Chapter 1

Delia exhaledin relief as the final chords of her guitar quivered in the air. The crowd in front of her—directly in front of her, since the stage was only six inches off the main floor of the makeshift theatre—erupted as the strings still buzzed against her fingertips. Not with the fervour you"d see at a Mother Mother or Drake concert or something, but with more energy than she"d ever anticipated after an acoustic set.

She"d spent the past three years playing dive bars, open mic nights, and house parties before signing last summer with IndieLake Records. Since then, her professional life had gotten a full-on glow-up. She"d played shows across the country with full bands, larger venues and stadiums, and yet these simple evenings with just her and her guitar were still her favourite.

Delia closed her eyes and let the applause wash over her, then slipped the strap over her head and gripped her guitar as she gave one final wave, blew a kiss, and made her way backstage.

"Great set, babe." Her best friend and manager, Mary, gave her a side hug. Delia collapsed against her. Every time she walked from the spotlight into the darkness between the curtains, it was like a switch inside her body flipped. She was done. She could throw on a sweatshirt, flop onto a couch in the green room, and introvert for as long as she wanted.

Mary knew the drill. She wiped Delia"s shoulder sweat from her palm onto her pants as they walked to the stairs.

Delia plucked out her earpieces. "Enthusiastic crowd tonight."

Mary grinned, and it looked almost sinister in the shadows as they descended to the green room. "I knew this was a good idea. Tony wanted to book the Guilded Ballroom again, but I told him we needed a break from turn-of-the-century soundboards."

Delia nodded, her head still thrumming from the lights and the music pumping into her ears. It was quiet as they entered the room. Which was the cue for her internal thoughts to swell to the surface like sirens from the sea.

You missed this lyric on C"est un Fait.

Your voice cracked on the bridge for Shiny People.

Was that guy on the front row licking his lips purposefully whenever you looked at him?

Playing live was an existential trip. She lost track of time. Felt disconnected from her body, or sometimes slammed into it so fully, she couldn"t process anything outside of her breath. Her lips brushing the microphone. Her fingers on the guitar strings. Then, that reality warp was followed by an intense and almost debilitating deep dive into an anxious abyss.

Not that she was a stranger to that sensation. Her mind spun a thousand times a second on a regular Tuesday.

Delia had discovered in preschool that music was the trick to pulling all the wheels onto the tracks, and she'd played everything she could get her tiny hands on. Cutlery on pots. Her dad's old harmonica in its leather sleeve. A plastic toy piano her mom had spotted at a garage sale. She'd gotten her first guitar at age ten and had never looked back.

Signing with IndieLake was supposed to be the end of that journey. The tippy-top of her climb. She'd made it.

If only someone would've told her that getting a record deal meant you were automatically enrolled in a battle-to-the-death, king-of-the-hill competition. If death were the top of the music charts and the battle was misting her vocal cords and sitting in front of a microphone pop filter.

Still. The pressure to produce songs and shows that people loved seemed to gradually leech that old magic. Homeostasis required a regular supply of caffeine and a daily dose of ADHD medication.

Except when she wanted to create. Then she took neither.

"Dels?"

Delia"s head snapped up. "Hmm?"

Mary exhaled and held out the two tea packets. "Throat Coat or Echinacea?"

Delia pointed at the Throat Coat, then slumped onto the stool in front of the row of mirrors and exposed bulbs. "Thanks, Mary. Sorry, I"m out of it."

"When are you going to stop apologizing? You"re always dead inside after a show."

"I wish I wasn"t." Delia grabbed a makeup wipe and started scrubbing her face, pushing her auburn waves behind her ears. Shouldn't she be one of those singers who got amped after all the cheers? Who wanted to party, French kiss men she barely knew, and make headlines with her antics until the wee hours of the morning?

"It"s just who you are." Mary ripped open the packet of tea.

"But wouldn"t I be easier to work with if I was extroverted? Or, I don"t know, able to remember where I put my phone?"

"Did you lose it again?"

Delia gave her a guilty look as she swiped the wipe over her lips. "I thought it was down here on the counter, but now I"m wondering if I took it up and set it on that little table on stage right."

Mary laughed and poured hot water from the collapsible kettle she always brought to shows. She handed Delia the disposable coffee cup with the tea bag already steeping. "I"ll go check."

"I can?—"

"I"ll go."

Delia smiled weakly as Mary exited the room, then pulled on the string and watched the bag of herbs bob up and down in the steaming water, inhaling the scent of warm spice. Heels scraped on the wooden floor above them, and post-show music wafted through the vents.

If she had to guess, there had probably been five hundred people there, and ticket prices were fifty-five a piece. She wasn"t exactly sure what they"d contracted to pay the venue, but the last time they"d played there, it had been ten percent. Then they had to take out the production costs, advertising, and the contracted amount for IndieLake, which meant—if she'd done the math in her head right—she'd be left with around twelve grand personally. That she"d never see.

Not never. It only seemed like never since she was still hundreds of thousands of dollars away from earning out her advance. All of it had been her choice. When she"d met with IndieLake, she could"ve asked for a lower advance and higher royalty rates, but at the end of last summer, she"d been paying seven hundred a month for a shared room in a shitty apartment, and her mom didn"t have hot water.

Delia tossed the makeup wipe in the trash, then stood and wet her microfiber face cloth in the sink. She held the cloth over her eyes and let the hot water seep into her skin. That windfall of three hundred grand had given her the ability to buy a house and keep money in the bank so she could work full-time as an artist. No more working as an administrative assistant. All of that was beyond her wildest dreams, but the real win was having her mom move in with her. She didn't think she'd ever forget the look on her mom's face when she beheld her very own master bath.

Delia dropped the cloth just as Mary walked back into the room, holding out her phone. "Where was it?"

"On the floor next to the rat"s nest of electrical cords."

Delia"s memory snapped into focus. "I had to tie my shoe, I must have set it there." She reached out and took it, then swiped up to find two messages from Tony. Her brow furrowed.

"What does he want?" Mary asked.

"Emergency strategy session?"

"Like, tonight?"

Delia started texting. "I don"t know, he just . . ." she trailed off, not able to type and verbalize at the same time.

Finished. Show went well. When did you want to talk?

Within thirty seconds, a call came through from Tony"s number. She waved the screen at Mary, who nodded and motioned for her to answer.

Delia hit the green button, then immediately put her publicist on speakerphone. "Hey, Tony."

"Delia! Is Mary there?"

"Yep, right here. You're on speaker."

"Good show?"

Delia nodded. "Excellent. Crowd was great, and no dead mics, so win-win."

Tony chuckled. "Well, you"re probably halfway to sweatpants and donuts right now?—"

Delia frowned and gave Mary a look. Was that what Tony thought they did after shows? Donut shops weren't open at this time of night. Mary rolled her eyes.

"—but I was talking with the guys at IndieLake. I know you're concerned about promotion for the new album."

That was the understatement of 2024. Her music had gone viral on social media twice since the fall, each time catapulting her singles into the top ten in the Canadian charts, but then . . . nothing. No added media tours. No public appearances besides the previously scheduled shows. No contests or meet-and-greets.

It was like IndieLake had made the unilateral decision to collect regular checks from their various represented artists instead of trying to maximize any one of them. Her TikTok channel was the reason for the success of those singles, and that was her baby.

She could"ve done all of that without them.

It was not a thought that served her. Especially since it wasn't true. She couldn"t have bought her house without the advance, and that was what she"d needed at the time. A price had to be paid.

"What did they say?" Delia asked.

"Not much, besides the fact that they loved my new idea and were fully onboard as long as you were."

Delia shifted on the stool and flicked her eyes to Mary. What idea was he talking about? "I"m getting nervous, Tony."

He laughed. "No, it"s a good thing, I promise. Better than good, actually. Probably one of the best ideas I"ve ever had."

Delia"s stomach dropped. He was talking this up too much for it to be net positive. The last time he"d had one of his "best ideas," he"d convinced Mary to schedule her for a three-night stint at a casino outside of Orillia, Ontario that still allowed indoor smoking. She"d sounded like Marge Simpson for a week.

"Just spit it out." Delia set the phone on the counter and pulled her hair back with a clip.

"So, you know how certain pop stars and athletes have been making huge waves south of the border?"

"You can just say Taylor Swift."

"Right, I didn"t want to get political."

Mary threw out her hands with a What the hell is he talking about? look. Delia stifled a laugh.

"But it's a fantastic strategy for garnering insane press," Tony said.

Delia sighed. "Perfect, I"ll hit up one of those hot professional athletes lining up outside my venues that keep pestering me with friendship bracelets."

Mary snorted.

Tony sighed. "Ha. Ha. But no, you don"t need to find a professional athlete because I know one for you."

Delia froze. "Are you trying to set me up with one of your friends, Tony?"

"No! Hell, no. All of my friends need intensive therapy. This is more of an "I know of him" situation."

Delia scoffed and pulled her shirt over her head, then reached for her favourite combed-cotton hoodie. "You know of an athlete, and you want me to, what, call him up cold and see if he"ll date me for the press?"

"Exactly."

She threw her arms out in panic, and her head got stuck in the hood. As she scrambled to free herself, her clip flew off and shot toward Mary's head. She dodged, then picked it up and handed it back. Delia tsked. The clip had lost one of its teeth. "Hilarious, Tony, but I'm only twenty-five, and I"ve had enough blind date disasters to last a lifetime, thank you very much."

"That's the beauty of it. It wouldn"t be a date."

Delia frowned, reaching over to the sink to wet her hands and calm her hair now that it looked like it"d been rubbed by a balloon. "You want me to date an athlete, but have it not be a date?"

"Right."

Mary finally stepped in. "Tony, I know your mother tongue is the language of love, but right now you"re not making any damn sense."

Delia could hear his grin over the speaker. "You girls. My girls. I love how innocent you are." He clicked his tongue. "You do know it"s entirely possible to have a relationship with someone—an intimate, soul-crushing love affair—and have the entire thing be for show, right? Did you think that Carson Hart and Lady V were together when she went to the Olympics? Or Emelio Sebin and Carrie Law? Darius and both his girlfriends? Celine Dion and René?"

"I"m pretty sure they had kids togeth?—"

"Pshaw, all for show. It got them somewhere they couldn"t have reached by themselves. And you, my dear, need to climb."

Delia"s heart kicked into a gallop. Her dating life had been nonexistent the past six months, not only because she"d become more recognizable, but also because she"d sworn off all online dating after a guy she"d been talking to for three weeks turned out to be wanted in two states and their lovely province of Ontario for multiple felonies. Mary had helped her dodge that bullet.

Her instincts couldn"t be trusted. Plus, she enjoyed her quiet house far too much to sacrifice it for another blah night of superficial conversation. Which meant . . .

She tapped her fingers from pinky to pointer on the makeup counter. It was a good beat. The way it grew in volume from one end of her hand to the other. What was she thinking about? Delia retraced her mental steps.

Right. Tony. His new idea.

If she wanted her own time and online dating was her personal hell, then a fake relationship was kind of a perfect solution. Wasn't it? She wouldn"t have to talk to the guy outside of their arranged meet-ups. She wouldn't have to give up her nights at home, and Tony did have a point that love stories were selling big at the moment.

But who would have that kind of star power, and why would a guy like that be interested in her?

Delia sat back on the stool and crossed her arms over the counter. "Alright, Tony. I'm listening. Who is it?"