“Sing it to Max. Sing it to him like every note is a dagger in his heart,” Clarice said.
The visual was curious, but anything was worth a shot.
“Fine,” I agreed. “I will try again, but… I am going to change a couple of things. Play along like we’re in a jam session.”
Whether it was Clarice’s vindictive visualization or the press of time, it all came together. I sang my heart out, reaching the depths in the verses and soaring in the chorus. But my grungiest, most authentic bit came with verse two.
You called it fame, but it was a cage
Now while I’m on center stage
You’re stuck reading from my page.
You’re yesterday’s news
Well, I think you’re gonna lose
I channeled the feelings of a fifteen-year-old berated for eating too much, cutting her hair too short, and openly admitting I liked girls. I thought about every time my manager threatened me for daring to challenge his authority. I remembered the feeling of being forced to dance suggestively on a stage in a way that made me feel ever more disconnected from my body. In that verse, I unlocked power I didn’t know my voice possessed.
As the last note rang, I finally looked at theband, realizing I’d been singing to the clock above the studio window for the past three minutes exclusively. No one said anything. I wondered if I’d hallucinated it all until I surmised, they wantedmyopinion first.
“It was fucking brilliant, yeah?” I asked.
“Fuck yeah it was!” Alicia said.
“Tits!” Clarice giggled.
“That’s the take.”
AJ buzzed. “Thank God, because we’re out of time in 2 minutes.”
“We should have at least fifteen!” I protested.
“I lied. I knew you would freak out!” AJ admitted.
That day, we created the track that would launch me from burnout poptart-turned-background-player into starlet again at forty-two. We made magic where we didn’t even know it existed.
Chapter 2
Marching Orders
BETTY
Isat in a drawing room, hands folded, awaiting my fate. Everyone at the palace ran late, and I had a flight back to Florida to catch. Finally, a familiar face appeared. My cousin Cici arrived and sat beside me.
“Your Dad is dragging this out. Am I marching to my death or receiving an honor?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Mamma isprobablytalking the ambassador’s damn ear off. I figured I’d stop by and see you. You weren’t here long.”
“I was here for Magne’s christening but that was pretty much it, yeah.”
She sighed wistfully.
“You miss it, huh?” I asked.
Cici shrugged. “What good does it do to say it? Of course I miss competing, but it was time to pass the torch, sweetheart.”
Until this year, Cici competed regularly as an eventing star. She made a name for Norwegians at the Olympics. As her parents aged and her father reached the unofficial threshold for Scandinavian monarchs, she prioritized herofficial crown princess duties. The shift struck me as cruel—especially as I was too far down the line of succession to face the same choice.
