Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 187754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 939(@200wpm)___ 751(@250wpm)___ 626(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 187754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 939(@200wpm)___ 751(@250wpm)___ 626(@300wpm)
“And you bit it, Aurelia,” Bennett, my agent, interrupts. “This time, more than you can chew. Now swallow it so we can get in front of this while we still can. You think the media isn’t offering Tania the same chance?”
I shrug, staring out the window of the high-rise while Joanna stands to pace behind me and Bennett reaches for the gin. I’m pretty sure I’m the reason my agent can’t stay sober. “I don’t care. She’s the one who needs the press. Let her choke on my crumbs.”
Joanna huffs and silences her ringing cell. A few seconds later, the phone on her desk starts ringing off the hook. Calls regarding me, I’m sure.
“Oh, really?” Joanna snaps. “Well, I’ve got news for you, Aurelia. No one’s untouchable. Not even you. You can’t hide behind your fans this time. You’ve got to face this.”
“Why?”
She huffs, and through the reflection in the window, I see her turn to my silent uncle for help.
Marston George, my dad’s younger brother, is a light-skinned Black man in his early fifties with a short beard, bald head, and eyes so dark they appear pupilless. I can’t tell you how many times he’s been mistaken for the actor, Stephen Bishop. Alas, I’m not that lucky. My uncle’s sitting on the sofa, twirling the brown liquor in his glass, but I know he’s far from indifferent.
I’ve been professionally singing since I was fourteen. Uncle Marston has been at my side every step of the way. He held my hand before every performance, through my first music deal, and when my dad died.
My mom is another story.
She was a junkie turned housewife turned junkie again before she died. My dad used to be her dealer and, ironically, was the one who got her clean after they fell in love. He stopped dealing once she became pregnant with me, and they both became law-abiding, tax-paying citizens.
Sounds too good to be true, right?
That’s because it is.
When my dad was murdered over a decade-old grudge, my mom went right back to her old ways. Uncle Marston wasn’t having it, though. He threw her into rehab, and before the ink on the court-ordered papers was even dry, he moved me out here to Los Angeles, where he put me on a stage for the first time and told me to sing.
I wasn’t used to performing for a crowd back then—for family, yes, but never for total strangers and never competitively. At first, I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted anymore. It felt like a betrayal to my parents. Uncle Marston used to be a bigwig executive at Savant Records before he quit to manage me.
Before that, he had been trying for years to convince my parents to let him work with me, but they weren’t going for it. My parents’ only dream for me had been to make sure I never grew up to be like them—which, for my mom and dad, meant walking the straightest line ever.
Singing had distracted me from my grief. It gave me an outlet for the pain of losing them, and for a long time, I didn’t look back. I didn’t care what the other kids my age were doing. I didn’t mourn the experiences I missed out on. I didn’t even care if the pressures and powers my fame gave me stunted my emotional growth.
“Move on, Joanna,” my uncle finally speaks. “Aurelia already said no, and no one here is going to force her.”
Without turning around, I smile victoriously.
Some may say having my every whim catered to has made me rotten, but I don’t care. I learned early on that the “grown-ups” weren’t going to rock the boat or bite the hand that fed them, so I’ve been walking all over people long before I was old enough to drive.
The money and fame are great, but the power is what I really live for.
While Joanna and Uncle Marston bicker about me, I study my perfect manicure with the Pretty Girls Wear Pink gel nail polish in shade number eight.
Two years ago, I rocked pink nails for the entire month of October in my publicist’s feeble attempt to show my support for breast cancer awareness. I was only permitted poses that kept my hands visible in photographs—no matter how awkward—until I was finally asked about it during an interview. I then recited Joanna’s prepared statement of solidarity, and just like that, I became the face of breast cancer.
A month later, I signed an annual eight-figure partnership deal with the largest cosmetic company in the world. In exchange, they slapped my face and name on as many overpriced products as they could and made a mint selling to people who could barely afford to walk through the door.
A multi-billion-dollar company got richer, and I was exalted in the media for making it happen.