussed up Winter's hair. You can make it a thing.

So Winter had tossed it into the sea and wished to be famous, to be loved by his mother, to be remembered by somebody.

He should have wished instead for Artie to stay alive.

The memory faded. "You don't ever move on from a death," Winter answered calmly. "You just find better ways of coping."

"You've managed to replace the grief in your past with love, then."

"Grief is love. It's the price we pay for the gift of someone meaningful in our lives." They should be nearly at the hour mark. Almost done.

The reporter seemed to hear something in her earpiece. She paused, listening.

Then her eyes darted to Winter, and a look of what Winter could only describe as gleeful anticipation came across her face. She nodded. "Now, my sources say that a major publisher has just announced a tell-all book about you, to be released in the fall of this year. Any comment?"

Winter's polite smile faltered at the same time the crowd let out a chorus of confused murmurs, then gasps. He must have heard her wrong. Behind Evelyn, he saw Claire staring down at her phone with an expression of growing horror. The news must have broken right in the middle of his interview.

Evelyn seemed to catch the crack in his fa?ade, because a gleam came into her eyes. "This is a surprise to you, I see."

A tell-all. Who would write an unauthorized tell-all about him?

Say something,he told himself harshly. "That rumor's new to me," he answered out loud.

She nodded with false sympathy and leaned toward him, her guise of concern still on her face. "I'm sorry to catch you off guard, as I thought you were already aware of it. No one has announced the author of the book yet. Perhaps you know?"

"I don't," he heard himself say stiffly, but the words sounded like they came from someone else. His eyes darted to Claire, who was now arguing with one of the producers. When the man shook his head at her, a look of fury crossed her face.

"Could it be someone you know well? A family member?" the reporter pressed.

"I don't know," Winter repeated.

"Winter," the woman said in a gentle, coaxing voice. "Tell me about your mother."

His mother?

"Are you implying that she wrote this?" he said.

"Absolutely not." Evelyn lifted her hands in innocence. "But the nature of the book feels like an inside source. Perhaps someone close, familial. I've heard you've had a rather contentious relationship with your mother. Is that true?"

"I'm not going to answer that," he said, his voice tight. "And nothing anyone has to say in a book about me will be a surprise to the public."

But Evelyn's words had already planted seeds of doubt in his mind. Could it be his mother? Had some company called her, talked her into doing it? Had she neglected to tell him? She had done unauthorized magazine interviews that had approached her, had once given away one of his school notebooks for an auction without telling him, the contents of which were then spread everywhere online. The thought was too much to handle, at least in a setting like this, with thousands of eyes fixed on him and the shine of a Hawaiian afternoon suddenly much too warm.

He needed to get off this stage. He needed to escape.

The reporter's sweet, sympathetic expression soured to a grimace. "You once considered ending your career early in your first year in order to take care of your mother while she suffered a mental health crisis. Isn't that right?"

At that, Winter snapped. He moved as if through a dream, suddenly rising from his chair and stripping the microphone from his collar, yanking the device's wire out of his clothes. The clip fell from his side and onto the wooden stage with a hollow clank.

Down in the sand at the side of the stage, Claire nodded at him and made a circular motion with her finger.

Let's go,she mouthed at him.

The audience stirred, murmuring at the commotion. The reporter's smile wavered. She'd pushed him too far, and her demeanor quickly changed again, turning na?ve and bewildered. "Mr. Young," she said, "we are happy to move on to a different topic if that's more comfortable for you—"

"Sorry." It took the last of Winter's media training to utter the simple apology to her. Then he looked straight at the camera and said it again, this time sincerely. "I'm sorry, everyone." Then he walked off the stage.

The beach around him was a blur. On the sand, fans shrieked and reached for him, eagerly snapping photos as he strolled past, and he managed a smile and a wave for them before he reached Claire. She looped a hand through his arm as bodyguards moved into formation around them, guiding them along the path that led back to the main walkway where his car was waiting. Behind them, the producer tried to call them back to the stage, but Claire just lifted a middle finger over her head without looking back. Already, clusters of onlookers had started to shift toward his car, waves of excited screams accompanying them.

"I'll take care of it," Claire whispered as they climbed into the car. "I promise. Don't waste your time worrying."

He looked at her. His jaw clenched, his entire body still tingling with anger from Evelyn's final question. "But is the rumor true?" he asked quietly.

Claire gave him a rare, pitying look. He knew that could only mean one thing.

"We'll talk about it later. This is an invasion of privacy on a gross scale. We'll sue everyone for all they're worth, and we'll win. Evelyn. The publisher. The author, whoever it is."

Winter nodded numbly without believing her, felt his heart sink as the car pulled away. So, the book news was true. He hated to admit it, but all he could think about was the only suspect: his mother. And the possibility that she might have, once again, but as always, wounded him deeply. Likely without even realizing it.

Because it didn't matter that millions of people around the world knew Winter's name, that they followed his every move, that they said they loved him. No one did so for free. To everyone, even his own mother, he wasn't a real person—just a product to be used.

And products were easily discarded.

Getting back to his hotel felt like an eternal voyage. The crowd along the beach had been roused into a frenzy at his sudden departure, fans intermixed with paparazzi all crowding around the car, their questions muffled by the window glass into an incoherent mess. Winter hid behind his shades and gave them all a tense wave as his driver inched and honked his way through the crowd. At last, they reached the barricades lining the road, and the commotion fell away into the rhythmic sound of tires against pavement.

"We're never returning to that show," Claire hissed beside him as she typed madly into her phone. "I'm sorry I ever arranged it."

"It's Evelyn Dace," Winter replied tiredly. "Of course we were going to say yes."

She tensed her jaw, teeth grinding. "Do you know what that producer said to me when I told them to cut the interview? ‘Think of all the headlines after this airs.' The audacity. Like we're the ones who need headlines. And after that mistreatment?" She cut off, her eyes flashing. "I'll take care of it," she vowed again.

In spite of everything, Winter couldn't help smiling a little at her fury. No one did revenge like Claire. "Don't go after her entire family, now."

"Oh, I'm sparing nothing and nobody. I'm already emailing the head of the network and now I'm texting Stevenson over at Hearst to tear Evelyn a new one. She'll be lucky to keep her position after I'm done with her."

"She was just doing her job."

"And I'm doing mine." Claire looked up at him briefly over her phone. "Believe me, the publisher is going to get a very strongly worded letter from our lawyers. If they don't want to get themselves caught in legal hell, they're going to think twice about releasing this book. Oh, and I'm also sending Evelyn a very special gift basket."

Winter closed his eyes and groaned. "Claire."

"Don't worry. It'll have her favorite sugared almonds with a card that plays an excruciatingly loud song when opened and has a battery that's impossible to remove. And glitter. A gallon of glitter."

Winter laughed and shook his head at her, then closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"I'm really sorry, Winter," Claire said, her voice quieter now.

"It's okay." He didn't even feel angry anymore, or nauseous, or anxious. He was just tired, and all he wanted was room service and the cold comfort of an unfamiliar hotel bed. Outside his tinted window, he could still see clusters of fans on the occasional street corner, framed before the majestic green slope of Diamond Head in the background, cheering as his entourage passed by.

His phone continued to buzz nonstop. He glanced at it wearily and caught a glimpse of the messages from his friends Dameon and Leo, who had been texting him in their group chat before the broadcast even began.

r u ok

Leo's icon was that of a brown-skinned boy with a grin almost too large for the rest of his features, his light brown curls a wild frame around his face.

Of course he's not okay, do you need to ask

Dameon's icon was entirely opposite in mood—a side profile of a Black boy with long dreads and a serious expression, looking out at a cityscape from a hiking trail.

just asking. that was awful

not you, the interview lady. you just looked unhappy

Leo wow stop

stopping

anyway Winter I'm at Bloom later tonight, come grab drinks and forget this mess

yall are going to Bloom?

Best club in the city with food

i'm jealous, sigh. drink an extra shot for me

Wish you were here, Leo

Their texts went on and on. Winter could almost hear them in his head, bickering as they always did during their rehearsals since they began as his backup dancers at the beginning of his career. Technically, they were still with him because he paid their salaries, but they had also become like his brothers, his second family and closest friends.

But only Dameon was here in Honolulu with him this time. After what had happened in London last year, Leo had taken a sabbatical to rest at home with his family. The memory still triggered Winter's guilt. Leo wouldn't have been in that situation, had it not been for Winter. And Leo deserved to recover, although Winter missed his friend sorely.

But at least Dameon was still here. Maybe Winter could use some company tonight, could vent about the day with him and laugh over a few drinks.

I'm ok,he texted back. Heading back now.

Then he put his phone down and closed his eyes. He should try to call his mother, ask her about the book directly. But right now, he didn't have the strength. All he wanted to do was shut down.

He turned his phone over idly and nudged a finger under the rubber case, touching the edge of a business card he always kept tucked inside.

It was a card for the Claremont Hotel in Saint Paul, Minnesota, one of the finest luxury stays in the city. But Winter knew what the business card was really for, that inside the hotel hid the headquarters of the Panacea Group, the place where he first met Sydney. As they often did, he found his thoughts wandering back to her. What she might be doing. Where in the world she might be. What dangerous mission she might be on without him.

If you're ever in need of help,Sydney had said to him, call us.

He'd memorized the number, even though he'd never used it. For the past year, he had been searching for every excuse in the world to dial that number and get patched through to Panacea, hoping for another chance to dip his toe back into that secret world, fantasizing that the person who picked up on the other end would be Sydney.

Laughable, of course. Why would they ever need him again? He was nothing but an entertainer. The mission he'd been sent on had been an unusual, once-in-a-blue-moon kind of situation. He would probably never see Sydney again. Panacea would never contact him again. That was just the way it would be, and the sooner he accepted that, the better.

By the time they arrived at the hotel, the sun had lowered enough to touch the water, and the entire sky was a rainbow of setting colors against gathering clouds, foreshadowing warm rains later in the night. Winter could feel himself crashing, his emotions turning ever inward.

"I'll have some tea sent to your room," Claire said as the elevator stopped on his floor. "Jasmine, decaf, no sugar, two kettles of water. You just get some rest, okay?"

Winter nodded as the elevator doors slid open. He stepped out.

"Good night, Claire," he said over his shoulder.

"Good night, Winter," she answered, already back on her phone.

He walked down the hall toward his suite. After the chaos at the beach, he should have been happier about being left alone—but as he went, he felt the empty air close in around him, thick and suffocating. He couldn't muster the energy to hang out with Dameon right now, and yet he didn't know where to put the anxiety that now thrummed within him.

Sure, Dameon and Claire could listen to his woes, could sympathize, but no one could truly understand the strange path he walked, or feel the same fears that now swirled inside him.

Wasn't all this what he wanted? Wasn't he so lucky? Hadn't he once been poor and forgotten, hungering for affection every day of his life? A hunger so deep that even a stadium filled with fans couldn't sate it? Didn't he crave the attention?

No, it wasn't the attention he needed. It was the love. He just wanted to create something and know that it mattered to someone, that he mattered. That maybe someone, somewhere was listening to his work, nodding along to the words, feeling something real. He just wanted to make things that made people happier, wanted to close his eyes in a stadium and hear the voices of fifty thousand souls all singing along. But he didn't know how to get that without also getting this—the salacious rumors, the invasive questions, the cruel articles full of false information, the microphones shoved in his face.

No one knew what it was like to keep an entire life bottled up for fear of it getting out to the public, what it was like to sit on the floor of a hotel room and hesitate to call his own mother, just in case she might leak his words to the press.

No, that wasn't entirely true. Sydney knew. Sydney would understand that.

When she was in his life, he'd felt like, finally, someone understood the most misunderstood parts of him, without him ever saying any of it aloud. Someone had been with him and seen him for who he truly was. And then she had vanished without a trace.

Maybe it was for the best. While he was here, doing trivial interviews about nothingness, she was out saving the world, without a single person applauding her. Maybe he didn't deserve her, anyway.

His mind was still on Sydney when he turned the corner and saw a girl standing outside the door to his penthouse suite.

His heart jumped.

Sydney? Could it be?

But then the silhouette turned, and he recognized the figure with a sinking feeling. How did she get up here past the security?

She must have just come from a party—under her trench coat glittered a silver dress that winked at him as she moved. Her hair was pinned up in pretty brown waves, a loose tendril grazing the side of her face. And those eyes—just like how he remembered them. She looked as lovely as she had the final time he put his arms around her waist and she whispered his name the way only she knew how.

That was before their tumultuous breakup. Before she broke his heart for the dozenth time.

She was the last person he needed to see right now.

At the sight of him standing there, frozen, she smiled, pushed away from the wall, and sauntered over to him.

"Well, Winter," said Gavi Ginsburg. "You've certainly looked better."