"You didn't have to do that," he says, washing his hands at the sink.
"I wanted to." I flip the bacon. "Contrary to what the tabloids might say, I actually know my way around a kitchen."
"The tabloids say otherwise?"
"The tabloids say a lot of things. That I'm a diva who requires only imported sparkling water and activated charcoal smoothies. That I have a personal chef who prepares all my meals according to my blood type and moon phase." I roll my eyes. "Apparently cooking your own breakfast is very off brand for a pop star."
He leans against the counter, watching me work. "What is on brand for you in the public eye?"
"Being mysterious. Unattainable. Sexually empowered but never actually seen dating anyone seriously. Strong female role model but also vulnerable enough that teenage girls identify with my struggles." I crack eggs into the pan. "It's a very specific tightrope to walk."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is." I focus on the eggs, not meeting his eyes. "Hence my recurring dream of just making everything stop. To walk away from all of it. Be nobody for a while."
"You could never be nobody," he says, and something in his tone makes me look up. He's watching me with an intensity that steals my breath. "No matter where you went or what you did."
"Because I'm too recognizable?"
"Because you're you."
The simple statement hits me harder than it should. As if he sees something essential in me outside of the fame or success or carefully cultivated image.
"You don't even know me," I say quietly.
"I know enough."
We fall into silence as I finish cooking, plates the food, and set it on the table. We eat without speaking, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something peaceful about sharing a meal without the pressure of conversation, without the need to perform or entertain.
"What's the plan for today?" I ask finally, as we finish eating.
"You need to learn the property. Security measures, escape routes, safe rooms. Standard protocol for high risk clients."
"High risk." I repeat the words, tasting their reality. "Sometimes I still can't believe this is happening. That someone hates me enough to want to hurt me."
"It's not about hate," Finn says, his voice gentler than I've heard it. "Most stalkers are motivated by obsession, not hatred.In their minds, they love you. They believe they have a special connection with you that no one else understands."
"That's worse somehow."
"Yes."
I push my plate away, appetite suddenly gone. "How do people live like this? Knowing someone is out there, watching, and waiting."
"Most don't have to." Finn stands and takes our plates to the sink. "Most people are blessedly anonymous."
"But not me."
"No. Not you."
There's no judgment in his voice, no implied criticism of my career choices or lifestyle. Just acknowledgment of reality.
"I never thought about the downside," I admit. "When I was fifteen and someone offered me a record deal, all I could think about was getting out of Elbe, seeing the world, doing what I loved. No one mentioned the possibility of stalkers writing messages in blood on my mirror."
"Would it have changed anything? If they had?"
I consider the question, trying to imagine my fifteen year old self faced with all the realities of fame. The loss of privacy. The constant scrutiny. The isolation. The danger.
"Probably not," I admit. "I was young and hungry and certain I was invincible. Now I know better."
