I blink. The question lands harder than it should.
“Oh. That.” I shrug like it’s nothing. “We… went on a break.”
Not a lie. Not the truth either.
Inside my skull, the thoughts spiral fast:
Banks hasn’t given me any news on purpose—he calls it a therapeutic “detox.” Honestly, though, I never cared much about the other girls. We were strangers to each other. Rebel June was put together by Jett purely as a market strategy: a rock-powered girl group, our vocals and my songs feeding his profits. He’ll probably split them up soon, turn them into solo acts he can control one by one. He loves control.
I blocked his number on every device, every app—not because I’m done with him, but because I still can’t write anything new. The moment I touch a blank page, my brain locks up. Yet inside my head, the memories hit anyway, relentless and uninvited.
Jett’s voice, smooth and certain, issuing orders like spells:“Fix this lyric before midnight. We need another track by dawn.”
Doctors at ungodly hours, syringes and shots shoved into my arm so I could perform through flu, exhaustion, raw pain, because staying in bed to recover was not an option.
Seventeen. Myomectomy. Stitches still raw. Eighteen-hour drive to the next gig. Painkillers they injected like magic. I hit the stage anyway. Cranked. Smiling. Performing. Perfect.
And I did it, every damn time, until the machine broke me from the inside out. Thirteen breakdowns later, all hidden behind teeth and applause, all swept under carpets with more meds, more schedules, more demands.
Jett was supposed to be my mentor, the one who discovered me, but he didn’t see me. He never saw me. I was just output. Just another product.
And the thought of going back to LA? Of answering his calls? Of letting him have that kind of control again? No. Never. Not now. Not ever?
“Hey.”
Lily nudges my arm, pulling me out of the spiral. “I’ll keep your secret,” she says softly, “if you teach me guitar.”
I snort, surprised. “Wow. Blackmail. Impressive.”
She grins. “I drive a hard bargain.”
And the stupid thing is—I like her.
I like her honesty, her steadiness, her soft-but-stubborn courage. She doesn’t flinch at my weirdness. Or my quiet. Or my name.
“Fine,” I say, pointing at her. “But only if you promise one thing.”
She sits up straighter. “What?”
“You don’t go pro before you’re twenty-one.”
Her face scrunches. “Why?”
Because it will eat you alive.
Because it will take your childhood and turn it into content.
Because people will clap while you burn.
“I just… want you to enjoy being a kid,” I say instead. “Have school and friends and… normal stuff. I wish I had—” My throat tightens. “—a mentor who cared more about me than the money.”
And suddenly I’m back in that memory—the one I try not to touch.
Jett smiling like a king granting a favor.
Calling me “his prodigy.”
Telling fourteen-year-old me that I’d change the world if I didn’t slow down.
