Page 1 of Unleashed By Eden

Chapter one

Violet

Today can get fucked. Preferably sideways, without lube. If karma’s real, I must’ve been a total bitch in a past life, because it’s been nothing but constant punishment all day long and it’s only ten in the morning.

I yank a paper towel from the dispenser, run it under the faucet and dab it on my white crop top. The water dilutes the dark brown coffee stain, spreading it wider across the cotton.

Shit.

Why did I even bother? It’s no use, the top is completely ruined.

I toss the paper towel into the bin under the sink and hold back from flipping my reflection the bird and shouting a loud, cathartic “Fuck you.” The last thing I need is someone walking into this swanky corporate bathroom and getting a live performance of my meltdown, starring my questionable mental health.

I thought I could squeeze in a coffee before my interview. Big mistake. I didn’t even get a sip before some kid catapulted into me, turning my pristine white top into a muddy-brown tie-dye pattern. Heading into this meeting uncaffeinated and unhinged is not ideal.

My ripped denim shorts have ridden so far up my ass from sprinting to get here in time that I’m basically being flossed. I haul them out and wrangle my long black hair into a messy bun. I use another wad of paper towel to swipe the sweat off the back of my neck and forehead, and adjust my diamond nose stud back into place. This is as good as it’s getting. It’s a done deal anyway; this morning was meant to be more of a “meet-and-greet” to work out the particulars than an interview. They can take me as I am, or they can kindly fuck all the way off.

I don’t think today can get any worse.

Closing my eyes, I mentally kick myself. Even the mere thought of it can’t get any worse is tempting fate to say, “Hold my beer.”

It all started this morning when I woke up and discovered that my phone battery was dead. It hadn’t charged overnight, even though I made sure it was plugged in. But I had forgotten to jiggle the damn cord to make sure it connected. The sensitive bastard. That made me jump out of bed like my ass was on fire when I realized I was running late for my meet-and-greet. I bolted out the door without coffee or breakfast, making me one hangry bitch with an attitude to match. Then my tire blew out four blocks from home. I whipped out my phone to call roadside assistance, but that’s right, it was still dead. I ended up leaving my car stranded on the side of the road and bolted to the nearest train station, getting hot and sweaty under Sydney’s summer sun. Halfway there, I had the bright idea to just call a rideshare instead and pulled out my phone.

Again.

The one day I needed to be on time and make a good impression, my phone fucks me over. After stopping for what was by that point a lifesaving coffee, and then being body-checked by the kid, I ended up here, wasting precious minutes I don’t have, trying and failing to clean myself up in this fancy bathroom.

With a wipe of my fingers, I smear away the black flecks of mascara shadowing my eyes and tug my phone out of my back pocket to check the time.

My teeth smash together.

Fuck.

I’m embarrassed by my own stupidity.

Finally skulking out of the bathroom, I let the receptionist know I’m here and take a seat in the lobby. A quick glance at the clock on the wall shows me I’m twenty minutes late.

Suits stream past me toward the elevators, their eyes flicking over my short shorts and stained crop top like I’m a stray dog who wandered in off the street.

“Violet Henderson?” A middle-aged woman with sleek dark hair and heavy eye makeup appears before me, hand already extended. “Or would you prefer to be called Vega Wolfe?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Sorry I’m late.” I take her hand. “Violet is fine.”

“Not a problem. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Megan, producer,” she says, flashing a warm smile. “I must say, I’ve been a fan of your work for a while now. I’m so glad we’ve managed to snag you for this tour.” She turns and I follow her down a corridor and into one of the offices.

“That’s . . . really awesome of you to say. Thank you.” It never gets old hearing someone appreciate your work. “Honestly, this job is a dream come true for me. Before I knew any better, I thought photojournalism meant doing cool shit all the time—following bands around the world like it was still the eighties.”

“It’s a shame it’s not like that anymore.” She lowers herself into her desk chair and nods for me to sit across from her.

When I started out as a fresh-eyed photojournalist, I was so excited to get a job at a photo agency for the entertainment industry. But it turned out my role was less about documenting music geniuses at work and more about following artists and capturing them at their lowest points. Getting scandalous shots of them to sell to the highest bidder. I love music, and photography even more; joining these two together was a no-brainer for me career-wise. But hassling artists wasn’t what I signed up for. After trailing a pop prince down the street one day, snapping pics of his public meltdown, and then waking up the next morning to the news he’d hung himself . . . yeah, no. Never again.

Nowadays, I only work on projects that are commissioned by the artists themselves.

“Bring back the eighties, I say, the music was better too,” I quip.

“Can’t argue with that.” She hands me a stack of paperwork. “Here’s the contract; it’s everything you’ve already discussed with the New York office.”

My eyes snag on the logo at the top. PrimeTime+, the biggest streaming service in the world.