Page 113 of Collide

Carole.

Sitting elegantly on the opposite chair, a porcelain teacup in hand, dressed in muted beige cashmere and understated diamonds. She doesn’t belong in this house—or at least, she never should have. But she does now.

My insides tighten. Of courseshe’s here.

“Elena,” my father greets me, barely glancing up from his paper. “Good of you to come.”

I force a polite nod. “You said it was important.”

Carole sets her teacup down delicately, offering me a warm smile. The kind that’s always been too soft for me to fully trust. “It’s been a while. How are you, dear?”

I hold back the sharp retort burning on my tongue. The woman who broke my mother’s heart—who stood in the wreckage of our family like it was hers to claim—doesn’t get to call me ‘dear.’

But I didn’t come here to fight.

“I’m fine.” The words are clipped, my gaze snapping back to my father. “You wanted to talk?”

He finally sets the paper aside, leveling me with that cool, assessing stare that makes my skin prickle.

Mortimer exhales, tapping the edge of his glass. “Your name is in the press too often and for the wrong reasons.”

I roll my eyes. There it is.

“If you mean the rumors about Alex, then yes, I’m aware.”

Carole tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice gentle and concerned. “It’s…a lot of attention all at once. We wanted to check in on how you’re handling it.”

I blink at her, caught slightly off guard.

My father, of course, has no such softness. “You need to get ahead of this before it spirals.”

I exhale sharply. “It’s already under control. That’s what PR people are for.”

Mortimer gives a slight nod of approval, like I’ve finally said something that makes sense to him. “Good. But you need to be intentional about how you’re handling this. Right now, the media is dictating the narrative. If you want to be known for your music, you need to shift the focus.”

Since when did he start caring about my career?

The thought catches me by surprise, stunning me into momentary silence.

“And how do you suggest I do that?” I ask.

He leans back slightly, already prepared. “How about attending and performing at The Montgomery Annual Charity Gala?”

I stiffen. “What?” The words hit me like a stone dropping into my stomach. The Montgomery Charity Annual Gala. The last time I attended, I spent the entire night being introduced to executives my father wanted me to impress, like I was somewell-groomed show pony, not a person. Now, he wants to use me again, but this time to clean up a PR mess I never even made.

“Controlled. Professional. Something that highlights your philanthropy and career—notyour personal life. The moment you take ownership of the narrative and your career, the media will follow.”

My fingers clench in my lap, his sincerity catching me by surprise. He wants to help? I know he’s not wrong. But the idea of dressing up and performing for the sake of my ‘image’ feels manufactured. Like I’m playing a part I never asked to play.

Carole watches me thoughtfully before speaking, her tone softer. “Elena, we’re only suggesting this because we want what’s best for you. Your album deserves the spotlight. It would be a shame if people forgot that in favor of gossip.”

Her voice is so genuine that I almost feel guilty for assuming the worst when I walked in.

Almost.

Still, something about all of this makes me uneasy.

I inhale, forcing my voice to stay even. “I’ll think about it.”