There is scattered laughter. Good. I’m breaking the ice. They’re listening now, not just hearing me, they’relistening.
“I want to thank the person who brought us all together tonight,” I said, letting the room settle into my words. “The one and only, the woman who turns every event into something unforgettable — Rose Maghee!”
That name hits like a match. The field comes alive — clapping, cheering, and even a few people standing up to show her they meant it. And there she is, walking out on stage, glowing in red silk and dripping with rhinestones, waving like royalty but winking like your favorite cousin at a family cookout.
I give her a nod, grinning. “You throw one hell of a party, Rose.”
She blows a kiss back at me before she leaves.
“Now,” I say, lifting my voice a little, letting it settle into something low and teasing, “I just have one question for y’all…”
The crowd leans in.
“Are you ready… for somecountry musictonight?”
Thatdoesit.
The noise hits like a stampede. Applause crashes into whistles, whoops, and a chorus of “hell yeah” that echoes off the hotel walls. People raise their drinks, phones flash, and someone near the bar lets out a cowboy yell that makes half the crowd laugh.
I just stand there, soaking it in. For a second, I’m not the warm-up act. I’m not the quiet girl who sometimes gets mistaken for someone’s assistant. I amthe center of attention.
Vegas has a way of making everything feel shinier than it is. But this moment? This feelsreal.
And it is mine.
I can’t imagine anything making me happier, except perhaps the love of a man who sees me for me and loves me anyway.
I wait a beat to let the cheers settle just enough to tell myself that I’ve made it. I’m not rolling in Benjamins, but I’ve made it to the first mountain top. The rest? I’ll have to climb them all, one at a time.
“And if y’all are lucky,” I add, letting my voice dip into something a little more playful, “you might just catch a little surprise later tonight. Vegas doesn’t sleep, and neither do we.”
That gets whistles. Applause. Light but eager. A few hoots from the back, many are drinking from Red Solo Cups, which are making a line as if it’s a salute.
“Now,” I say, settling back into my rhythm, “I gotta ask the question every girl in boots has asked in this city —are y’all ready for some country music tonight?”
The crowdhowls. Pure release. A wave of cheers that hit my skin like heat. Phones lit up, people raised their drinks, and I knew I had them in the palm of my hand.
From just off stage, I catch a glimpse of Shay — standing in the wings, already dressed in an outfit that looks like it was stitched together from rebellion and moonlight. Her eyes are locked on me. Not judging. Just…watching. Like maybe she forgot for a second that I could do this.
I take a breath so deep it cracks something in my chest, then I let the first lyric slide out slow, smooth, like honey off a spoon. It’s a song about the boy who said I was too much and still left me feeling like I’m not enough. It’s about motel goodbyes and lipstick on bathroom mirrors. It’s about all the little ways a person can disappear and still sit next to you at dinner.
The crowd leans in, listening to my backstory. They think it’s just performance. They don’t know it’s a confession in real time.
I wrap my hands around the mic like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and it is. The music swells, and I let it carry me—letting the ache in my voice rise with the chorus. Raw and unapologetic. I don't try to sound perfect. I sound honest because that’s who I am, and that’s what they’re here for. That’s what they clap for.
By the second verse, they’re singing with me. Drunk on their own hurt. Strangers screaming the words I wrote at 2 a.m. on the floor of a shitty hotel room with cigarette burns in the carpet. They don’t know where the song came from, but they know exactly how it feels.
The bridge hits like a punch, and I close my eyes for a moment. I’m not in Vegas. I’m not in this dress. I’m seventeen again, barefoot in a hayfield, screaming into the sky because I didn’t have the words to write them down.
But now I do. And they love me for it.
When the song ends, there’s a beat of silence before the roar. The noise is the kind that shakes one straight through the bones. Phones go up, hands clap, and whistles scream like fireworks. But the part that sticks is the silence right before it—the way they held their breath with me, like we were all hanging off the same edge together, is priceless.
I smile. But it’s not the one I wear in interviews. This one’s real. They think I’m singing about heartbreak.
What they don’t know is—I’m singing my way out of it.
4
