She expected disgust. Instead, Master reached across the table and turned her clenched fist over, gently, until her palm faced up. He didn’t hold it. He just exposed it.

"Okay," Kylie said. And for the first time in years, she didn’t hear a performance in her voice.

Kylie’s throat tightened. Her real name—the one on her birth certificate—felt like a stone she’d swallowed years ago. Kylie Quinn was the stage name, the armor, the glittering cage she’d built hit by hit, scandal by scandal. But tonight, she wasn’t here as the pop star with four platinum records and a reputation for chaos. Tonight, she was here to confess.

"Why now, Kylie?"

...