Not that I haven’t already been getting one hell of a workout with my bodyguards, but being a pillow princess can only get me so far when I’ll be darting across a stage for hours on end in forty-two different cities.
Rehearsals have been going great, and I can feel the anticipation from the group of backup dancers I’ve been working closely with. They’re beyond ready to begin traveling next month, and I couldn’t be more thankful for their hard work. This tour is going to be amazing, and it’s all thanks to their efforts.
I grab my water, guzzling it as Jazmine, one of the dancers, corners me. She’s petite and pretty, with dark curls and thick lashes. Her eyes are always bright with excitement, and she radiates positive energy. Her vibe is infectious, and I’ve slowly become closer to her over the last few weeks. It’s hard not to, given her amazing outlook on life.
“Did you see Entertainment Hills’ new article?” She asks, pulling it up on her phone.
I peer over at her screen, groaning. “What are they saying now?”
She flashes the article’s title to me, and I nearly spit my water out.
Rose Beckett, pop star, or love triangle mastermind?
It’s no secret that there’s something scandalous going on inthe Grammy winner’s life. From taking brand shoot photos with one of her bodyguards to being caught holding hands with another out in public, there’s no shortage of juicy gossip this star isn’t wrapped up in.
My eyes flicker to Elijah across the dance studio floor, and he’s already typing furiously on his phone. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s working on damage control, and I feel horrible for that. I haven’t gone public with my relationship status yet because, truth be told, I have no idea if we’re even together. I haven’t received a forward answer on the matter, and it’s really starting to bug me.
Sure, the guys and I do everything together, but where does that put us? Are we exclusive? Are we just letting the flow take us wherever it may lead? And it’s not that I need to put a title on it, but it would be nice to know…
Jazmine tucks her phone back into the pocket of her tights. “Don’t let them pressure you into anything. Paparazzi are vultures.”
“You can say that again,” I chuckle as my eyes stray to my bodyguards. They’re sitting together on the opposite wall, Kairo in the middle as he leans back and has his legs extended in front of him. He shoots me a wink, and I feel the blush creep along my cheeks.
Roman’s phone rings, and he stands abruptly as he answers it. The other two bodyguards go on high alert, standing with him as they huddle together. It sends unease pricking my neck, and I drift over to them.
Roman is scowling as he talks quietly to whoever is on the other end of the phone, and Maddox intercepts me, stopping me from hearing the conversation.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, peaking over his shoulder.
“It’s nothing,” He says, far too quickly for my liking.
When Roman hangs up, he looks furious. He says something to Kairo; their conversation is deathly serious, and it makes my nerves worse.
“What’s going on?” I ask, causing them to look at me.
Roman shakes his head. “This isn’t the place.”
My heart sinks further as I grab my bag and sling the strap over my shoulder. The whole car ride home is full of tense silence, and I don’t know why.
It isn’t until we turn down the private street leading to my home that Roman finally breaks the tension. He glances at me in the rearview, his expression severe. “There was a break-in. The police are en route to look at the damage.”
I stare at him, a torrent of emotions sweeping over me. This has to be Dad. There’s no one else who would be gunning to ruin my life this hard. He’s trying to chip away at my security, little by little, and make it clear that he still has control. This is an intimidation tactic.
As Roman rolls up the driveway, my front door is ajar, dim lights filtering through from the foyer. My security system is smashed to pieces, and my mind doesn’t process the danger that could still be lurking as I throw the car door open.
“Rosalie!” Roman shouts after me, but I don’t stop as I run up the steps of my home.
I yank the front door open, walking into a disaster. My couches are shredded, like someone took a knife to them until there was nothing but stringy loose ends in their wake. My TV is shattered, along with all of the appliances in my kitchen. Every pot and pan I own is vandalised, dented, and worn, but the most eye-catching is the graffiti covering the walls. Thick, black words are painted across the once warm space, the horrible sayings glaring back at me.
Whore.
Two-faced.
Conniving bitch.
Weak.
Pathetic.
