“So is basic human decency,” I fire back, voice cool, almost calm, though I can feel the adrenaline warming every inch of me now.“You either go out there, or you don’t.But I’m done spinning gold out of your tantrums.I don’t have any magic left to spare.Either you do what you’re told, or you’re fired—and I’ll make sure your career sinks.”
That’s not something I can do, but this woman only understands threats.I can throw them easily.I was raised by Connor Dempsey, one of the biggest assholes in the industry.I can bark just like him, though I would never bite.
She turns, all flounce and scowl.“Get me my stylist,” she snaps at her assistant.“This jacket makes me look too approachable.”
I’m already walking out.
Outside, the crowd erupts the moment she steps onto the floor like nothing happened.Camera flashes ignite around her.Every angle polished.Every fake smile perfected.She looks effortless.Glowing.Like she was born for this.
To them, she’s a dream.A real-life fairytale with better contouring.
What happened backstage?To them, it’s invisible.Imagined.Some fantasy cooked up in tabloid speculation.
But it wasn’t.It happened.
And I’m done pretending it didn’t.
Working with people who’ve forgotten how to be fucking human?
It’s soul-depleting.
And today, I’m finished trading my spine for someone else’s illusion.
ChapterEighty-One
Kit
July 7th, 1997
I couldn’t get a flight back to Seattle until tomorrow.Just my luck.My only consolation?A suite at The Plaza—though even that feels like a cruel joke.
The room is quiet.Too quiet.That suffocating, overly pristine quiet that luxury hotels specialize in.It’s all plush carpet, bone-colored sheets tucked into oblivion, and dim art lighting casting soft glows over curated prints.Everything is elegant, curated, and calm.
And completely devoid of soul.
There’s no life here.Just expensive stillness.
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I kick off my heels.One skids under the velvet armchair, the other lands sideways against the leg of the coffee table.They land like I feel—disjointed, thrown, tossed somewhere I don’t belong.
I want to shower.I want to cry.I want to chuck Serena’s fucking Fiji bottle out the window and hear it explode against concrete like a scream finally let loose.
Instead, I reach for the room phone.I press the buttons slowly, carefully.Like dialing will summon something more than just another conversation I don’t want to have.
Bernice picks up on the second ring.“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Kit.”I flop onto the bed, the stiff mattress barely giving beneath me.I stare at the ornate ceiling like it might offer me a sign, a sentence, a shove in the right direction.“Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.Wait—how did it go?Did Serena make it through without firing the entire staff?”
“She made it.”I pause, the words catching in my throat.“I didn’t.”
There’s a long silence before she asks, “What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t handle her meltdown,” I say, voice raw.“In fact, I can’t handle anybody else’s meltdown.I had to cancel lessons, walk out on my store, leave everything behind to babysit a woman who throws fits over room temperature and playlist fonts and goddamn Evian.”
“She’s our client.”
“We have other clients.”I sit up now, my pulse thumping in my ears.“And I don’t see you sending me to handle them.Laura’s on tour, and she’s lovely.I’d hop on a plane tomorrow if it were her.But, no—you send me here.To this.”
