"Who am I to not honor that level of faith?".
The words seemed to hang in the silence of the Tour bus, words Ethan repeated to himself over and over, a mantra pressed against the exhaustion in his bones. Despite how much he felt himself drawn to the studio, despite how badly a part of him wanted to vanish into the quiet—just disappear from the cameras, the lights, the endless noise—he had made his choice. He had given his word.
Half the concert dates were already behind him, and the other half waited with teeth bared. Twenty-plus shows, stretched across continents, stacked into a little less than two months. It was a mountain of a schedule, a challenge that would have broken a lesser artist. But this was One of a Kind—his tour, his promise to the millions who carried his name on their tongues, who screamed it into the night like a prayer.
With a fresh new goal sharpened in his chest and a never-die attitude painted over every wound, Ethan marched forward. He carried not just his music but the burden of more than a million hearts that beat in rhythm with his. Each night, arenas bled light and thundered with sound, seas of phones lifted high, faces painted with tears, joy, and awe. Every step he took onto the stage was swallowed by roars so loud they seemed to bend the air itself. The tour was more than massive; it was monolithic, a storm of stardom sweeping across city after city.
And what a glorious two months it promised to be.
The first few weeks vanished in a blur of sound and fire. Three shows down in the blink of an eye, one more already looming on the horizon. Ethan barely had time to breathe, but in those moments he burned, he burned like no other. In Each state, the stage lights painted him in molten gold as the crowd sang every lyric back to him with feverish devotion. the bass rattled the arena's foundations as he fell to his knees mid-song, hair dripping with sweat, voice raw and alive, the audience erupting as though they had witnessed a resurrection. In The next, the encore stretched nearly an hour as fans refused to let him go, chanting until their throats tore, tears and joy melting into the same flood of emotion.
But alongside the brilliance came the weight. He had told his team, again and again, that he was ready for it all. And they had listened. The schedule left no room to breathe, no space to falter. Apart from a short, precious hour each day carved out as a break—the only time that wasn't consumed by stages, rehearsals, interviews, or press runs—his life belonged entirely to the tour.
And even that single hour, he gave away. He used it to call home, to hear the grounding voices of family. Most of all, he gave it to Sydney. More than thirty minutes of every day went to her, the one voice that cut through the chaos, the one tether he had left to something real. The rest of the day? A relentless storm, each moment accounted for, each second devoured by the machine.
Then the next three weeks came and what mostly happened apart from the previous week was more conclusive
First came the gift.
It had arrived quietly, without ceremony, yet spoke louder than any press headline. From the label itself. Lucian had apparently been watching closely, running the numbers, measuring the impact of the tour on markets and margins. The value was undeniable, the money staggering. And so, as a gesture of appreciation, Ethan had been given something that made his chest tighten with boyish wonder: a brand-new, midnight-black McLaren P1. Delivered straight to his Los Angeles apartment like a crown placed on a king's head.
He wasn't even there to see it. He was halfway across the State, still bound to the tour's brutal rhythm. And yet, just the thought of it—the sleek body, the sound of the engine, the way it would tear through California's roads like liquid thunder—was enough to touch him. His love for sports cars, long buried under fatigue and constant movement, flared alive again. The gratitude was real, the thrill undeniable.
But alongside the gratitude came problems.
His LA apartment contract had allowed for a single parking space. A single space. And it was already occupied by the Lamborghini he hadn't even truly enjoyed—barely driven, barely lived with. Now, with the P1 waiting, sleek and perfect yet without a home, the situation became tangled. His team had caught wind of it almost immediately, and when they did, Bill finally spoke up about something that had apparently been lingering on his mind for weeks.
Because the truth was this: Ethan's world was no longer balanced on a single source of wealth. The empire was diversifying faster than anyone could track. The deal with Binance and Zhao had already turned into a fortune, a figure climbing well into the fifties of millions where a sizable part of it had even gone into a showing of faith where he had gotten some crypto as payment, an unfathomable number for someone still so young. And yet, that was only the beginning.
The tour itself—this same One of a Kind tour that had nearly broken him before it began—was printing money at a speed even the most optimistic projections hadn't predicted. His last-minute gamble, that risky alteration to the deal structure, had flipped the board entirely. What once looked like a dangerous roll of the dice had turned into a masterstroke, multiplying his earnings into something almost surreal.
And then there was Prime.
Unlike the others, it hadn't been pure cash. Instead, he had taken shares. It was unconventional, maybe even reckless, but with the release of his new single tied directly to its campaigns, the gamble had bloomed into a tidal wave. The drink had rocketed into the charts, clawing its way into the top fifteen best-selling beverages of the month. It would have soared even higher had production been able to keep pace with demand. The shelves were empty before they could be stocked. The market was straining to catch up to Ethan's influence.
By all signs, it might have been his most brilliant deal yet—not only for what it had already done but for what it promised. The projections whispered of growth strong enough to triple his Binance windfall, maybe more.
And that was where he stood: a boy from music, now orbiting sums and ventures that bent the imagination.
Well, after all that, one thing was certain now—Ethan was insanely wealthy. Not just wealthy, but in a tier that bent the air around him. Bill and the finance team didn't waste time reminding him of it. They told him it was time. Time for something bigger. A house. A real home. The suggestion alone made Ethan's chest tighten with anticipation.
A car was one thing. A Lamborghini, a McLaren—that was fire in the veins. But a house? That was permanence. That was a crown planted in the earth. Ethan didn't hesitate. He agreed instantly.
But it was easier said than done. With his new status, buying a home wasn't just about having the money—which, by now, he had in unfathomable amounts. A celebrity of his magnitude needed far more than four walls and a gate. He needed layers of protection. A gated community, armed security, camera systems, a layout that gave him privacy without suffocating him. Neighbors had to be carefully considered too—too quiet, and his presence would stand out; too loud, and he'd drown in noise and gossip. There were zoning restrictions, paparazzi risks, distance to major airports, even details like road access for touring buses and convoys. Every detail had to be perfect. Every angle had to be covered.
Once Ethan gave the green light, Bill had left the tour camp again, this time tasked with securing what would be Ethan's new fortress in Los Angeles.
In the meantime, Ethan managed to patch one smaller problem. After a few persistent calls, some promises of signed merchandise, and even a FaceTime where he charmed the landlord directly, he got permission for his new McLaren to be kept within the apartment's vicinity. It was a temporary fix, but enough to buy him time until the house was ready.
Not long after Bill's departure, Jessica too had to step away. She cited urgent matters—work connected to the next album cycle, conversations at the label, early creative planning.
Ethan, now two team members down, could hardly feel the loss. His days were a relentless blur. The tour was still in full swing, eating his time alive. And on top of that, another storm was brewing: Grammy season.
Rebecca's words echoed in his mind—that music alone wasn't enough to secure the golden gramophone. And now Ethan understood. He really felt it. Beyond the standard interviews and magazine covers, his team had him doing things he never would've imagined.
There were dinners with members of the Recording Academy, where he was expected to smile and entertain not just them but their families too. Some Grammy voters were invited to private boxes at his concerts, treated to the spectacle with the best seats in the house. His schedule began to fill with strange, strategic appearances—Formula 1 races, horse-riding events, art shows—each one designed to keep his name humming in the right circles, to place him alongside industry decision-makers.
Sometimes the instructions were even simpler: be seen. Stay in the news. Appear at social events. Rub shoulders. Shake hands. And—more importantly—be photographed with peers.
One such strategy, to Ethan's surprise, actually became fun. He was told to spend time with other celebrities around his age, faces the Academy might find refreshing and relatable. And that's how he ended up spending time with Timothée Chalamet whose team was also looking to keep him in the news as he was looking to snag a role in a new major production coming soon.
Ethan, a lifelong movie fan, already admired him. Timothée had starred in Dune, one of Ethan's favorite films at the moment. What Ethan didn't expect was that admiration ran both ways—the movie star already knew him, already respected him as a generational talent in music. From their very first hangout, the connection was easy, natural. They traded stories, exchanged numbers, and within days had become unexpectedly close.
What bonded them even faster was their shared love of sport—especially European football. Despite both having lived most of their lives in America, Ethan's English blood and Timothée's French roots pulled them back to the game. It was a link to heritage, a reminder of where they truly came from, and the two spoke about it like old friends who had been doing so for years.
...
Another event Ethan found really enjoyable was the Oscars—an event which, surprisingly, was one of the few times he had actually asked to attend himself. This was different from the Super Bowl where he was invited and almost dragged along. The Oscars, though, carried a magic of their own, and Ethan wanted to feel it firsthand. For his team, it became a major operation. Unlike before, when some risks had been taken with looser security, there would be no chances here. This time, Dough, Rebecca, and two of the guards followed him everywhere. The Oscars were Hollywood's cathedral, and Ethan was stepping into it under a spotlight brighter than most of its usual stars.
Despite the short notice, securing tickets hadn't been an issue. In fact, the Academy had been almost thrilled when Ethan called. He wasn't an actor, but his level of fame had now crossed into that rare territory where boundaries blurred—where his presence alone was enough to elevate an event. He wasn't just welcome; he was desired. Concessions were made for him.
One such concession had been seating. Ethan, hopelessly love-struck, had told Dough he wanted to "sit in the best seat." What he really meant was simple: he wanted to sit beside Sydney. The words, though, got lost in translation when relayed to the Academy's team. "Best seat" to them meant front row, center stage. The misunderstanding left Ethan livid when he discovered Sydney—still a rising star, barely breaking into B-list recognition—was seated mid-hall. Ethan had wanted proximity, not prestige.
Yet front and center, with cameras trained constantly on him, he couldn't sulk. Anger wouldn't do. Instead, he slipped into what he would later call the finest "acting performance" of his life. Surrounded by living legends, Oscar winners, titans of cinema, he straightened his posture, lit up his face with easy smiles, laughed at the right moments, applauded with vigor. It was as if their energy—the grace of Meryl Streep, the charm of Denzel, the poise of Nicole Kidman—fueled him. Ethan, the musician, sat there performing a different art: presence.
The 2022 Oscars themselves were chaos. Major upsets, emotional speeches, historic wins—the kind of unpredictable theater only Hollywood could produce. But none of those headlines would survive the night. Because in the middle of it all, history shifted.
Ethan, seated right beside one of his childhood heroes, Will Smith, was in dreamland. To his left, Will's wife, Jada. To his right, a row of actors he'd grown up idolizing. His frustration about Sydney had melted away; laughter bubbled from him as Chris Rock strutted on stage, firing off jokes with that sharp, cutting wit. Ethan wasn't safe either. His prime advert had already become a pop culture punchline, and Rock leaned into it, making the front row cackle at Ethan's expense. He laughed at himself, cheeks flushed, head thrown back.
And then it happened.
Ethan remembered it vividly—the joke about Jada's shaved head. At first, he smiled, still caught in the rhythm of the comedy. But then, in a split second, the air shifted. Will stood up. Ethan laughed harder, assuming it was part of the act, his hands clapping loud. He remembered the deafening sound, the slap that echoed through the hall, reverberating against the walls of the Dolby Theatre. Still laughing, Ethan thought it was a staged bit, grinning wide as cameras caught him mid-guffaw. But when Will turned back, eyes blazing, voice booming—"Keep my wife's name out your fucking mouth!"—Ethan froze. The laughter in the room collapsed into silence.
He could never forget it. The passive-aggressive stillness in Jada's face. The collective unease, like oxygen had drained from the hall. The look on his own face, captured instantly by cameras—a wide-eyed, meme-worthy mixture of shock and confusion—that very moment becoming immortal on Twitter, GIFs, and headlines before the ceremony had even ended.
The rest of the night blurred. Who won what? Which speeches followed? Ethan couldn't recall. He sat petrified, replaying the slap in his head. By the time he slipped out and found himself in a hotel room with Sydney, the Oscars already felt like a fever dream.
Being with her, after weeks apart, grounded him. They had promised to keep the relationship private, and so they savored stolen time in silence, away from the flashbulbs. For Ethan, the greatest award of the night wasn't gold—it was Sydney's arms, her voice, her warmth. Leaving her the next morning, though, cut him deeply. His sadness stood in sharp contrast to the internet's hysteria, where his shocked expression was already looping endlessly as memes.
Still, life moved on. The tour demanded his energy, the interviews stacked up, and rival labels circled like sharks. The Oscars had given him traction, but traction also bred jealousy. Negative stories surfaced—whispers of him being a sellout, accusations that he was chasing fame over art, cynical takes that his team was "gaming the system" with Grammy politics. Lucian and UMG were making massive moves with him, and competitors wanted blood.
Yet Ethan barely flinched. He had become seasoned now, immune to cheap shots. Within days, the noise buried itself under the sheer weight of his momentum. The machine kept rolling.
And then, two weeks later, the "One of a Kind" tour—already past $1 billion gross, securing its place as the highest-grossing tour of all time by a male pop star—reached its final stretch. Three shows left. Three. A number whispered with power, heavy with finality. Three steps from immortality. Three shows until it was all over.
A tour that had hosted over a million fans, created millionaires out of mere supporters, and etched Ethan's name permanently into music history… now faced its first real major problem.
Even more than the car crash in Texas, more than the chaos of the "blank day" at the Super Bowl, more than every close call that had shadowed this journey, this was different. With only three shows left—three steps from the summit, three shows from etching his name forever—an issue arose that threatened everything.
It wasn't just another setback. It wasn't just another headline.
It was the kind of problem that could undo history itself, the kind that could shatter the billion-dollar dream right at the finish line.
And it came just when the world thought Ethan had already conquered it all.