Butterfly

Fia

The spotlight was scalding, and sweat prickled across my glittery skin before I even reached the microphone.

A sea of sequins, suits, cameras, and million-dollar smiles stretched out past the stage. Somewhere out there sat the four artists nominated for Best Song of the Year.

And one of those artists?

I absolutely despised.

Not because I knew him. Nobody really fucking did.

The dude appeared out of thin air, gone viral on TikTok, and somehow ridden one dumbass song straight to the top of the charts without ever showing his face or revealing a single useful thing about himself.

Meanwhile, I’d been doing this shit for fifteen years.

Still, I smiled.

“Good evening, everyone.”

The applause settled.

“This year’s nominees have dominated the charts, broken records, and given us songs we’ll probably be hearing for years.”

The big screens behind me lit up as the words rolled across the teleprompter.

“Four incredible artists. One hunky honky-tonk honey, one velvet-voiced crooner, one mischievous merengue maestro... and one self-proclaimed horrorcore boogeyman.”

A scoff slipped out.

“But only one can take home Best Song of the Year.”

An assistant placed the gold envelope in my trembling hand.

My gaze dropped to it.

Please, God. Don’t let it be him.

One finger slid beneath the seal before I unfolded the card.

Of course.

Forcing on a smile, I looked up as a half-interested laugh slipped out.

“And the award goes to...”

Drumroll, please.

The card felt heavier in my hands.

“...Vanta Blackk.”

The arena exploded in cheers.

“...for ‘Chickenhearted.’”

The cameras scoured the crowd for his reaction.

So did I.

From the darkest corner of the arena, dressed head to toe in black, tattooed hands draped lazily over the arms of his chair, Vanta Blackk didn’t so much as flinch.

If he was smiling, the mask completely covering his face revealed nothing.

A nervous gulp worked its way down my throat.

Cameras whipped in his direction while the artists surrounding him applauded, but he took his sweet time getting to his feet.

Then Vanta sauntered down the aisle, throwing finger guns into the crowd and punctuating his walk with a couple of shamelessly crude dance moves.

The audience ate it the fuck up.

When he reached the foot of the stage, the roar followed him.

He bounded up the steps.

Up close, the mask was somehow worse. How the hell he didn’t suffocate in that fucking thing was beyond me.

He took the trophy, thanked the organizers, his team, his fans, and probably Satan, for all I knew.

Honestly, I tuned most of it out.

Whatever else he said went in one ear and straight out the other until he declared the trophy would look perfect displayed between a mummified head and a femur.

The crowd laughed.

Shock value was Vanta’s shtick, and he never missed an opportunity to remind everyone.

With that, he vacated the stage and fucked right off through the backstage door.

A second later—

Bang.

The only indication he’d ever been there was the door slamming shut behind him.

As for me?

I could’ve named a zillion other artists who deserved that award, but I wasn’t one of the fucked-up individuals who’d voted for him.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur of photographs and conversations with magazines eager to know all about my dress, who designed it, and whether I was blue about going home without a trophy.

I sang for the love of it, not because I wanted to be a billionaire.

Althought it does have its perks.

Soon, everyone started to leave. My manager, Gabrielle, brought me my things, and we hopped into my limo and headed back to the Hills.

The driver dropped me at the curb.

Gabrielle glanced down at her phone from inside the car.

“He’s back at it.”

“Who?” Even though I had a hunch.

“Vanta.”

“Ugh, God. What now?”

“He dropped a teaser.”

“For what?”

“A new song.”

“Is this man on uppers?” I asked. “How does he come up with this shit? It takes me weeks to even get a chorus down.”

“Well, when you just rap and repeat the same bullshit for those of the lower-vibration kind... it’s not difficult.”

Gabrielle turned the phone toward me.

In the teaser, Vanta, wearing a skull mask, was digging a grave.

The final shot before it cut to black showed him wearing a bloodied scalp of platinum hair streaked with black and red highlights while he buried the body beneath shovelfuls of dirt.

My stomach dropped.

That was my hair.

The message couldn’t have been more obvious.

Then, as though burying a body wasn’t enough, a cartoon version of Vanta pulled out a joint.

Lit it.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

The song title?

Cocainized.

Written in smoke.

My gaze shot skyward as I shoved Gabrielle’s phone away from my face.

“What is this? He’s threatening my life now?”

Arms folded across my chest, I dragged the toe of my shoe over the cobblestones.

Probably left a scuff.

Didn’t much give a fuck.

Gabrielle shrugged. “I wouldn’t be too concerned about that. Beneath all that bullshit, he’s probably just a scared little boy.”

“I’m not sure it’s a façade anymore.” Turning toward my front door, I added, “I believe he actually wants me dead.”

“I don’t think so. Maybe this is how Vanta announces he wants to collab?”

“In what universe?” I took a step back.

“Hey, I’m just saying.” Gabrielle held up her hands.

“Don’t ever fucking say that again.” My head shook in disbelief. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Lunch at the Marquee, then the studio.”

Gabrielle lowered her phone.

“Fia, do you really think it’s wise to go to the studio? Your voice still hasn’t recovered.”

“Vanta knows what he’s doing. This is bait. He wants me to clap back. If I don’t, he’ll own the charts for days, and the algorithm’ll bury me.”

A sigh escaped me.

“It’s already brutal enough being a woman in the alternative scene. I’m not letting some cretinous lamebrain make it any harder.”

“But isn’t that stooping to his level?”

“No, it’s me telling Vanta the game’s on. Completely different.”

“But Fia—”

The car door slammed shut before Gabrielle could launch into another fucking morality spiel.

After waving bye-bye to the driver, I watched him ease away from the curb as Gabrielle pounded both fists against the back window.

She pointed a finger at me as the car vanished down the street.

How was I going to answer Vanta?

No clue.

But Cocainized was trending on TikTok.

And I only had twenty-four hours to stop him from laying my good name to rest with it.