Milestone

"I'm on my way now, Rebecca. And didn't I tell you I needed time to talk to Precious? You couldn't stall it for a single day?"

"I know, I know. But this It's important—The magazine is ending that production and they wnated to choose you as the last cover face ever this is huge." Rebecca sighed, her voice sharp but exhausted. "Okay then. And also… I invited Precious over and said she could bring some friends. Please, Rebecca, help me look after her when she gets there. She's in a very sensitive place right now."

"No, no, don't worry. She's better now. Plus, Precious is a strong girl. I'm sure she'll be fine," Ethan muttered, his voice softer now, holding back the guilt of being constantly pulled away.

He ended the call on his new phone—another fresh model he barely had time to set up—and tossed it gently to the side. His eyes drifted to the screen again. Sydney had messaged him.

He hadn't replied.

Instead, Ethan leaned back in the SUV seat, letting his head fall against the cool leather. "Marcus… when we get there, wake me up," he said, his voice already heavy with fatigue.

"No problem, boss," Marcus replied from the front.

Only then did Ethan let go completely, closing his eyes, allowing his body to surrender to the weight of it all.

For weeks now, everything had spun completely out of control.

Tour. Shows. Interviews. Branding. Meetings. Repeat. Even his so-called 'free time' was scheduled.

Ethan had thought he knew pressure. He thought he had it rough before—back when the tour was just starting, juggling the chaos of early and insane fame. But this? This was ten times worse.

It all started when Jessica called to tell him his official team was ready. He had been… naïve. That's the word. Naïve. He'd imagined maybe two or three people—an assistant, a driver, maybe a security guy.

What showed up was an army.

Eight people. Eight.

Three security guards. Two assistants—one for him and one assigned to Rebecca. A creative director. A tour manager. A personal stylist. All flown in. All fully briefed. All professionally excellent. All there… for him.

He'd stood there frozen when they first walked in—shaking his hand, already calling him "sir," already asking about his schedule, his food preferences, his lighting moodboards.

Then came the buses. Not one. Not two. Three additional tour buses. Each branded. Each loaded with gear and backup equipment. All paid for—for now—by the label. But after the tour?

The cost would be his.

Bill had told him it was time to form his own LLC. That it was the next step. That Ethan Jones was becoming a company.

He was the product. His voice, his body, his personality—all a brand now. All for sale.

And Ethan?

Ethan was overwhelmed.

Since that day, he couldn't remember the last time he'd truly been alone. Not in the quiet, not just for himself. Even the moments at night with Sydney—soft and intimate—felt like precious pockets in an otherwise hyper-programmed life.

Yes, he'd told Precious that he loved it. And he did. He wasn't lying. The adrenaline of hearing fifty thousand people screaming his name? The lights, the roar, the worship—it was euphoric. Surreal. Addictive.

He loved the money, too. The freedom. The power to take care of people. To be someone. All of that meant something to him.

But none of it changed the fact that he was burning out.

He was twenty-four. And the world already owned him.

Rebecca had said things would slow down after the tour. That he'd be able to pull back while he "focused on songwriting." That it would be a good excuse to disappear for a while, just enough to recover.

He clung to that thought now, like a child to a lullaby, letting it echo softly in his mind as the car hummed beneath him. The noise, the pressure, the expectations—just static in the background now.

And slowly, as his chest rose and fell in rhythm with the car's movement, Ethan drifted off… finally, for a moment, no longer "Ethan Jones—the global pop star"…

Just Ethan.

"Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!" Ethan's ears slowly tuned in to the persistent voices as consciousness clawed its way back. His eyes fluttered open, heavy and unfocused, the haze of sleep stubbornly clinging to his mind. The soft hum of the car engine was replaced by the low murmur of voices outside.

"Sir, we're here. Gillette Stadium," Marcus said calmly from the front seat, his voice steady but firm. Ethan blinked several times, trying to clear the grogginess that tangled his thoughts. Forty minutes of being shuttled back and forth between Harvard and this mammoth venue had drained him more than he expected.

Marcus glanced over, a slight smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. "It's been quite the ride, sir. You've been out cold half the way."

Ethan slowly lifted his hand to his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The soft leather of his seat felt too comfortable, tempting him back into slumber. But reality crept in — this was showtime.

"We gotta move, sir," Marcus urged gently, sensing Ethan's sluggishness.

"Yeah, yeah..." Ethan muttered, forcing his limbs to cooperate. He grabbed his glasses off the seat beside him, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, the familiar weight grounding him. A deep breath filled his lungs, slow and steady, steadying the whirlwind inside. "Let's do this."

As the door slid open, a blast of noise hit him — the roar of cameras, the chorus of screaming fans, and the shouts of paparazzi all clamoring at once. The air buzzed with electricity, a chaotic symphony of chaos and excitement that was the life of a superstar.

Security closed ranks immediately, forming a protective shield around Ethan. Their eyes sharp, alert, scanning the crowd for any threat, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of the invisible barriers his fame forced around him.

Flashing lights blinded him momentarily as he stepped forward. Fans reached out, desperate for just a glimpse, a touch, a word. "We love you, Ethan!" one shouted. Another held up a homemade sign, trembling with excitement.

Ethan smiled behind his dark glasses, a small wave acknowledging their devotion. He signed a few autographs — swift, practiced motions — trying to give each fan a moment of connection before moving on.

The frenzy pushed him inside the venue, but the moment he thought he might catch a breath, a voice pulled him back to reality.

"Sir," Dough called, stepping up beside him. Ethan turned sharply, irritation flickering in his eyes.

"Dough, I told you—just call me Ethan," he said, voice low but weary.

"Sorry, Ethan," Dough said quickly, shaking his head with a sheepish grin. "But it's important."

Ethan sighed, bracing himself. Dough launched into a rapid update about the setup — equipment arriving late, sound checks running behind, last-minute requests from the lighting team. The venue was a hive of frantic activity; crew members scurried to and fro, tuning instruments, adjusting cables, orchestrating the chaos with military precision.

Ethan nodded absently, his mind half on Dough's words, half on the exhaustion gnawing at his edges. As they passed the band members warming up on stage, Ethan greeted them with a tired but genuine smile. The tour manager barked orders at the venue staff, coordinating every detail with sharp efficiency.

Dough's voice was a constant hum in his ear, a lifeline and a reminder of the endless demands of his world.

Finally, Ethan ducked into a side room inside the venue.

"He's here!" Rebecca's voice rang out, drawing immediate attention.

Within moments, a team swarmed Ethan, peeling off his jacket, running a hand through his hair, blotting away sweat, smoothing his makeup. His stylist, Wisdom Kaye, a rising star in the fashion world handpicked by Jessica, took charge, directing assistants to adjust Ethan's outfit with meticulous care.

Ethan stood still, accustomed to this ritual — the stripping away of fatigue, replaced by the polished image the world expected. Yet beneath the practiced calm, a storm of exhaustion churned.

Rebecca moved closer, her eyes bright with excitement.

"What's this one about?" Ethan asked, voice low.

"Vogue Homme," she replied, beaming. "They feature influential men who are shaping culture, pushing boundaries. This will be their last issue ever, and they chose you — after the milestone you just broke."

Ethan blinked, confused. "What milestone?"

Rebecca's smile widened, and suddenly the room hushed.

A banner unfurled with cheers ringing out. Champagne corks popped, glittering in the floodlights.

"Congratulations on reaching the Top 10 highest-grossing tours of all time! After tonight, you'll have grossed over $500 million!"

The roar of applause filled the room. Crew members, managers, even security guards broke into spontaneous celebration. Ethan's weariness dissolved into a wide, genuine grin — the fatigue momentarily forgotten beneath the rush of triumph.

"Really? Really?" he gasped, almost disbelieving.

Rebecca laughed warmly. "Of course. And not only that — this is the fastest tour in history to hit that landmark. The whole label is coming tonight, including the CEO. They're here to celebrate you, Ethan."

Amid the jubilation, Ethan felt a swell of pride and gratitude. All the exhaustion, the relentless schedule, the pressure — it had led to this moment.

Rebecca came close, voice soft but steady. "Ethan, you deserve this. You've worked so hard. I'm so proud of you."

For a heartbeat, Ethan let himself savor it — the triumph, the love, the recognition — before the familiar weight of responsibility settled back on his shoulders.