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I use the moment to engage in measured breathing, reminding myself that I’m in control.My hand grazes the small bag I brought, knowing it contains a bottle of Valium from Lexy.I could easily pop a pill to numb the nerves.It’s a quick fix, a temporary reprieve, but it won’t solve anything.My stomach churns, threatening to revolt.
Kingsley’s also backstage, but he feels like a distant island, separated from me by an ocean of anxiety.I can’t go to him.I must handle this on my own.My eyes lock with his, and he gives me a firm, almost reassuring nod.
I mentally rehearse the simple steps.Read the autocue, announce the winner, and then make my exit.Simple, right?But then I overhear a producer telling Justin about the record-breaking audience numbers for tonight—close to twenty million—and my stomach ties itself into even tighter knots.The walls seem to close in around me.
“Superb timing, especially with my new album,” Justin chimes in.
I shut my eyes, focusing on my breathing.In for five counts, out for five counts.For the first time, I let go of what others might think of me and focus inward.But my mind betrays me, dragging up the memories of my abduction—the parched throat, the bound hands.I force my eyes open to reset the scene.
“Miss Slate, you look pale.Can I get you some water?”The producer’s voice pulls me back to reality.Both she and Justin are now focused on me.
“Yeah, yeah, you do, love,” Justin agrees,
“I just need a moment,” I manage, retreating to a quieter spot.
“You’re on in three minutes,” she calls after me.
Before Kingsley even speaks, his presence wraps around me, unmistakable and commanding.“Victoria, you can do this,” he says, his tone a mix of stern encouragement and quiet concern.
I turn to face him, my eyes brimming with tears I won’t shed.“Kingsley, please go,” I say, each word tinged with a sorrow I can’t disguise.
“Victoria.”he pleads.
“Just go!”My voice surges louder this time, fueled by all the pent-up emotions since the Hamptons.
The pain on his face is impossible to miss—it’s like I’ve physically struck him.His eyes, usually so composed, show a flicker of something raw, something wounded.But he gets it.He steps back, giving me the room I’ve asked for but clearly hate needing.
As he moves to the sidelines, it’s like he’s leaving me a piece of that hurt as a parting gift, a reminder that this is something I have to face myself.For better or worse, I’ve asked for this space, and now he’s giving it to me, as much as it seems to sting us both.I need to move on on my own.
“Miss Slate, we’re ready for you,” the ever-cheerful producer announces, gesturing for me to join Justin, who’s already lurking in the wings.My heart leaps into my throat.
“Okay, breathe.You’ve got this,” I coach myself, feeling my legs propel me forward as if on autopilot.The stage awaits, and before I can second-guess anything, my name reverberates through the air.
“Please welcome to the stage three-time Grammy winner, Justin Cole, and the latest ‘it girl’ with five number-one hits in the USA right now, Viki Slate!”
Hearing my accomplishments rattled off to a room full of industry bigwigs should be daunting, but somehow, it’s grounding.I take it as a reminder that I belong here, that I’ve earned this.Gripping onto that confidence, I prepare to step into the spotlight.
The sound of applause drowns out the pounding of my heart as Justin takes my arm, holding it a bit too tightly for comfort, and we step onto the stage.The glare of the stage lights nearly blinds me, turning the audience into a faceless void.A surge of adrenaline kicks in, almost like a shot of electricity running through my veins.
I can do this, I silently tell myself, gripping onto those words as if they’re a lifeline.With each step, the mantra repeats in my head, fighting back the fear and uncertainty that have been my unwelcome companions all evening.
I can do this.
I have to.
The autocue is my guide, offering its rehearsed lines.“My beautiful companion, Viki, and I are here to announce the Grammy for Best Up-and-Coming Artist.” But then Justin veers off-script, leaning into the mic with a confident grin.
“With a stunner like Viki by my side, how could the future of music not look good?”he says, flashing a wink at me and the audience.
It’s like someone pulled the rug out from under me.My heart sinks into my stomach, panic clawing its way up my throat.I feel dizzy, disoriented.The weight of the room, the lights, the audience all press in on me all at once.I’m on the edge of unraveling, acutely aware that this moment could either break me or be a turning point.
Kingsley’s gaze from the sideline burns into me, heavy with concern and layered with a complex emotion I can’t decipher.It’s as if he’s silently pleading for me to pull through but also ready to step in if I falter.
The pressure is unbearable.
I draw in a shaky breath, caught in a heart-wrenching decision.Give into my fears or face them head-on in front of millions.It’s a pivotal choice, one that feels like it could define more than just this evening.
Summoning every ounce of courage I have, I lean into the mic.“Well, if good looks could win Grammys, Justin, you’d need a whole new house just for your awards,” I reply, adding my own wink for good measure.
