Page 34 of Forbid It

“Oh, did that go ahead in the end?”

“Yes.” I barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “The wedding went ahead.” As if there was ever any doubt. As soon as the news broke that Danny Covington was my duet partner for Wish I Could, there were rampant rumors that we were secret lovers writing songs about each other and conducting a wild love affair. It was ridiculous and anyone who has ever been in the room with him and Anya knew there was absolutely zero truth to it. Even though he’s happily married, and I see him more like a brother than a boyfriend, to this day we’re still bothered by fans desperate to uncover our passionate affair. We all laugh it off for the most part, but it’s still fucking irritating.

“You should have capitalized on all that publicity, Cassandra.” My mother would have loved the extra attention that would come along with me being with a man like Danny. Even before his father’s scandal—which has become something we do not discuss with the Covington siblings—he had a lot of attention for a long time. “It would have sold so many albums.”

I bite my tongue so hard I can taste copper. My parents were both instrumental in my career blossoming as a seventeen year old. They had the right connections to get me in the right rooms, had the money to propel me to unimaginable heights, and I owe them my whole life.

I still don’t want that to mean my mother can tell me who I should and shouldn’t date.

I dread to think what her reaction would be if she heard about me and Robbie.

There is no me and Robbie.

I don’t bother to reassure her—again—that there was never anything romantic with me and my best friend’s brother. Not even a hint of a spark. I’ve told her a dozen times before, but she insists it doesn’t matter about my feelings when it should be about sales.

“Now.” Mom moves aside my glass of wine before I have the chance to glug it, pushing a sleek portfolio into my hands. “Look at these designs.”

“What’s this?” I pull the cover back and my stomach sinks.

Cassandra’s Creations for your home.

“Mom.” I flick through the pages full of concept images and metrics and designs. “I don’t know what I’m looking at here.”

“It’s our new line, darling. Home decor. You know, throw blankets, rugs, that kind of stuff. It’s such a deep marketplace.” Mom sips her wine. “I’ve already got investors lined up. They just want to meet with you to go over some of the details.”

I spot a row of paisley curtains and firmly close the folder.

“Mom this is…” I trail off.

“Isn’t it brilliant?”

“It’s just not very…” I struggle to word my thoughts. “Me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Cassandra,” Mom scoffs.” It doesn’t matter if it’s you or not. This is what is selling, so this is what we’ll sell.”

I blow out a breath. “I mean⁠—”

“It’s not like soccer”—Mom spits the word—“is very you either, but you’re more than happy to go along with your father’s latest scheme.”

Of course. That’s what this is about. I knew as soon as word got out that I was attending the Rebels games that the other shoe would drop eventually and that said shoe would be a four-inch Prada pump.

I bite back a sigh and turn to the window. The windows are high and long, covering the entire front wall of the restaurant. Even though we’re in the centre of the bustling room, I can still see out onto the street. It’s why I spot a family of four, two parents and two children, both wearing what I can tell are soccer tops. They’re not Rebels jerseys, and I don’t know what the colors of Robbie’s old team are, but I find myself squinting to see if I can see his name on their tiny backs.

“Cassandra,” Mom hisses, pulling my attention back to the table. “Will you pay attention?”

I turn back to the portfolio and mentally count down the hours until Robbie’s next game.

15

ROBBIE

Cassie’s here.

The stadium is two-thirds full with screaming fans chanting my name, but it’s the box that’s already appeared three times on the jumbotron since I started warming up that’s taking all of my attention.

Cassie couldn’t make the last few games. Apparently, she’s been busy jetting to the opposite coast, on top of working on her new album. I don’t know how the girl who dragged me into the sea like a siren has the time to do as much as she does, but it’s pretty fucking impressive.

“King,” Florent barks from the dugout. “Switch on.”