Page 18 of Collide

Philippa folds the paper, placing it down gently. “They’re going to twist everything, Elena. You know that.”

Andrew shrugs, taking a long sip of water. “At least they mentioned your deal. Press is press, right?”

I scowl at him. “Not when it makes me sound like some washed-up scandal magnet with a mystery drug problem trying to claw my way back into the spotlight.”

Philippa sighs, tapping her nails against her coffee cup. “Do you need our PR team to handle it?”

I shake my head. I trust Kylie. She’ll be able to smooth things over.I hope.

Kylie arrives promptlyat eleven a.m., laptop in hand, her expression all business. She’s dressed in crisp business casual, a stark contrast to my oversized sweatshirt and leggings. It sucks that she has to work on a Saturday morning, but then again, the press never sleeps.

She doesn’t waste time with pleasantries, dropping her bag onto the counter and flipping open her laptop. “Alright, let’s get ahead of this before it spirals. We need to craft a statement that acknowledges it without adding fuel to the fire.”

I rub my temples, still nursing the lingering effects of last night’s choices. “Can’t we ignore it?”

Kylie shoots me a look. “Not if you want to control the narrative. The ‘Long-lost Heiress’ angle is already running wild, and if we don’t steer it in the right direction, they’ll make up their own version of events.”

She types quickly, the rhythmic tapping of her keys filling the kitchen. “We need something casual but confident. Something that says, ‘Yes, I’m back. Yes, I’m focused on my career. No, I was not secretly in rehab.’”

I snort at that last part. “Fine. What do you suggest?”

“How do you feel talking about your mom? We need to squash this ‘drug problem’ narrative. We could frame it in a way that highlights your resilience, how you channeled your grief into your music, and the importance of raising awareness for cancer research. Maybe even donate to a cancer charity in hername? It could show a deeper, more personal side of you, but only if you’re comfortable with that.”

The thought of giving any of this information out to the press makes my stomach churn. It feels invasive, like I’m exposing a piece of her legacy to be scrutinized by people who might never understand. But I also know my mother. If she were here, she would fight tooth and nail to protect me. And maybe, in some way, this is my way of fighting for myself.

“I’m okay with that, so long as it’s tasteful. I don’t want her death to be sensationalized.” My heart aches, but is resolved in my decision.

Kylie turns the laptop toward me. “Here’s a draft social media post: ‘Feels good to be back in NYC! Excited for what’s ahead and grateful for all the love. New music coming soon. #BackAtIt’—short, confident, and leaves no room for speculation.”

I read over the words, chewing on my lip. It’s safe, maybe too safe, but I know she’s right. The last thing I need is to add fuel to the gossip fire. I nod. “Fine. Post it.”

Kylie then works on drafting a formal statement that I’m happy with forPage Six, addressing the rumors head-on. She keeps it professional yet firm, refuting the baseless drug allegations and emphasizing my dedication to my career. At the same time, she arranges for Pacific’s legal department to issue a notice warning against further defamatory claims, making it clear that any continued speculation without evidence will have consequences.

Kylie smiles, already clicking away. “Done.” She exhales, stretching her neck. “Now, let’s talk damage control for your next appearance.”

I sink back into my chair. The weight of it all settles in—how exhausting it is to constantly manage perceptions, to moldmyself into whatever version the world expects. “Do we really have to?” I mutter, half-joking.

Kylie raises a brow. “Unless you want to keep being a tabloid magnet, then yes.”

Chapter 4

Working for the Weekend

Afew days later, Rio is back at Philippa’s penthouse, fussing over me as if I’m a porcelain doll about to shatter. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes—honestly, I can dress myself.

But Mark was adamant. Cultivating a carefully curated image is part of this glamorous yet suffocating world, particularly after those less-than-flattering airport photos landed unceremoniously onPage Six. Thankfully, Kylie’s scheme worked its magic, swiftly turning me into yesterday’s news. For once, being forgotten feels like a blessing.

Today is important. So, here I am, letting Rio work his magic, as usual. He’s got me dressed in a pair of vintage acid-wash jeans, a flowing black tee, lined with gold stitching, finished off with a charcoal blazer, combat boots, and oversized sunglasses with gold accessories. It’s a stylish look with enough rock and roll edge. I look well-styled, polished,andlike I could be on the cover of a magazine.

“Perfect,” Rio chirps, stepping back to admire his work.

I give myself one last glance in the mirror, adjusting the collar of the blazer. “Thanks, Rio.” I smile, my voice soft but genuine.

I grab my purse and guitar case, heading for the door. I slip into the back of the car, feeling the soft leather of the seat beneath me, settling into the moment. I say a quiet prayer, thankful that no paparazzi were camped outside Philippa’s building.

New York is buzzing outside, alive as always. Yellow cabs zoom by in a blur, and businesspeople in suits dart in and out of buildings. The city moves at a speed that makes my head spin, but I’ve learned to appreciate it, tobecomepart of it.

I sink into my seat, pulling out my phone to check my emails. My thumb scrolls across the screen, flicking past work messages and reminders. One email catches my eye. It’s from my stepdad.