"Woah, woah, Olivia. You’re not my ideal bride either." I cock a brow, holding eye contact, watching as her face turns beet red in frustration.
"Olive. The label needssomething.They need to break you out of your comfort zone. Something that makes you more exciting. Sure, you have a good group of fans who will ride for you at dawn, but eventually they’ll get bored. You’re new on the scene. Give them something to latch on to from the start. If not, you’ll fizzle out quickly. Make them see that you’re a real person that they can relate to." She sighs, a sympathetic, soft smile on herface, and I can see the wave of defeat that crushes over Olive like a tsunami.
"Fine." She sits back down in her seat, rubbing her fingers into her temples. "Tell me what you need me to do."
Josie doesn’t acknowledge Olive’s acceptance before turning to me.
"Avery. Tonight, Olive has her final show. You have a reserved seat. You need to be photographed in it, before you’re seen heading backstage."
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head before accepting my fate with a defeated nod.
"Olive. Avery has his team's gala two weeks from tomorrow. Every day and night the two of you have free in between those two weeks, will be spent together. I have already booked you a room at the same hotel you’re in now, with the same Alias. I’ll have a stylist and beauty team arrive that morning. Avery, Orlando will text you the details for when and where to pick her up. I’ll arrange a car for you both," Josie says, manager mode in full swing, flicking through her contact list on her phone. "I’ll have the contract ready before the gala. Orlando, get your lawyers to look over it before anyone signs anything. Olive included."
Orlando nods.
"Don’t bother about the car. I’ll pick her up myself." I need to be in control ofsomething,even if it is as minor as driving myself to an event.
"I don’t mean to nit-pick at this, but wouldn’t it look less fake if he and I were together in the same place, rather than him picking me up from my hotel? I don’t know of any couple, real or fake, who would get ready for an event in separate places." She shrugs, sinking back into her seat.
"As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right." I mimic her movements.
"Then you’ll stay at Avery’s apartment. Josie, I’ll pass on the details for you to send to your client."
"Seriously, do either of you know my name?" Olive rises to her feet, shaking her head. "I guess I’ll see you then." Olive heads out the door without so much as a look in my direction. But I swear I saw tears fighting like hell to fall down her cheeks, while Josie followed hot on her heels.
It’s barely ten in the morning, and shit has already hit the fan.
"You really think we can pull this off?" I ask Orlando the minute the door slams behind us, leaving a thick wave of silence in the air for him and I to soak in.
"I do." He nods. "You just need to act loving. Dote on her. Buy her gifts, but be seen doing it. Maybe a piece of jewellery. Something small that she can wear all the time that isn’t too obvious, but something people willknowis from you.Foryou."
As if I didn’t already have enough shit to do, now I apparently need to go shopping.
For jewelry, of all things.
I have two weeks to shut downAmore’sand find the perfect piece.
Chapter fifteen
Olive
"Wheredoyoufindyour inspiration to write the type of songs that you do?" Arj, the local radio host, says from across the tiny studio space. I wish I could give him and this interview the attention it deserves, but my mind keeps wandering, thinking about my impending marriage.
How did I go from living in a small town, teaching high school students how to read and write music, keeping my private life to myself, tothis?
Performing on stage every night in front of thousands of people, living in hotel rooms, and forced to marry a man I know nothing about.
Sighing heavily, I manage a response to Arj. "You mean sad songs?" I force a smirk, hoping it comes off as though I have a sense of humor. I know that’s exactly what he means, but it’s funny watching grown men squirm a little when you call them out.
"Exactly. Surely one person can only go through so much heartbreak before their songs all start to sound the same." It isn’t a question, but a fact. He levels me with a look that says, ‘Now what?’
I so badly want to call him out. I want to tell him that I know for a fact he never asks male artists the same questions. That they have the same style of storytelling as I do, some more depressing than mine. But I don’t.
Instead, I ignore the spite in his words and answer his first question as politely as I can. "Truthfully, I get my inspiration from the people around me. When sad things happen to them, I write about it." I shrug nonchalantly, but the look on his face tells me it isn’t what he wants to hear. He wantsmyheartbreak. He wantsmytruth. He wants the gut-wrenching, raw vulnerability. But that part of me doesn’t exist. How can I give it to him when I’ve never even felt it myself? "There’s not a lot to it, to be honest. It’s just how it goes." I take a quick and quiet sip of my water while I wait for whatever he’s going to fire at me next.
"Olive, the girl and her guitar. Grangewood Creek’s only celebrity," Arj says, and I laugh, because we both know that’s wildly false.
"That’s not true, actually," I reply with a soft smile. "We’re also known for the football players we produce." I can picture my brother-in-law rolling his eyes when he inevitably listens to this interview.
