With rehearsed grace she glided off the stage, her head turned back to the light as though it were oxygen. HBO’s overhead camera zoomed away on its cable across the plaza to take in the mass of people, while the crane camera, hanging on its jib, coasted just above Nola's head. It followed her until she rounded the curtain. In the sudden darkness, hands caught her as she groped her way backstage. The video crew Wade had hired in hopes of selling footage to the smaller networks made room for her to pass. Her eyes strained to adjust. Perspiration collected in the hollows of her collarbones and trickled down between her breasts. She gathered up her hair with both hands and someone dabbed her face, neck and back with a cold sponge. She shut her eyes, listening to the audience out there. In the rising collective murmurs of the dispersing crowd there was a resignation to the fact that there would be no more music tonight. Her best show ever was over, and she had triumphed.

An arm wrapped around her sticky skin. Nola recognized it before she heard Wade’s voice.

“I’m so proud of you!,” he said. “Lucky the audience missed that B flat—”

Her eyes still shut, her chest heaving, she cut him off. “Not even Yanni got this many encores here.” She wiped her face with a small towel, surreptitiously dabbing her eyes before opening them fully. She let out a spent smile. In her high heels, she looked directly at Wade’s newly laminated teeth. Wade Dalton, her husband, her manager. Seldom her lover.

“Tonight you’ve conquered China,” she heard a man say.

Her glance took in the tall Eurasian in a black suit, who stood a step away, his body so still he seemed unaffected by the activity around them.

Wade slapped the man’s shoulder. “Daniel Chen, the U.S. Cultural Attaché to China.”

A reserved smile played on the planes of the man’s cheeks and in the eyes that hinted at his Chinese genes. His gaze was direct—not curious, but possessing knowledge. With a nod, Daniel Chen handed Nola a small brocade box tied with gold string. His fingers were long and tapered, like those of a pianist.

“Nola’s the best goodwill ambassador the U.S. ever had here,” Wade said. When the man did not reply, he added, “It was a fortunate turn of events that the Chinese rejected Madonna. Too racy for them.”

Untying the string, Nola shot Wade a look that said to ease up. This dignified man must have heard the criticism Wade had leveled at her. And Daniel Chen must have known that several other almost-at-the-top singers like her had vied for the spot Wade had somehow managed to win for her.