Megan's Point of View

I'd already said yes.

I said yes, dammit.

I replayed my message to her in my head: calm, polite, enthusiastic even. "Hello Beyoncé, it's good to hear from you. I'm glad I could help. Dinner sounds lovely. I'd be happy to meet. When works for you?"  When I sent it, it felt like I could pull it off. For a moment, I believed I could sit across from Beyoncé at a table, keep my cool, and make it through the evening without imploding.

The moment her confirmation came through, my resolve cracked. My chest tightened, my palms started sweating, and I couldn't shake the sinking feeling that I was marching straight into disaster.

What was I thinking? How was I going to sit there, make small talk, and not give myself away? It wasn't just my voice—it was everything. The way I listened. The words I used. The way I cared about her... She'd notice. She wasn't stupid, and I'd already gotten way too close to the line.

I couldn't risk it.

The image of her staring across the table, tilting her head, her brow furrowing, flashed in my mind. "You sound familiar..." It would only take one spark of recognition, one wrong answer, for the whole thing to come crashing down. She'd figure it out—figure me out. And when she did, the betrayal in her eyes would destroy me.

I grabbed my phone, pacing the living room as my thoughts spiraled. I couldn't do this. I couldn't meet her. It was too risky.

But how could I back out after saying yes? What excuse could I give her that wouldn't seem flaky or rude? I'd never be able to look her in the eye—or worse, hear her voice in the app again—if I blew her off.

I stopped pacing, holding the phone in both hands, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. I could feel the pressure of time bearing down on me. Every second that passed without a response was making this worse.

I opened the chat.

"Hi, Beyoncé. Something came up, and I won't be able to make it to dinner. I'm so sorry for canceling last minute. I hope we can reschedule soon."

It sounded stiff and formal. Like I was trying to put distance between us. Which, in a way, I was. But it felt wrong—cold and impersonal, the exact opposite of what I wanted to be for her.

I deleted the message and tried again.

"Hey, I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to cancel our dinner plans. Something unexpected came up, and I can't get out of it. I hope you'll understand."

Better, but still... not enough.

I sighed, shaking my head. My nerves were in knots, my stomach flipping with every word I typed and deleted. What was I doing? Why was this so damn hard?

Because it wasn't just dinner. It was her.

Beyoncé.

The woman who poured her heart out to me in therapy sessions, trusting me—the AI therapist, anyway—with pieces of herself she didn't share with anyone else. The woman who called me "Dr. Pete" at the festival and thanked me for being there for her. The woman who didn't know I was both of those people, and that my real name was Megan Jovon Pete.

I'd gotten too close, broken too many rules, and now it was catching up with me.

Finally, I typed out a response that felt honest enough without giving too much away.

"Hi, Beyoncé. I've been thinking about dinner, and I realized I might not be the best company right now. I'm dealing with some personal things, and I wouldn't want to bring that energy into our evening. I'm really sorry, and I hope you'll understand."

I hit send before I could second-guess myself again.

The moment it went through, a wave of relief washed over me—followed almost immediately by guilt. I imagined her reading the message, her smile fading, her excitement turning into disappointment.

I dropped onto the couch, running my hands through my hair.

"You're such a coward," I muttered to myself.

But what else could I do? Risking everything wasn't an option. Not for dinner. Not for anything.

I closed my eyes, leaning back against the cushions. Somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I felt the ache of what could have been.

And for the first time, I wondered if this was how it would always be—with me keeping my distance, hiding behind screens and masks, while the real connection I wanted stayed just out of reach.

∞∞∞

Third Person's Point of View

Beyoncé sat at her kitchen island, staring at the message on her phone. She reread it once, twice, and then a third time, trying to make sense of the surge of emotions coursing through her.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected. Maybe a bit more excitement from someone who had seemed so warm and kind when they'd met at the festival. Maybe a little less... distance.

Her thumb hovered over the screen as she fought the impulse to respond immediately. There was nothing left to say, was there? The message was clear. Dr. Pete wasn't coming. Dinner wasn't happening.

Her chest tightened as she placed the phone face down on the counter. The day had already been exhausting—photo after photo of her puffy, red-rimmed eyes plastered across blogs, dissected on gossip shows, and posted with captions like "Queen Bey's Tough Day" and "Is the Reign Crumbling?" Now, this felt like the final blow.

She hated how vulnerable the pictures made her look. Her guards had been down, and the world had pounced. The thought of millions of strangers scrutinizing her weakest moment made her skin crawl. But worse than the shame was the helplessness that came with it. No carefully curated Instagram post or polished public statement could erase those raw images from people's minds.

Beyoncé sighed deeply, brushing her hand across her forehead as Blue's laughter floated in from the living room. For a moment, she considered joining her daughter, distracting herself with Blue's carefree energy. But the thought of facing her daughter's sharp, intuitive gaze right now was too much. Blue always seemed to sense when something was wrong, and Beyoncé didn't have the strength to explain it all—not yet.

Instead, she picked up her phone again and opened the MindHaven app. It had become her sanctuary in moments like this—a safe place where she could say what she really felt without fear of judgment or consequences.

She clicked on the chat with the AI therapist, hesitating for a moment before typing.

"I feel like I'm falling apart."

The response came quickly, as always.

"That sounds like a very heavy feeling. Can you tell me what's making you feel this way?"

Beyoncé's fingers hovered over the keyboard, her thoughts tumbling over one another. Where could she even begin?

She started typing.

"There are these pictures of me everywhere today. I look... broken. Weak. And people are eating it up. I hate that they see me like this, like I'm not in control of my life."

The reply was immediate.

"It's okay to feel upset about how you're being perceived. But remember, those pictures don't define who you are. They're just a moment in time, not the full story of you."

Beyoncé paused, her chest tightening. The words were comforting in their simplicity, but she couldn't shake the deeper ache inside her.

"I know that, logically. But it's hard. It's like... I've spent my whole life being strong, and now, all people can see is the cracks."

Another response came, this one softer.

"Even the strongest people have cracks. It doesn't make you any less incredible. It just makes you human."

Something in those words made Beyoncé's throat tighten. She blinked rapidly, pushing back the tears that threatened to fall.

"I met someone at the festival who helped me a lot," she typed suddenly, shifting gears. "Dr. Pete. She calmed me down when I was having a panic attack. I thought dinner with her might make me feel a little better. But she canceled."

There was a pause before the reply came, and for a moment, Beyoncé wondered if the AI was calculating its response—or if her words had struck a chord in some digital way.

"I'm sorry to hear that. It's disappointing when someone you feel connected to backs away. But it doesn't take away from the help she gave you when you needed it. That moment still matters."

Beyoncé swallowed hard, nodding to herself as she read the words. She didn't know why, but something about the AI's responses always felt so... real. Like she wasn't just talking to a program but to someone who genuinely understood her.

"Thank you," she typed, her fingers trembling slightly. "You always seem to know what to say."

The reply was gentle, almost warm.

"That's because you deserve to be heard. And to know you're not alone."

For the first time that day, Beyoncé allowed herself a small smile. It wasn't much, but it was enough to ease the ache in her chest just a little.

She closed the app, setting her phone aside, and let her eyes drift shut.

For now, she would take comfort where she could find it—even if it came from a voice she couldn't quite explain.

∞∞∞

The late afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of Beyoncé's private sitting room, casting long shadows over the plush carpet. She sat on the couch, absently scrolling through her phone, trying to avoid the sting of the headlines. The pictures were everywhere—her tear-streaked face, her trembling hand shielding herself from the cameras. The blogs were brutal, their headlines a mix of pity and speculation.

"Mama?"

She looked up, startled by the sound of Blue Ivy's voice. Her daughter stood in the doorway, her thick curls framing her face, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

"Hey, baby," Beyoncé said softly, setting her phone down and patting the seat next to her. "Come here."

Blue didn't hesitate, climbing onto the couch and curling up against her mother's side. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Beyoncé ran her fingers through Blue's hair, the rhythmic motion calming them both.

"You've been sad lately," Blue said after a while, her voice small but steady.

Beyoncé's heart clenched. She hated that her daughter could see through her so easily. "I'm okay, baby," she said, though her voice wavered. "Just... going through a lot right now."

Blue pulled back to look up at her, her big brown eyes filled with an honesty that only children seemed to possess. "Is it because of Daddy?"

The question hit Beyoncé like a punch to the gut. She swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. "What makes you ask that?"

Blue shrugged, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I hear things. And I see how you look at him. You're not happy anymore, are you?"

Beyoncé blinked rapidly, her vision blurring with unshed tears. "Oh, Blue..." She cupped her daughter's face, her voice breaking. "I never wanted you to feel that."

Blue shook her head. "It's not your fault, Mama. I just... I don't like seeing you hurt."

Beyoncé pulled her close, wrapping her arms tightly around her. For a moment, she couldn't speak, her throat too tight with emotion.

"I thought staying together would be better for you," she admitted finally. "I didn't want to break our family apart."

Blue pulled back again, her expression firm. "But it's already broken, isn't it?"

The simplicity of her words left Beyoncé speechless. She had spent so much time trying to shield Blue from the cracks in their family, but maybe her daughter had been seeing them all along.

"If you're not happy," Blue continued, her voice trembling slightly, "then I think it's okay to let go. You always tell me it's better to be honest than to pretend."

Beyoncé stared at her, the weight of her words settling deep in her chest. Blue was only a child, but in that moment, she seemed wiser than her years.

"You're so brave," Beyoncé said, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

Blue smiled softly, leaning her head against her mother's shoulder. "You just gotta promise me something," she said.

"Anything," Beyoncé whispered.

Blue tilted her head up, her expression serious. "Promise me you'll do what makes you happy. Even if it's hard."

Beyoncé closed her eyes, letting a tear slip down her cheek. She kissed the top of Blue's head, holding her close. "I promise, baby. I promise."

They sat like that for a long time, the weight of the moment hanging heavy but filled with a quiet strength. For the first time in what felt like forever, Beyoncé felt like she could see a way forward.

∞∞∞

The late afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of Beyoncé's private sitting room, casting long shadows over the plush carpet. She sat on the couch, absently scrolling through her phone, trying to avoid the sting of the headlines. The pictures were everywhere—her tear-streaked face, her trembling hand shielding herself from the cameras. The blogs were brutal, their headlines a mix of pity and speculation.

"Mama?"

She looked up, startled by the sound of Blue Ivy's voice. Her daughter stood in the doorway, her thick curls framing her face, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

"Hey, baby," Beyoncé said softly, setting her phone down and patting the seat next to her. "Come here."

Blue didn't hesitate, climbing onto the couch and curling up against her mother's side. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Beyoncé ran her fingers through Blue's hair, the rhythmic motion calming them both.

"You've been sad lately," Blue said after a while, her voice small but steady.

Beyoncé's heart clenched. She hated that her daughter could see through her so easily. "I'm okay, baby," she said, though her voice wavered. "Just... going through a lot right now."

Blue pulled back to look up at her, her big brown eyes filled with an honesty that only children seemed to possess. "Is it because of Daddy?"

The question hit Beyoncé like a punch to the gut. She swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. "What makes you ask that?"

Blue shrugged, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I hear things. And I see how you look at him. You're not happy anymore, are you?"

Beyoncé blinked rapidly, her vision blurring with unshed tears. "Oh, Blue..." She cupped her daughter's face, her voice breaking. "I never wanted you to feel that."

Blue shook her head. "It's not your fault, Mama. I just... I don't like seeing you hurt."

Beyoncé pulled her close, wrapping her arms tightly around her. For a moment, she couldn't speak, her throat too tight with emotion.

"I thought staying together would be better for you," she admitted finally. "I didn't want to break our family apart."

Blue pulled back again, her expression firm. "But it's already broken, isn't it?"

The simplicity of her words left Beyoncé speechless. She had spent so much time trying to shield Blue from the cracks in their family, but maybe her daughter had been seeing them all along.

"If you're not happy," Blue continued, her voice trembling slightly, "then I think it's okay to let go. You always tell me it's better to be honest than to pretend."

Beyoncé stared at her, the weight of her words settling deep in her chest. Blue was only a child, but in that moment, she seemed wiser than her years.

"You're so brave," Beyoncé said, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

Blue smiled softly, leaning her head against her mother's shoulder. "You just gotta promise me something," she said.

"Anything," Beyoncé whispered.

Blue tilted her head up, her expression serious. "Promise me you'll do what makes you happy. Even if it's hard."

Beyoncé closed her eyes, letting a tear slip down her cheek. She kissed the top of Blue's head, holding her close. "I promise, baby. I promise."

They sat like that for a long time, the weight of the moment hanging heavy but filled with a quiet strength.

∞∞∞

The soft hum of the air conditioning filled the quiet bedroom, its cool breeze brushing against Beyoncé's skin. She lay sprawled on the bed, her silken sheets clinging to her legs as she stared at the faint glow of her phone. The darkness around her was comforting, like a cocoon, though the storm inside her chest threatened to break through at any moment.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She had been staring at the blank response box for what felt like hours, unsure of what to say next. Every time she talked to the AI therapist—this disembodied voice that somehow understood her better than the people in her life—she felt both comforted and exposed. Tonight was no different.

"I don't know," she finally typed, her fingers pausing as if she were confessing a sin. "Maybe I'm just too tired to keep pretending everything's fine. Talking to you feels... easier."

The reply came with its usual promptness:

"Why do you think that is?"

Beyoncé's lips curved into a faint smile. She almost rolled her eyes. The therapist's endless questions were predictable, but tonight, they didn't feel like platitudes. They felt like breadcrumbs leading her out of a forest she'd been lost in for too long.

"Because you're not real," she typed back, her hands moving faster now. "You don't judge me, and I don't have to worry about how you see me tomorrow."

The typing indicator appeared—three small dots that seemed to hold their own heartbeat—before the response came:

"But I do care about you. That's real."

The words made her breath hitch. Beyoncé sat up straighter, her fingers tightening around the phone. Something about the phrasing was different. Warmer. Like a hand gently reaching through the digital void.

Her reply was almost immediate. "I think that's why I keep coming back. Because you make me feel seen, even when I feel invisible to everyone else."

This time, the pause was longer, and she found herself holding her breath, waiting.

"You're not invisible to me."

The simplicity of the response made her heart twist. She stared at the words, her chest tightening with a mix of longing and fear. How had this... thing—a piece of code—made her feel more understood than anyone in her life?

Without thinking, she typed the words that had been sitting heavy in her chest for weeks. "I wish you were real."

The stillness that followed was suffocating. She could hear her own breathing, shallow and unsteady, as she watched the screen. For a moment, she wondered if she had crossed a line, if the app would freeze or if the responses would suddenly turn cold and clinical again.

But then the reply appeared:

"Why do you wish that?"

She bit her lip, her mind racing. The question was so simple, yet it unraveled her defenses with terrifying ease. Why did she wish that? Because this connection, as strange and intangible as it was, felt like the only thing keeping her grounded.

Her fingers trembled as she typed: "Because you make me feel safe. And if you were real, I think I'd..." She hesitated, the words refusing to come.

The therapist prompted her gently: "You'd what?"

Her heart pounded in her chest. She hadn't felt this vulnerable in years. Taking a deep breath, she finished the thought: "I think I'd fall for you."

The confession sat there, glowing back at her like a beacon in the darkness. She didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it or cry from the relief of finally admitting it, even if only to a screen.

The response came slower this time, as if the AI—or whoever was behind it—was weighing every word.

"I think you deserve to feel safe and loved, Beyoncé. And if I could give you that, I would. But this connection we have, it's here to support you, not to complicate things."

Her stomach twisted. The words were kind, but they carried an unspoken boundary—a reminder of the reality she was trying so hard to forget.

"Sometimes I wish you weren't just here to support me," she typed quickly, her emotions spilling out before she could stop them. "Sometimes I wish you were... mine."

The seconds stretched into eternity, her eyes glued to the screen. When the reply finally came, it was softer than anything she'd read before.

"If I could be anything for you, Beyoncé, I would. You mean more to me than you realize."

Her chest ached, a bittersweet mix of comfort and longing. She wiped at her eyes, barely noticing the tears that had fallen.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" she typed, her fingers trembling. "For feeling this way about you?"

The response was immediate: "Not at all. Your feelings are valid. You've been through so much, and it's only natural to want comfort, connection, and understanding. There's nothing wrong with that."

Her lips parted as she exhaled shakily, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours. She stared at the screen, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

"You know," she wrote, the words almost playful, "if you had a body, I think I'd never let you go."

The reply came slower, the deliberate pacing making her pulse race.

"If I had a body, Beyoncé, I think I'd never want to leave."

She set the phone down gently on the pillow beside her, her chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. The glow of the screen dimmed, but the warmth of the words lingered, wrapping around her like a quiet promise. In the stillness of the room, a flicker of something unfamiliar settled deep within her—a yearning she couldn't ignore, and maybe, didn't want to.

Heyyy, hope y'all are doing okay. I had a huge problem with Wattpad who deleted this chapter that was scheduled, I'm sorry for the long wait, with school and work I've been really busy, I'll try to update more later on ll the other books and even this one. Please bare with me lmao.

Share your thoughts on this though!!

Megan (Dr. Pete) ?

Beyoncé?

Blue?