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  To you, my reader.

  Thank you for the love and comfort you’ve given me over all these years. I hope this book keeps you company in the way you have kept me company, and that we get to share many more stories together.

  MISSION LOG

  AGENT A: “Winter Young?”

  AGENT B: “I said what I said.”

  AGENT A: “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  AGENT B: “You don’t think he can do it?”

  AGENT A: “He’s a pop star, .”

  AGENT B: “Correction: He’s the biggest superstar in the world.”

  AGENT A: “I only accept semantics on Fridays, please.”

  AGENT B: “Oh, cheer up, . Name a better cover than a superstar. The boy’s exactly what this mission needs.”

  AGENT A: “Why? Because he can do a backflip?”

  AGENT B: “Because he’s the only one who can get us in.”

  AGENT A: “He doesn’t know the first thing about what we do!”

  AGENT B: “Isn’t that the point? Our agents are unconventional.”

  AGENT A: “I meant that I doubt he’s capable of doing our kind of job.”

  AGENT B: “Well, it’s not as if we have a better option.”

  AGENT A: “The CIA’s not going to like this pitch.”

  AGENT B: “We’re the Group. They never like our pitches, and yet they always seem to hand us a contract. Isn’t that funny?”

  AGENT A: “Hilarious.”

  AGENT B: “Is that your blessing I hear?”

  AGENT A: “Fine. But you owe me.”

  AGENT B: “How much this time?”

  AGENT A: “The nicest dinner in the city.”

  AGENT B: “Orleana?”

  AGENT A: “Naka.”

  AGENT B: “Listen, if I can get a reservation at Naka, I’ll quit my job.”

  AGENT A: “If Winter Young can actually pull this off, I’ll quit mine.”

  1

  Those That Birth Obsession

  There was nothing particularly distinct about the car that wound its way across the parking lot, streetlights striping across its sleek surface in a hypnotic rhythm.

  The only thing that made it stand out was the two black SUVs following it, both full of security personnel. The mini caravan made little sound as it approached the back of the stadium, avoiding the barricades near the front where ninety thousand fans had already congregated in a shifting mass.

  Behind the first car’s tinted windows sat a lean figure with one leg crossed idly over the other, his chin resting thoughtfully on his hand as he watched the throngs of people milling around in the distance.

  At first glance, it was hard to tell that the boy was dressed in luxury. His clothes—black sweats with no logos in sight—looked simple enough. But closer inspection would reveal his careful choices, the hand-sewn details along the seams, the fine quality of the bespoke fabric, then the thin rings on his fingers, one studded with tiny black diamonds, the other platinum and engraved with his logo, a stylized rabbit head with ears shaped like two halves of a broken heart. He wore his favorite custom Gucci sneakers, a birthday gift from the fashion house, along with a pair of pink-tinted aviators that, an hour after being photographed in public, would be sold out worldwide.

  Even if his clothes didn’t grab your attention right away, the rest of him did.

  Winter Young—the most famous superstar in the world, the boy everyone talked about—was so beautiful it was hard to believe he was real. His was a luminous sort of presence that could turn every head on the street: messy hair so lushly black it gleamed blue in the light, geometric ink running along his forearms that ended in a snake coiled around his left wrist, slender dark eyes rimmed with long black lashes, a mysterious grace in his movements, an expression that could somehow switch between shy and mischievous in the space of a second. But it was more than that. Many people were objectively gorgeous, but then there were those few, the stars with some undefinable quality so searingly bright that they birthed obsession. Once the world got a glimpse of them, it would move heaven and earth just to see them again.

  Now Winter was staring at the window, studying the beads of rain on the glass and the million different colors refracted within them, humming an experimental bridge of music under his breath as his mind worked away on a new tune. Beside him, his manager tapped on her phone.

  “If Alice reschedules you for a quick photoshoot tomorrow morning at six thirty A.M.,” she said, “can you make do with a fifteen-minute breakfast around five? No answer means yes. Don’t forget to return that call for Elevate’s CEO—Miss Acombe wants to pitch you on endorsing their upcoming sneaker redesign. Oh, and if you want to shorten your New York dates, you’d better tell me now.” The stadium’s lights through the car’s tinted windows cast the woman’s dark skin and glasses in a green tint, and her voice, dampened against the backdrop of the rain, had the tone of someone who was used to winning arguments with him. “Ricky Boulet’s tour schedule will coincide with yours, and I’d really rather not spend an hour of my life fighting with his manager about why we’re”—her voice took on an exaggerated inflection as she rolled her eyes—“stealing his weekend.”

  “Let’s do all the dates,” Winter said to the window.

  Claire peered skeptically over her phone at him. “No one does four consecutive days in New York.”

  Without looking, he held a hand up to her. “You know we’ll sell them all out.”

  She swatted away his high five with little slaps. “I’m talking about your health, obviously, not your star power. Please don’t make me deal with you collapsing onstage again.”

  Winter finally turned his head to give her a sidelong smile. “Five years and still no faith in me at all.”

  “None whatsoever. Did you even eat lunch today?”

  “Do three churros count?”

  Her expression turned stern, and she nudged his leg with her boot. “Winter Young. I got you sandwiches specifically so you wouldn’t just eat empty calories.”

  He rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes. “How dare you. Churros are a perfect food, and I won’t hear blasphemy against them.”

  She sighed in long-suffering patience. “I wish you’d stop working so much and take care of yourself, for once. Go hiking. Go on a date. Have a fling, at least. You want me to reach out to anyone’s agent for you?”

  The thought made him weary. They’d had this conversation before, and he wasn’t interested in explaining himself all over again. After too many empty nights, he’d come to hate flings. And the thought of dragging someone through all the mud that came with dating him made Winter cringe. During his last breakup, his then-girlfriend had told him that the media circus made him undatable.

  But to Claire, he just shrugged and said aloud, “There’s no one interesting.”

  “Are you saying you’re the most interesting person in the world?”

  “True until proven otherwise.”

  “I think it’s already been proven otherwise in this car.”

  Winter put a hand on his heart in mocking pain.

  “Besides,” she went on, “it’s not about interest. It’s about free publicity and a little fun for you both.”

  “Really? I thought it was about love.”

  “Ah, Winter.” Claire shook her head. “Nineteen years old and already given up on romance.”

  “Learned it from the best. Have you seen anyone since you broke up with that magazine editor?”

  Claire sniffed. “Susan and I technically haven’t broken up.”

  Winter gave her a pointed look. “Right. You just haven’t talked in two years.”

  “Stop changing the subject. We’re trying to fix your love life.”

  He gave her a sly smile. “But I already love you.”

  She waved a flippant hand at him. “See that charm coming out right there? Why don’t you make it useful?”

  Winter couldn’t help laughing a little. Once upon a time, he was just an awkward-looking, unpopular high school freshman with lanky limbs and a bad haircut who spent his lunch hours alone, rehearsing dance routines in the empty gym after class, scribbling down melodies and nurturing a big dream. Then he’d booked a gig as a rookie backup dancer for Ricky Boulet—at the time, the hottest star in the world. Winter’s performance at Ricky’s opening concert had been so extraordinary that a video of him went viral overnight.

  Claire, then an ambitious young associate at a management company, had seen the potential behind that video and called him the next morning to nab him before anyone else could. He was the get of the decade; she was the compass for his success. The two of them had risen together as life catapulted him from backup dancer to record deal to one of the

biggest pop careers in history.

  You’re going to be famous someday, his older brother, Artie, had once teased him, back when Winter was only twelve and had first started writing songs.

  Winter had only laughed. You’re so optimistic.

  Optimism is my hidden power, Artie had said with a smile. Then his brother had looked at him squarely. There’s a restlessness in you. A conviction that something bigger and better must be waiting further down the road.

  Winter’s fingers played mindlessly with his phone. It took him a minute to realize that he was swiping it locked and unlocked, then pulling up his brother’s name before swiping it away again.

  Artemis Young.

  As Winter stared down at his phone, the memory returned of their final day together. Just a pair of brothers, twelve years apart in age, sitting on the edge of a pier watching the sun sink into the ocean. The salt and wind frizzed their hair. The Ferris wheel in the distance was alight with bands of blue and yellow, the colors reflecting off their faces. He could still smell the sea, could recall staring at his brother’s profile and wishing with his whole heart that Artie wasn’t leaving again the next morning.

  Don’t spend your entire life searching, okay? Artie had said to him. His brother had round dark eyes where Winter’s were narrow, and wavy black hair that hung thickly over his brows, and looked so unlike Winter that no one ever guessed they were related.

  What do you mean? Winter had asked.

  I mean, sometimes you already have what you want. You just don’t know it yet.

  Winter had nodded along without really agreeing. It was an easy thing for his brother to say. Artie was the meticulously planned son, the favorite, the one from Mom’s first marriage. Winter was the accident, the afterthought, the mistake from her second one. Maybe that was what made Artie think Winter would be famous someday. He knew that Winter craved attention, that he hungered for love every minute of every day, would seek it out to the ends of the earth. Artie had understood, even then, and pitied him for it.

  Winter had shrugged at the time. All I want is to be like you, he told Artie.

  Artie laughed, a rich, throaty sound that Winter was always trying to copy. Be like you, Winter. Be good.

  Artie had worked for the Peace Corps and died. Winter had become a shallow superstar and lived. Good never won in the end.

  The memory faded, along with the bits of music he was working on in his head. Winter put the phone down and shook his hand out. Still, his fingers twitched. He didn’t know why he kept his brother’s number. Artie was gone. Only a stranger would be on the other end.

  Finally, their car came to a halt at the stadium’s back entrance. A team of security guards were already in place in front of barricades, but that hadn’t deterred the massive wave of admirers pressed in on either side of the path from the car to the stadium door. There had to be hundreds of people here. He recognized a few of the signs they held up, some of the same fans who’d attended his soundcheck earlier in the day.

  “Chin up,” Claire told Winter as they both straightened. “You’re about to wow this audience.”

  Winter tucked his thoughts away like a loose hem, reminded himself of where he was and who people expected him to be. He took a deep breath and winked at Claire. “Always do,” he replied.

  The two of them tapped fists. A bodyguard outside opened the door, and Claire turned away from him to step out of the car.

  The crowd cheered at the familiar sight of her, knowing what her arrival meant. Then the cheers turned into an explosion of screams as Winter emerged.

  Cold rain blew against his face. As the blinding flash of lights hit him, he cast the crowd a casual glance and saw a sea of phones turned in his direction. Frantic shouts peppered the chaos.

  “Winter! Oh my god, oh my god—WINTER!”

  “WINTER!!!”

  “OVER HERE, WINTER!!”

  “I LOVE YOU, WINTER!!”

  Everyone here had clearly been waiting for hours, their hair soaked from the rain. They waved frantically at him as his bodyguards ushered him down the path, then shrieked as he touched his fingers to his lips in a quick kiss.

  Posters and markers, along with desperately reaching hands, were shoved out at him as he passed. The dozen security guards tried to push them back, but Winter still made a point to pass near the edge of the barricades, forcing his entourage to stop so he could scrawl a few hurried signatures on some of the posters. He was about to autograph a sign for a little girl when one of his guards pulled him away.

  “Let’s keep moving, Mr. Young,” he said, shaking his head.

  Winter shot the girl an apologetic look as he was ushered toward the rear entrance. The rain and screams cut off abruptly as the door closed behind them.

  Up ahead, Claire slowed down and gave him a disapproving look. “We talked about not doing that,” she said. “I know you think it’s just a couple of posters, but it’s not safe.”

  Winter frowned. “Come on. They’ve been standing in the rain for hours. Can’t we at least pitch a tent for them or something?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Claire called at him over her shoulder as she led them down the stadium’s corridor.

  Winter pulled out a thin notebook from the pocket of his sweats. It went everywhere with him, this collection of scribbled lyrics and half-finished song bridges, words he found beautiful and choruses he wanted to run by his producers. Now he hurriedly scribbled his signature on a blank sheet and ripped it from its binding, then handed it to his nearest bodyguard.

  “For that little girl in the blue raincoat who was waiting out there,” he said. “Please.”

  The bodyguard gave him a small smile, then nodded and took the paper.

  Winter watched him go, his throat hollow. There was a time not long ago when he could afford to spend hours talking to fans, one by one, and would leave them feeling rejuvenated by all their love. He couldn’t remember exactly when it switched to this rushed, soulless routine. He looked on until his bodyguard disappeared around the corner, then followed Claire down the hall.

  They made it to the greenroom, a space crammed with makeup chairs and a table sprawled with snacks, where Claire finally left him. Winter did a few quick stretches until his muscles felt warm and loose. Then he poked halfheartedly around the snack table. His stomach rumbled. Claire was right—he should’ve eaten something more than just churros, but it was too late now, and he didn’t want to cramp up.

  He’d just managed to tear his eyes away from the plate of croissant sandwiches when someone shoved him roughly in the ribs. He grunted and looked to one side. There stood a handsome brown-skinned boy with a headband holding back his crown of lush dark curls, his eyes fixated on the cookie plate. Leo.

  “If you’re not gonna have anything,” he said, “can you at least move aside so I can?”

  Winter rolled his eyes as he took a step backward. “Don’t you think you should eat a little earlier? We’re an hour from showtime.”

  Leo scooted toward the plate, grabbed a cookie, and shoved half of it in his mouth before replying. “You’re one to lecture me about food,” he answered. He looked ready to wipe his hands on his shirt, then seemed to remember that he was already in his stage clothes and makeup. He idled there for a moment, then wiped his hands on a tall Black boy passing them by. Dameon.

  Dameon frowned at Leo. “Seriously?”

  Leo shrugged. “You’re not dressed yet.”

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t like this shirt.” Dameon shook his head, dreadlocks swinging, at the grease stain Leo had left on his sleeve. Then he looked at Winter. Even right before a concert, there was a serenity about him that Winter found soothing. “I’m heading to the practice room. You want to do one more run before we go out?”

  Winter turned his eyes away from the snack table with a sigh and shook his head. “No, they need me dressed soon,” he replied. “You guys go ahead.”

  Leo put a hand on Dameon’s shoulder as they walked. “How many run-throughs until you’re happy?”

  Dameon shrugged. “As soon as you stop being half a beat late on everything.” He glanced back at Winter and gave him a smile. “See you out there.”

  Winter waved, eyes lingering on them for a moment. Then the real chaos began. Makeup artists and designers fluttered around him, transforming his casual getup to the first of his shimmering stage ensembles. Meanwhile, the arena had begun filling with fans. Even down the hall and far from the center of the stadium, Winter could feel the shudder of their claps and chants, could hear the sporadic waves of their cheers.