Billy Ray Cyrus strummed his guitar, the chords of Achy Breaky Heart echoing through the grand hall of the Liberty Ball. Beneath the gilded chandeliers, a sea of tuxedos and sequined gowns swayed to the beat, some with awkward enthusiasm, others with calculated restraint. The room buzzed with the uneasy energy of history in motion. It was Donald Trump’s second inauguration, and this performance was as polarizing as the event itself.

“Did you ever think he’d be here?” whispered a woman in a pearl necklace to her husband, her champagne flute trembling in her hand.

“Nope,” the man replied, adjusting his MAGA hat. “But I gotta admit, the man’s got pipes.”

Billy smiled as he played, but his mind raced. What was he doing here? He’d been hesitant when the invitation came, but the promise of millions of eyes on him—and a check that could put his grandkids through college—was hard to resist. Still, he could feel the heat of judgment from the crowd, half of whom looked at him like he was a traitor, the other half like a hero.

He hit the chorus, his voice cracking just slightly, and spotted a protest sign pressed against the glass of a distant window: “CELEBRITY SELL-OUT!” He winced. Did Miley see that?

When the song ended, the applause was thunderous yet strangely hollow. Billy stepped back from the mic, tipping his hat. “Thank you, y’all,” he said, his voice echoing. “God bless America.”

As he walked offstage, a young aide rushed up to him, whispering urgently. “Mr. Cyrus, the President wants to see you backstage. Right now.”

Billy nodded, his boots clacking on the marble floor as he followed the aide. The room behind the stage was dimly lit, and there stood Donald Trump himself, a wide grin plastered across his face.

“Billy!” Trump exclaimed, clapping him on the back. “You were tremendous. Absolutely tremendous. Nobody does it better. The people love you, you know that?”

Billy forced a grin. “Well, Mr. President, I’m just glad to entertain.”

Trump leaned in, lowering his voice. “Listen, I’ve got a new idea. 2028. Cyrus-Trump. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Billy blinked, unsure if he’d heard right. Trump’s grin didn’t falter, and for a moment, Billy thought about the headlines, the protests, and the chance to ride a wave he never imagined being a part of.

“You know,” Billy drawled, “that’s an idea I’m gonna have to… think real hard about.”

As he left the room, the music of the next performer echoed faintly behind him. Outside, the January air bit at his face. Somewhere in the distance, protestors chanted, their voices mixing with the din of the night. Billy Ray Cyrus lit a cigarette and stared up at the cold, starless sky.

Maybe they’d remember his performance. Maybe they’d forget it. Either way, it was going to be a long time before he shook the weight of this night.