"I'm telling you, Ethan is not accepting any more concert deals," the thick, firm voice of Ethan's manager, Bill, thundered through the tour bus.
He stood near the small lounge table, phone pressed tight against his ear, his usually calm face tensed with frustration. The air inside the bus seemed to tighten with every word. Everyone — from the makeup artist to the assistant scrolling on her tablet — froze and looked up. It wasn't every day that the usually gentle Bill raised his voice like that.
"I don't know when he'll be taking show deals again, but I know it might not be this year, to say the least," Bill snapped. His tone was sharp, final.
He paused briefly as whoever was on the other end tried to interject, but Bill wasn't having it."No, no — this isn't negotiable. Good day, Mr. Braun."
With that, he ended the call abruptly, his thumb hitting the red button with more force than necessary. For a brief moment, the bus went silent except for the low hum of the engine rolling down the highway. Bill exhaled sharply, lowering the phone from his ear as he muttered under his breath, "The nerves of some people..."
He tossed the phone onto the seat beside him, rubbing the back of his neck with both hands. The tension in his shoulders said everything — he was exhausted, not from travel, but from dealing with people who just wouldn't listen.
From across the bus, a calm but watchful voice broke the silence. It was Rebecca, the ever-vigilant PR manager, her expression unreadable as always."Are they still pushing for the LA show?" she asked, her tone measured but clearly concerned.
Bill, now massaging his temples, didn't even bother looking up at her as he replied."Yeah. I don't get how they think it's even a good idea — especially this Scooter Braun guy. He's been especially persistent."
He sighed heavily and leaned back into the leather seat, the fatigue in his voice unmistakable. For days, Scooter Braun — one of the most influential figures in the entertainment world — had been breathing down their necks. He'd gone through UMG directly, pitching a massive LA festival event and pushing hard for Ethan to perform as the main act that night.
The label had jumped on it immediately, painting it as the perfect closing to Ethan's tour — starting with LA and ending with LA.
Honestly, the idea wasn't bad. The deal was great — the kind of offer Bill would've celebrated not too long ago. But that was before…
"Scooter Braun is known to have an almost obsessive attitude, especially when he gets an idea he is infamous in the industry. So I don't think this will be the last time he contacts you," Kiesha — one of the assistants — said, giving her two cents as she crossed her arms, her voice cautious but knowing.
"Yes, but he's also highly influential in the industry, Bill. He isn't someone we should antagonize at least not right now," Jessica added, her tone firm and thoughtful as her eyes met Bill's. "Especially with our plans for the Grammys. We don't want to piss off Scooter or his connections. So please, just be mindful with the way you handle it."
"I know, I know. He's just so—ahhh," Bill groaned, dragging the sound out in pure frustration. His face twisted, and he slumped back into the nearest chair with the weight of a man who'd been holding his breath for too long. He grabbed his paper cup of coffee from the small counter beside him, took a slow, weary sip, and stared blankly at the floor.
After a moment, he glanced to his left, then to his right, scanning the quiet bus. "Where's Ethan, by the way?" he asked, his voice slightly calmer now but still edged with impatience.
Bella, the other assistant, didn't even look up from her tablet as she replied. "Sydney called him, so he went to the back."
Bill nodded slowly, muttering something under his breath as if trying to steady his thoughts. Then he looked toward Rebecca. "And Rebecca — what about Dough and the doctor? Why aren't they back yet? We're wasting time just doing nothing here."
His frustration was starting to show again, his patience stretched thin after days of constant pressure.
Rebecca, who understood the toll this was taking on him, didn't take his tone personally. She straightened up and replied evenly, "Last time I spoke to him, he said to give him thirty minutes — and that was twenty-five minutes ago. He should be here any moment now."
Jessica exhaled softly in relief. "Good," she said, her mind already racing ahead. "Also, remember — this must not leak. The show remains just three more stops. We can't mess this up. We don't need any more scandals. That's why we even flew this man in, in the first place."
Her eyes darted from one face to another — Rebecca, Kiesha, Bella — each of them nodding quietly, understanding the weight of her words.
"Rebecca, Kiesha, Bella — you have to make sure news of this doesn't spread at all. Talk with the band members, the security team, anyone who's had close contact with Ethan in the last five days. Get them to sign an NDA if you have to. News of this must not spread at all," Jessica said, her voice sharp and commanding now.
For a moment, the bus filled with the soft rustling of papers and nervous glances — everyone silently aware of the gravity of what she was saying.
Jessica leaned back slightly, lost in thought. Even with all the plans and precautions, a creeping sense of unease crawled into her chest. She couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how airtight their security seemed, in this business… nothing stayed secret forever.
She had worked long enough in the industry to know that fame was a double-edged sword — and Ethan's fame was unlike anything she'd ever seen. He wasn't just another pop star; he was a phenomenon. The kind of name that drew headlines out of thin air. And that made him both powerful… and dangerously vulnerable.
Despite all her confidence, Jessica knew better than to be naïve. She'd already run through every worst-case scenario in her head. It was better to prepare for the storm than pretend the sky was clear.
She could already imagine it — if the news ever got out, if even one whisper reached the press, it would explode like wildfire. The headlines alone would be enough to shake the industry.
Because what could be more shocking than the revelation that Ethan Jones — the Ethan Jones — arguably the biggest musician on the planet right now… had lost his voice.
She could just imagine the uproar — the chaos that would come if the news ever leaked. The screams of fans echoing through social media, the endless panic threads, the speculation videos, the hashtags trending in minutes. The world would twist it instantly — exaggerate it, blow it out of proportion until the story no longer resembled reality.
There would be people crying outside hospitals they thought he might be in, tabloids publishing "exclusive insider reports" from fake sources, YouTubers analyzing every video clip of him speaking or coughing, trying to prove he'd been faking his health for months. Fan pages would explode with debates — half claiming he was finished, the other half insisting he was hiding to make a "legendary comeback." Some would even claim conspiracies — that the label was covering something bigger, that he'd been silenced, that maybe the Ethan everyone saw now was a body double.
The critics would have a field day. Late-night hosts would joke about it, podcasts would spin it into some story about fame breaking another prodigy, and rival musicians — or their fans — would secretly celebrate online, saying things like, "See? Perfection never lasts."
Jessica could almost hear it — the noise, the chaos, the complete collapse of control. She knew that even if they told the truth, even if they made a calm statement explaining that Ethan hadn't really lost his voice — that he could still talk and function perfectly fine — it wouldn't matter. The public never cared about nuance.
What they'd hear was only one thing: Ethan Jones can't sing anymore.
And that single idea alone would be enough to shatter everything they had built it would cast doubt on any future project album show and all it was a stain that might never leave.
To make it worse, the damage wasn't just theoretical — it was real. Ethan's tone, once famously flawless, wasn't the same anymore. Even Jessica, who would never claim to be a sound expert, could tell. That once-angelic, almost inhuman precision he had… the way his voice could rise and fall like it was sculpted from silk — now it wavered. Just slightly. But enough for anyone who truly listened to notice.
And this hadn't come out of nowhere. It had been building, creeping up slowly over the past few weeks.
She remembered the first time she'd heard about it — when Ethan came down with a massive cold. Everyone thought it was minor. She remembered the phone call from Rebecca saying, "He's still going to perform. He insists."
Then the back-to-back shows, the interviews, the late-night rehearsals. Ethan had pushed through everything with that same fire in his eyes, that same relentless drive that made him who he was. To him, it was simple — the show had to go on.
Jessica had sat on the sidelines, watching the whole thing unfold. She didn't interfere, because at the time it seemed logical. Letting him power through felt easier than cancelling shows, refunding millions of dollars, and risking the backlash of disappointed fans. Losing money and reputation seemed worse than letting him fight through a cold.
But now, with everything that had happened, she wasn't so sure anymore. The decision that once looked strong now felt painfully stupid.
"We shouldn't have let him continue," Jessica sighed, the regret heavy in her voice. She muttered it softly at first, but it came out loud enough for everyone else in the bus to hear.
Rebecca turned toward her almost immediately, her voice calm but firm. "He insisted. We all know Ethan — he wouldn't have listened even if we begged he has gotten stubborn in recent times especially in cases like this. What we should have done was not send back all those openers. We should've forced them to stay on the tour, let them perform, reduce the pressure on him."
Her words seemed to spark something — even the assistants started murmuring in agreement or frustration.
"But the fans really didn't want them!" Bella said quickly, her voice rising with nervous energy. "They were so against the idea — they even protested online! You remember, right? The hate comments, the campaigns — they said they didn't pay to watch anyone else. Some even booed during the first show when Tate McRae came on. It was bad, really bad!"
She shook her head as the memories came flooding back — the boos, the shouts, the trending tags calling it a "cash grab." The label had been bombarded with angry messages, accusing them of cheating fans. Ethan himself had been forced to post a public apology, explaining that he had nothing against Tate and that she was just helping fill in.
The fans didn't care. They wanted him — only him.
And when the label tried again with another opener, Benson Boone, Ethan had shut it down himself. Flat.
But before Bella could even finish speaking, Rebecca suddenly snapped — her frustration spilling over.
"It doesn't matter!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls of the tour bus. "We should've forced it! You know them — after a couple of screams, a few shouts, and some angry tweets, they would've accepted it eventually! It was just a trend! We shouldn't have caved so easily!" Rebecca shouted back.
Hearing her shout, Bill — who had been seated quietly, hands resting on his knees — quickly intervened.
"Okay, okay, okay!" he said, raising both hands, his voice firm but controlled. "Everyone, calm down."
He stood up, straightening his shirt as his tone shifted — strong, commanding, but reassuring. "Look, I know the situation isn't ideal. None of this is. But shouting or blaming each other won't change what's already happened. Thinking about the past won't help us — it'll only slow us down."
He looked around at all of them — Jessica, Rebecca, Bella, Mark, Kiesha — his eyes holding steady. "What we need to do now is move forward. We still have three shows left, and those shows will happen. Ethan needs us to be sharp, not panicking. We can't break here. This is where we have to hold the line."
He began pacing slightly, hands gesturing as if conducting the room. "So let's stop talking about what we should've done and start thinking about what we can do now. We need solutions. Ideas. Even wild ones — throw them out, let's figure it out together. We've handled worse. We're not crashing now, not this close to the end."
For a moment, the bus fell quiet. His words hung heavy in the air — but in a way that steadied them all, like a calm before the storm.
Mark, who had been leaning against the side wall near the kitchen area, glanced toward Vivienne, the creative director standing beside him. With a low whisper, he said, "Wow… normally he looks unreliable. Didn't expect that from him."
Vivienne smiled faintly, her arms crossed as she watched Bill with a new kind of respect. "Yeah," she whispered back. "Didn't expect that either."
She wasn't the only one feeling it. For the first time in a while, Bill didn't look like the goofy, overworked manager who cracked jokes to ease tension. He looked like a leader — like the kind of man who could steer a ship through a storm.
The silence broke when Bella, who had been nervously fidgeting with her phone, suddenly spoke up.
"What about… lip-syncing?"
Jessica, who had her head bent and was still deep in thought, slowly looked up, brows furrowing. "Lip-syncing?" she repeated.
Bella nodded quickly, her voice a bit shaky but growing steadier as she explained. "I mean, it's just a suggestion. We only have two shows left — well, three including tomorrow. Ethan's already known for singing live, right? If we use the recorded versions from his previous performances and just sync the visuals, I doubt anyone would notice. Especially with the production and lighting — it could work."
She glanced around, her eyes searching for some kind of approval or reassurance.
Bill scratched his chin, processing it. "Good, good — that's actually something. But… how do we do that exactly?" He looked around the room, his tone now curious and engaged. "Is that something we can pull off technically? Like, realistically?"
Before anyone could answer, Mark — still standing off to the side — finally spoke up, his calm, measured voice cutting through the air.
"If I may," he said, stepping forward slightly. "I don't actually think that's a good idea."
All eyes turned toward him. Bill raised a brow. "Why not? Elaborate."
Jessica nodded too, folding her arms. "Yeah, explain. We're open to hearing it."
Mark took a slow breath, glancing toward the window where the early afternoon light filtered through the blinds. "Look," he began, "the next few shows we have lined up — they're the smallest in the entire tour. Tomorrow's show especially. Eleven thousand people in a mid-sized venue."
He turned back toward them, voice steady but serious. "When you've got a crowd that size, the attention to detail skyrockets. In a packed stadium with sixty, seventy, ninety thousand people screaming — no one's noticing the tiny things. A missed note, his lips moving half a second off — it all gets lost in the chaos."
He paused. "But in a smaller space? Every sound, every breath, every twitch is seen and heard. There's nowhere to hide. And to perfectly lip-sync at that level, convincingly? That takes months of practice. Months we don't have."
Mark's expression darkened slightly. "And we all know how the media works. If he gets caught lip-syncing even once — if someone films it from the right angle, uploads it online —"
He didn't even need to finish. The thought hung there, heavy and poisonous.
Rebecca finished it for him, her voice quiet but sharp as a knife. "Then the whole tour… possibly everything… would go down in flames. He'd be labeled a lip-syncer."
show as jessica then said "So what are we going to do then"
As she said it, everyone just kept looking at one another. No one really had a real idea what to do. The silence felt heavier than any noise — a room full of professionals, yet none could form a plan. Confusion mixed with fear; eyes darted from one face to another, searching for someone, anyone, to speak up. Then, just as Jessica began losing hope, a calm voice sounded out.
"It's simple," the voice said, steady and certain. "We continue the show."
All of them turned their heads at once. And there he was — Ethan, standing near the door.
For someone who should have been drowning in stress, Ethan looked surprisingly composed. His posture was relaxed, his expression calm, and a faint, sunny smile rested on his lips. Even the way the light hit his face made him seem untouchable — centered, radiant. The tension in the room seemed to ease just from his presence. He was still like the boy she had met at the beginning of all this the fame the money nothing seemed to actually really change him.
And that was the thing, Jessica thought, her eyes never leaving him. Since the day she met him, Ethan had always carried that rare ability — to calm everyone around him without even trying, to make people believe that somehow, everything would turn out fine. It came naturally to him: writing a record-breaking album? Give him a week. Singing in front of seventy thousand people? Effortless. He just did it all.
But this time, it felt deeper — stronger. There was a reason that even after everything — the illness, the stress, the exhaustion — they still trusted him. Even now, with so much uncertainty hanging in the air, Jessica couldn't help but hold on to hope, simply because of him.
She knew better than anyone here the kind of mountain Ethan had been climbing since the day his career started. The world only saw the fame — the lights, the cameras, the noise — but Jessica had seen the cost.
They were on a full tour of the entire United States, after all. People on the outside had no idea how brutal that was for an artist. Most artists, even the biggest names, might do twenty, maybe forty shows spread across years. Yet here Ethan was, doing over fifty shows in just a few short months. And it wasn't just the number — it was the scale.
People liked to say, "It's just the U.S.," as if that made it simple. But what most of them didn't realize was that America was almost double the size of Europe — if you took away Russia. Every city was hours, sometimes days, apart. And Ethan wasn't flying first class between shows — he was traveling by bus. City after city, state after state, sleepless nights and endless roads. For his first tour, no less.
And yet, he did it.
So, as they stood there, one by one, the same thought began to return to everyone's mind — If it's him, he can do it again. the trust Ethan was having in his team was getting something of a comic book level.
Jessica found herself staring into Ethan's eyes — those clear, bright blue eyes that somehow still held conviction despite everything. He looked back at them all, not saying a word for a moment. The silence was no longer fearful; it was steady.
Ethan could feel every pair of eyes on him. He looked around the room slowly, reading their faces — anxious, uncertain, but waiting for him. He knew what they didn't. He knew exactly how bad his throat was.
It wasn't that he couldn't sing — but every time he tried, a faint burning sensation flickered deep inside, sharp and dry like sandpaper. Every swallow stung. Every note threatened to scrape his voice raw. He could feel it even now, that quiet pain pulsing behind his calm expression.
But as he stood there, he knew he couldn't let it show. He was the leader. The one they all looked to when things went wrong. He couldn't break down — not here, not now.
I have to finish this, he thought.