My mom can finally come to one of my shows. And this time, when she stares at the singer up on stage, she’ll know it’s her little girl.
The Milan sun is a paler version of its usual self, filtering through the awning of the cafe. I’m nursing my cappuccino, the foam art long gone, dissolving into a swirl of nothing while Cassie attacks a cornetto with the intensity of a wildlife documentary narrator.
“And this…” She points a flaky pastry at me. “Is why you let me pack your non-stage wardrobe. Look at you. You look like a person.”
“I am a person,” I say, but she totally ignores me, taking a bite of the pastry as she keeps talking.
“You’re a chic, mysterious, ‘I have a secret life and a broody girlfriend’ person.”
I glance down at my outfit. Soft, gray trousers with a simple black silk tank, and a cloud-blue sweater to top it off. My collar at my throat dangles, the O-ring catching the sunlight. And I feel more like me than any version of the sequined armor of Solace ever made me feel.
“I didn’t let you pack my bag, Cass.” A real smile tugs at my lips. “You broke into my closet and did a hostile takeover.”
She waves her pastry dismissively, chugging her cappuccino and setting the empty cup beside her other empty cup.
Fuck.
She’s going to climb that skyscraper and touch those trees herself. No elevator needed.
“Semantics. The point is, you’re not wearing leggings and an oversized shirt. This is growth. This is healing. It's a manifestation of you telling your terrifying domme the truth.” She leans forward, her eyes softening from their usual manic gleam. “Seriously though, Vi. I’m happy for you. The air around you doesn’t feel like it’s vibrating with panic anymore. It just feels like you.”
The warmth in my chest spreads. It’s true. The colossal secret is out. At least with the few people that truly matter.
The punishment from Skye was clean and had rules. It had an end date, even though she broke it last night with a demand to see me this morning. There is structure to my chaos now, unlike before, where there had only been the free-fall of lying.
“Thanks, Cass. It’s better.”
“Good.” She sits back, dusting sugar from her fingers. “Now. Bigger question. The closing ceremonies. Are you ready to be Solace for the world one more time before you go dark for the album cycle?”
The familiar flutter of nerves takes flight in my stomach. Not the old, crippling dread of being found out, but the pure anxiety of performance. Of being enough.
“I’m ready. The arrangement is ready. I’m just nervous.”
“I would be too,” Cass toys with the rim of her empty mug. “You’re singing theStar Spangled Banner.If you fuck that up, it’s not only your fans that will notice, but the entire country you’re representing.”
I swallow hard.
“Great, thanks, Cass.”
“Meh. Nerves are just excitement in a boring outfit. You’ll crush it. And then disappear into the studio for six months to make that album come to life.” She checks her watch. “Speaking of disappearing. We should motor on out of here if I’m going to gawk at those tree buildings during your booty call.”
I roll my eyes, but stand, dropping some euros on the table. “It’s not a booty call.”
“Right. Right. Strategy.” She does a scarily accurate impression of Skye’s low and broody tone. “Which, in my extensive research, is a booty call with extra steps.”
Laughing, we turn to weave through the maze of tightly packed cafe tables and walk toward the street. The morning crowd is a mix of tourists looking at maps and locals speeding by on Vespas. I’m halfway to the sidewalk, my mind already drifting toward what Skye might have planned, when a body steps directly into my path.
I automatically sidestep, murmuring, “Excuse me,” but my gaze is snagged on his shirt.
It’s a simple, cheap-looking black t-shirt. Screen-printed across the chest in blocky white letters is a logo I know from a thousand legal documents and night-fueled presentations. AETHELGARD HOLDINGS.
My breath hitches. Ice water flooding through my veins.
My eyes snap to his face. He is unremarkable, in his mid-thirties, with thinning brown hair. A bland and forgettable expression, but I doremember him. The slightly too-eager reporter from backstage after my show at Madison Square Garden. When Michel had to escort me off the stage and into a safe space so I didn’t get shot.
I’d been too exhausted and had forgotten the interview I’d promised him, so I’d brushed him off.
He is here. In Milan. Wearing the logo of the conglomerate that wanted to erase Violet to take over Solace.
