The Pop Queen's Ruthless Billionaire Fan

Eleanor shoved her weight against the heavy iron door at the back of the stage. The metal groaned, clicking shut behind her. Instantly, the deafening screams of thirty thousand fans inside Madison Square Garden were cut off, replaced by the thick, humming silence of the backstage corridor.

She leaned her spine against the cold concrete wall. Her chest heaved. Sweat stuck her blonde hair to her neck. Suddenly, a sharp, needle-like ache flared in her lower back. It was the lingering ghost of a nightmare she had endured in Boston just days ago, a familiar, hollow agony that threatened to drain the life completely out of her. The sheer memory of that cold, clinical room made her stomach churn. Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her palm hard against the base of her spine, forcing her breathing to slow.

Nina, her personal assistant, hurried down the hallway. Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum. She held out a bottle of room-temperature water.

Eleanor took it, her fingers trembling slightly from adrenaline. Before she could unscrew the cap, the screen of the phone in Nina's other hand lit up. The caller ID flashed brightly in the dim corridor: Julian Vance.

A wave of cold nausea hit Eleanor's stomach. Her throat tightened, the air trapping in her lungs. The sheer terror and disgust she felt toward that name made her skin crawl.

She didn't hesitate. Eleanor snatched the phone, her thumb pressing down hard on the red reject button. She shoved the device back into Nina's chest. "I am not taking any calls from Boston tonight. None."

Nina bit her bottom lip, looking at Eleanor with pity. "Caleb didn't show up tonight, El. He's not in the dressing room."

Eleanor's chest hollowed out. A dull ache of disappointment settled behind her ribs, but she forced her face to remain completely blank. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I'm used to it."

She waved Nina away. She needed to be alone. Eleanor pushed off the wall and walked toward the end of the corridor, her high heels clicking against the floor. There was a vending machine in the corner. She needed an ice-cold soda to shock her system back to reality.

Down the hall, the heavy oak door of the VIP lounge swung open with a violent thud. Dominic Sterling stepped out. His jaw was locked tight. He reached up, his long fingers roughly loosening his silk Tom Ford tie.

"Dominic, wait!" Annabelle, a New York socialite dripping in diamonds, chased after him. Her stilettos clattered noisily. She reached out, her manicured fingers attempting to grab his bicep. "The rooftop bar is already reserved for us."

Dominic shifted his weight, dodging her touch effortlessly. A flash of pure, unadulterated violence crossed his dark eyes. It was a predatory look, but he buried it instantly beneath a mask of cold indifference.

"I have a Wall Street merger to review, Annabelle," Dominic said. His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

Annabelle didn't take