CHAPTER 1
REBECCA
Maybe I’m on Santa’s naughty list this year because, apparently, a silent night is too much to ask for.
I didn’t want to perform so close to Christmas because, for once, I hoped to be home for the holidays. However, I remind myself that this is what I signed up for.
The applause still rings in my ears as I step off the stage in Las Vegas, sweat cooling on my skin, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
I love the music, the connection with thousands of fans singing my lyrics back to me, the way the piano keys feel under my fingertips when I lose myself in a melody.
Everything else? Not so much.
My manager, Lilith, intercepts me before I make it to my dressing room, the earbud transmitting wirelessly to her phone like a permanent accessory. She ends the call and plasters on the smile that means I’m about to hate whatever comes next.
“Great show, Rebecca. Listen, slight change of plans for Christmas.”
My stomach sinks like a low note. “No.”
“I landed you the Progress Project Gala on Christmas Day. It’s a huge opportunity?—”
“You promised.” My voice cracks, and I hate how desperate I sound. “You promised me Christmas with my family.”
Lilith’s expression doesn’t budge. “This is non-negotiable. This contract will open huge doors. Huge! Besides, it’s for sick children.”
Except it’s not. Not really. I’ve done my research on the Progress Project, and their “charitable donations” are about as real as my stage name. Most of the money lines pockets, not research labs or other programs for kids and their families.
“I can’t do it … it’s shady, Lilith.”
“Then you shouldn’t have let me sign the contract.”
“I didn’t let you?—”
She’s already walking away, scrolling through her phone. “Car leaves at six a.m. for the flight to New York.”
I stand there in the hallway, surrounded by crew members packing up equipment as the cage in my chest tightens around my heart.
How did everything in my career go from being about the music, to being about me … to being about Lilith? Oh, right, when I got caught up in celebritydom and let her take over the day-to-day management of my life.
The countdown is on with only two days until Christmas. Instead of decorating cookies with my nephews or watching my niece’s eyes light up over presents, I’ll be performing for people who couldn’t care less about actual charity.
How can I get my life back?
My breath turns shallow. The dressing room spins. I’m suddenly suffocating amidst the flowers from sponsors I don’t know, gift baskets from brands that want me to post about their products, and a rack of flimsy designer dresses I didn’t pick and don’t particularly like.
Pressing my hands to my temples, I try to push away the headache that builds.
My phone beeps repeatedly with info from Lilith, even though my team will have me where they want me to be when they want me to be there. I have people who manage my itinerary, meals, wardrobe, and sleep schedule. I wouldn’t be surprised if I turn around and find someone there reminding me when to use the bathroom.
It’s become too much.
They don’t ask questions. There aren’t discussions, just instructions—marching orders. Meanwhile, this is supposed to be my gig.
Now, Lilith expects me to perform on Christmas Day.
But I can’t. Not this year.
Taking a deep breath, I grab my purse, scoop up Pookie, my pug, from her velvet cushion, and bolt for the parking garage.
