"I’m not sure about all that. I’m just trying to do my own thing. Make my own name, you know?"
"Oh, sure, I get that,” he says dismissively. “But it must be tough, right? I mean, living up to what she did—those shoes are pretty big to fill."
I pause, trying to ignore the weight his words put on my shoulders. My heartbeat flutters in my ears.
“Yeah, well … I guess everyone expects me to fill them. But I’m not her. I just want to know if I can stand on my own, without constantly worrying about how my performance affects her legacy.”
The man chuckles. “If you want people to stop making that connection, you need to turn their attention away from your music.”
I swallow a retort—isn’t my music the entire point?—and smile. “And what should I have them turn their attention to?”
“A story. You and Connor Nash, for instance.”
My fake smile falters. “What about him?”
“You two are practically made for the headlines—The Golden Boy and the Legacy. People eat that stuff up. It would take you from being the ‘daughter of’ to the one everyone’s talking about. Think about it. Drama sells, Lucy. People don’t just want your music, they want a narrative they can follow.”
My hand tightens around my water bottle, my breath shallower. “I don’t need a story. I’m not a tabloid headline.”
The exec chuckles to himself, like I’m too naive for words. “You’ve got talent, but an extra angle never hurt anyone. Right now, everyone’s talking about you because you’re Winona’s daughter. But if you could become Connor’s girlfriend …” He spreads out his arm, like the story sells itself.
“And here I thought they were talking about me because of my music,” I say, trying to laugh instead of set him on fire with my eyes. “Remember, I had hits going viral before anyone even knew who I was.”
“That’s right,” he says, appeasingly. Patronizingly. “And that’s what I mean. You were so mysterious! It was a brilliant hook. You know how to craft a narrative already. So take control of this one.”
“By dating someone the label tells me to date?”
He laughs. “Come on, Ms. Williams. We’re not in the business of telling people what to do with their love lives. If Connor hadn’t started flirting with you online, it never would have occurred to any of us that you two could be this generation’s power couple.”
My stomach twists, and I want out of this conversation—fast.
“Thanks for the feedback,” I tell him. “I’ll take it under consideration. And in the meantime, hopefully, I’ll win some fans by creating great music, not just theories for fans.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says.
As soon as he turns away, I head for the exit, not caring if I’m leaving the party an hour early, not caring if anyone thinks I’mrude. My stomach is roiling, my head is pounding, and I have to blink to fight back tears.
But people waylay me. They stop me with more comments, more jokes, more comparisons.
I laugh them off, but each one chips a piece of me away.
I keep my eyebrows perked up, fighting the weight of exhaustion pulling at me.
I perform more for the media than I ever do on stage.
When I finally leave the room, my head is pounding like a drum, and I feel like I’m about to throw up. I dig my thumb into the soft spot in my palm, rubbing circles into the tight muscle, trying to squeeze out some of the tension as a ringing in my ears starts.
“You okay?” Patty’s voice cuts through the fog in my head.
He’s sitting on a chair right near the green room, ever on guard.
I still my hand, forcing a bright, too-wide smile. “Always.”
His eyes flick down to my hands, then back up, watching me carefully.
“Glad to hear it,” he says, his voice soft, but with that certain knowing in it.
He stands and thrusts a steaming coffee cup into one of my hands and places a migraine pill into the palm of the other.
