Page 35 of Before the Encore

When Olivia asked Bonnie to feature on her song ‘Superstar’ a year later, she’d stayed over at her suite in LA, at Olivia’s suggestion that they’d have a spa sleepover with face masks and massages. Bonnie assumed she’d hire professionals for the latter part, but Olivia had her own table and oils.

They hooked up, and still a little starstruck by the ordeal, Bonnie let her take the lead. Their relationship was private—not for the cameras or their team, but for each other. She initially thought that was romantic; now, she felt like an old sponge Olivia had squeezed until it’d all dried up. A secret. A rumour. Olivia loved all the talk.

A couple of months later, Olivia left for New York for a shoot, introduced herself to a new, fresh group of celebrities, and stopped replying to Bonnie’s messages. Since, she’d weaved in and out of Bonnie’s life whenever it suited her—tickets, gossip, a sniff of growing popularity. Bonnie hated the celebrity games; that’s why she kept to herself.

A polite knock at the door pulled her back to the dressing room.

Bonnie blew out a breath, tearing her gaze from the mirror. “Come in.”

Kelsie, her stage manager, poked her head around the door. “Show starts in ten.”

Bonnie nodded and swallowed the bile creeping up her throat.

Kelsie arched her eyebrows, peering at her over black-framed glasses. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah.” She forced a smile. “Just pre-show jitters.”

“You’re going to be great. The crowd’s a lively one.” Someone buzzed in her earpiece, and she replied, “I’ll be there in two. Start micing up Lipstick Fever.” Then with a swing of her tight ponytail, the door clicked closed behind her.

Fuck. In less than ten minutes, the verdict would be decided. The fans might hate Lipstick Fever’s set and boo Bonnie when she entered the stage, throwing rotten fruit. They might hate her new music, and all of this fake dating would backfire. It’d tank Bonnie’s career, and she’d never be able to recover.

The uncertainties piled up, suffocating her. Nausea swirled and twisted inside, pulse climbing.

She should’ve spoken to Lipstick Fever before the show and passed on luck, given them a pep talk. She should’ve addressed her concerns with Madison, instead of hiding away in her dressing room, letting her thoughts eat her alive. She snorted, chest tight. She was supposed to be the seasoned professional. She was supposed to be able to handle this. So why did the walls feel like they were closing in?

Bailey had packed out the venue with media and secured tickets for celebs, including Kacey Kristie and Olivia Steinberg—who had crawled out of the woodwork, just to witness her meltdown live on stage and stream it to the millions.

The pressure squeezed her skull, her breathing laboured. If anything went wrong, the whole world would see it. There’d be no escape.

Maybe that was why Madison had been avoiding her. This had all been an elaborate plan to humiliate her. And it started in ten minutes.

She barely registered the two knocks on the door, only it swinging open and Madison striding in, uninvited.

“Hey—” Madison took one look at her, hyperventilating by the mirror, and froze. “Shit. You need me to get someone?”

She shook her head. Air drew into her lungs fast and shaky. The room shrunk and pressed against her. Her vision blurred. “I…can’t…”

Madison held her shoulders. “Bonnie, shit. Are you having a panic attack?”

“I…” Her ragged breathing ripped through the room. Pain squeezed her ribs, tighter and tighter. Her eyes closed.

A cold hand cupped her chin, forcing her to meet those clear blue irises. “In with me. And out. Copy me. That’s it.” Madison took Bonnie’s hand and pressed it to her chest, against the steady rise and fall of her lungs. “Slow, deep breaths. Like me.”

Her chest heaved, heart racing. She sucked in a greedy lungful of air. Another. And another. In and out. Madison’s gaze held hers, and they breathed together. Little by little, the room ceased spinning. The pressure in her head eased. Slowly, her senses focused, pulling her back to the moment. The steady thump of Madison’s heart under her fingertips. Madison’s hand on her cheek, rough and cool. Her smoky, sandalwood scent.

Knots in her chest loosened, and she blew out a breath. “You…never call me Bonnie.”

Madison’s eyes crinkled, and she laughed. “And she’s back.” Her thumb brushed her cheek, sending a shiver through Bonnie. Madison’s smile turned serious. An expression that appeared odd on the usual smirking face. “You feelin’ alright?”

“I think so.” Standing so close, she couldn’t look anywhere but at her angular face. So much of Madison was sharp—pronounced cheekbones, heavy black eyeliner, straight nose with the perfectly imperfect crook—but her androgyny carried an overlooked softness too. A sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks. Soft, swirling irises drawing her deeper, her hand gently cupping Bonnie’s face. Full, natural lips. Lips that felt suddenly too close. Her chest tightened again, but for completely different reasons.

With a jolt, Madison stepped back, and her hand dropped. Embarrassment filled the empty space, stinging. She might as well have slapped her.

Madison was never supposed to see her like that. Nobody was.

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so embarrassed.” Stating it out loud tripled the feeling, heating Bonnie’s neck and cheeks. She covered her face.

“Hey, it’s fine. Well, not fine, but…common. My mum had panic attacks a lot.” Madison peeled back Bonnie’s fingers. “Don’t ruin your make-up or Hannah will be pissed.” Her attempt at a joke didn’t reach Bonnie, so Madison shrugged. “Or fuck her. Ruin it. You’re the star. You can do whatever the fuck you want.”