“My music made me who I am.” The declaration slips from my lips before I can make sense of it. For the first time, I believe my words. Sassy wouldn’t exist without my music. The stories around my love life, they only started because my music was good enough to inspire them. I thought people only cared about my songs because of the drama around them, but it’s the other way around. “Get the fuck out. You’ve outlived your usefulness.”
That earns me a bitter-sounding laugh. “Is that supposed to be threatening? I’ll show you threatening—”
“You heard her,” Shirley interrupts. They come out of the recording booth and stand behind me, holding their phone in their hand. I asked them to hide in there and record everything, just in case. “You’re in my studio. Would you prefer I call security?”
“You should watch the way you speak to me. I can get you both blacklisted. You’ll never work again.” Marissa shifts her gaze between us. I hate the way my body shivers at that. Marissa has so many connections within my label and theother major ones. I don’t doubt she can get me dropped, but I don’t care.
I’m doing the right thing.
“And you should watch your back.” I stand up to match her height. “How do you think Asher is going to take it, when he finds out it was you who ruined his life? I don’t need to remind you how powerful his family is.” At this, Marissa flinches, gluing back the cracks in her mask a second later. I guess she hadn’t accounted for getting found out, or the consequences of it. And now I have a recording of her admitting to everything, so I give her a shit-eating grin. “Good luck with the lawsuit.”
“Likewise,” she huffs. She turns around and slams the door behind her. “You still owe us an album,Sassy.”
By the time the Grammys roll around, I have a plan. And a brand-new song.
My fingers dance absentmindedly over my piano as I pick up the phone and dial. “Do you want to be my date for the Grammys?”
CHAPTER 19
Mia and I stand shoulder to shoulder, our breath mingling with the evening air as we wait in line for our turn on the Grammys’ red carpet.
A pathway stretches out before us, flanked by a row of bodyguards who stay close to the throng of celebrities, their colorful outfits shimmering under the bright flashes.
“You nervous?” Mia asks, linking her arm with mine. I glance at her, taking in the elegant sweep of her silver gown, her skin shimmering with specks of glitter.
As they pose, I catch glimpses of stars I’ve admired since I was a kid, singers and musicians I would love to collaborate with. In different circumstances, I’d be jumping with excitement, but I can’t feel anything past the nerves in my stomach.
“I guess I’m a little anxious.”Terrified.“But I’m ready.” I smooth my hands over my dress, tracing the delicate black lace gauze that drapes over my neck and arms. The fabric hugs my waist before gracefully cascading all the way down my legs. “What face do I make for the Glambot?”
My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in during red carpets,and I never know what face to make, but I’m supposed to strike a pose for the Glambot—a camera that moves fast and then replays the clip in slow motion.
“Just smile,” Mia says.
“Okay, but do I smile like this?” I mimic a tight-lipped smile, then a wider one. “Or like this?”
Mia looks horrified. “You’re overthinking your facial expressions again. Hmm. Maybe just give them a smoldering look. It goes with your vibe.”
“Pose with me, Mimi,” I beg, grasping her arm tighter, the pressure in my chest easing. I’m glad she was able to come with me. I don’t think I could do this without her.
“For the Glambot? I would love to.” Her face lights up as she bounces on the tips of her heels.
“You look ethereal as fuck, Mimi.” I raise my hand, inviting her to do a twirl.
“Thank you. You look badass.” She beams, and I hold her hand until a man with a sign with our names printed on it beckons us onto the red carpet.
The moment we step out, myriad photographers push forward, barely missing one of the suspended cameras filming the event. My heart races as Mia and I get separated so I can pose alone. I square my shoulders and force myself to endure the barrage of flashes without blinking too much or making a weird face.
“Sassy, to your right!”
Flash.
“Sassy, how are you doing after the breakup?” someone shouts.
Flash.
“Sassy, how does it feel to get cheated on?” someone else calls over the crowd. I straighten, keeping my expression neutral. They don’t mean for me to answer. They just want a reaction.
Flash.
