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Hell, I’m not sure there are any.

You hear stories.

You read things.

Whispers about producers and billionaires and the way people get treated when they become part of the entertainment machine.

So when I scan the crowd while the orchestra plays the opening chords and I see the way some of these men are looking at me?

Like I’m something to be owned instead of a person.

My stomach twists.

And suddenly I’m very, very glad Less is here.

Even if he’s the last person on earth I expected to see tonight.

Part of me wishes I was anywhere else.

Backstage.

Back in New York.

Back in my tiny apartment with a bowl of pasta and Netflix.

Anywhere but here.

But I’m a professional.

And being a stage actress—even a musical one—means acting.

So I do what I’ve been trained to do.

I perform.

I smile.

I let the music take over.

Song after song fills the arboretum, my voice echoing off the marble and glass until even the creepiest guys in the room forget to stare and just listen.

And when the final note fades?

The applause is thunderous.

The sound rolls over me like a wave.

I bow.

Once.

Twice.

And then—Mr. Carter appears out of nowhere.

He strides onto the stage like he owns it.

Which technically he does.