Page 160 of Fame & Rhythm

The front door suddenly opens.

Mum’s head snaps toward the hallway. “Oh… hey, babe. I thought you were still on your press tour?” Something in her voice shifts.

Ella and I both turn.

Dad doesn’t answer.

He walks straight past Mum without even looking at her.

My stomach drops.

He crosses the room in seconds and slams a stack of papers down onto the coffee table in front of me. The sharp crack echoes through the room, and I flinch.

His face is a storm, red, tight, and absolutely furious. A vein pulses in his neck, his jaw clenched so hard it looks painful.

“I would still be on my press tour,” he says, his voice low but shaking with anger. “If my daughter wasn’t getting wasted and being photographed half-naked.”

The words hit like a slap.

My hands tremble as I reach for the papers.

Photos.

Of me.

Unconscious on the couch.

A bottle beside me.

Topless.

My breath catches as my hand flies to my mouth, tears flooding my eyes before I can stop them.

“They’re everywhere, Annie!” Dad roars. “How could you be so fucking reckless?” His voice keeps going, but the words start to blur, swallowed by the ringing in my ears. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of my chest. Nausea rises fast, sharp, and overwhelming.

I look down at the photographs again.

Each one is worse than the last.

Then I see it.

The open pill box…

And my stomach drops.

He knows.

“Annie, for fuck’s sake… how could you do this?” Dad snaps, pacing now, running a hand through his hair. “Drugs? After everything I’ve told you? After everything I’ve been through?” He points at me, his hand shaking. “How could you do this to me? To your mother? To your sister? To your bandmates?” I flinch. “To Staked?” he continues, his voice rising again. “Do you have any idea what this does to us? To the band? To the tours we’ve been working toward?” Each word lands like a physical blow. “And where the hell were you, Dee?” he suddenly snaps, turning on Mum. “Where were you while this was happening?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, pulling my knees up to my chest as I rock slightly, trying to block it out.

This is my fault.

All of it.

Those pictures are out there now. Everyone’s seen them. They’re probably everywhere—online, shared, picked apart.

Aston’s seen them.