Your boss is a train wreck. How can you work for that crazy bitch?
I wrap the blanket tighter around me, shuddering at my own harsh appraisal. There’s no way he’d think something like that, let alone say it. He’s a saint, which is why I sent him to safety. Every time my gaze lands on the door, I see those warm brown eyes melting in betrayal as I kicked him out. His tall, solid body temporarily filling the gaping hole leading to the dark corridor beyond. But his large frame wasn’t what filled that void in the doorway, it was his overwhelming presence—his essence—and I wrecked it like I wreck everything. I threw him away, the color, the light. A wave of chills washes through me at each blast of the thought in echo. My limbs tingle; my heart rate stutters on the verge of erratic rhythms again. I clench my eyes shut and pull in deep breaths. Fifteen minutes to finish grieving and get back up.
Maybe if I rinse off in the shower? But then I’d have to move and I’ve just found the sweet spot of my pillow. That place where my own warmth has been absorbed and is now being fed back to me in a soothing lie. If I close my eyes I can pretend it’s someone else. Anyone who would dare a connection with the cold, colorless girl who sucks light and life from those around her. Like what I did to Oliver. I could see it in that moment before he turned away. The life I drained from him in our short acquaintance.
Stop. You are in control.
You are in control.
Am I? I hope so if I have any chance of surviving the rest of this day.
Everyone’s here. Everyone’s smiling. Stocker Carmichael, C.E.O. of White Flame Records himself made the trip in from New York for this. As usual, my parents sit to my left, nodding in agreement with everything White Flame says, except for the occasional insignificant point to preserve the illusion they have any control over my career. My manager Samantha Turner sits across from me with her typical steeled poise that simultaneously makes you feel comfortable, confident, and protected. But things are different today. Even Sam’s professionalism isn’t enough to quiet the ember of panic burning deep inside as we discuss my contributions to history—their words, not mine. Who the heck wants to be responsible for dictating history?
“Our momentum has been slipping recently,” Stocker says in a calm, logical tone. “We haven’t had a number one since ‘Boy Crazy,’ so in light of the decision not to do a Christmas tour this year, we think it’s best to launch the world tour in January instead of March as originally planned.”
I nearly choke on a sip of water and stare at him in disbelief. Not that he’s watching my reaction. They don’t even look at me when they say stuff like that anymore. No, they talk amongst themselves like I’m not even here, like my contributions to history have nothing to do with me.
“It’s December,” I interrupt. “We’re going to pull together and launch a full tour in a month? The album isn’t even finished yet.”
My mom shoots me a disapproving look, and I shift in my seat so I don’t have to see her in my peripheral.
Stocker releases a small smile that tells me he was expecting my response. “I get that this is an aggressive timeline, but it’s entirely doable. I’m assured the album will be ready next week, so we feel confident to announce a January fifteenth release. Then we launch the tour a week later. We already have teams working on scheduling and production. In fact, we’ve been working on it for a while already.”
I stiffen in my chair, my fists clenching beneath the table. I feel my joints cramping, my muscles coiling into strike position. “You’ve been working on this for a while and you’re just telling us now?”
A frown settles over Stocker’s face, and I notice the others seem more troubled by me than by him. How is no one else upset about this? I look to Sam, but even she seems more concerned by my reaction than anything Stocker’s said.
“We wanted to make sure it was viable before we brought this to you. It’s still a month away,” Stocker says. I hear his words, and the trained part of my brain nods in agreement. Silent questions drift around the room, flashing in the air before settling over me. Not questions about a tour or an aggressive timeline, questions about me and my reaction. I draw in a deep breath, sink my nails deeper into my palms—and force a smile.
You are in control.
You’re acting crazy.
You are in control.
You need to calm down. This is your truth.
“It’s going to be fine, Genevieve. We wouldn’t have proposed this if we didn’t think we could make it happen. We’ll have to step up rehearsals, of course, but we’re already working on a schedule that will be manageable for everyone and…”
He keeps talking. Everyone’s nodding. Everyone’s smiling again because I’m smiling now too. I feel air on my teeth, so it’s a good smile. I blink. Can’t forget to blink when you smile or it doesn’t look real.
Twenty-seven cities. Millions of fans. Radio interviews. TV interviews. Editorial shoots. Clothing brand. Fragrance line. Possible supporting role in a major film. Would you like to get into acting? Because you could. You can do anything you want. You’ve reached the top. The world is yours. The world is ours. You are the hopes and dreams of an entire generation. You are our future. You. You. You.
Are everything.
And nothing.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” I ask, pushing back from the
