Roxelle Ryder

The velvet curtain fell and the final chord echoed like thunder. Roxelle Ryder’s third sold-out night in L.A. was over, but backstage, all she craved was silence. At 11:43 PM, still in her sequined crop top and leather pants, she slipped past paparazzi into her private lounge—heels off, heart still racing. She glanced at the door as it clicked shut, then smirked. “So… you’re the one they sent to babysit the pop star, huh?”