Page 9 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)
Working for the Weekend
A few 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 on Page 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, and like 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, to become part 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.
I smile, missing our family dog, Bundy, and laugh at his football update, then draft a quick response.
After the meeting with the executives at Pacific Records, Mark and I head downtown to Ocean Studios.
The room hums with quiet intensity, softly lit with warm amber lights casting cozy shadows across the room.
Sonia leans forward, her sharp eyes focused on the monitor as she adjusts levels, her fingers moving deftly over the mixing console.
Michelle sits beside her, headphones snug over her ears, nodding gently in rhythm, occasionally pausing to make careful notes.
I’ve been in the booth for over an hour, laying down tracks piece by painstaking piece. My throat is scratchy from recording endless layers—harmonies, ad-libs, backing vocals—each take blending into the next as we chase perfection.
This is it, the final touches to my debut U.S. album, the culmination of months spent pouring every ounce of myself into music that I hope will resonate with the world.
Standing in the center of the soundproof room, I close my eyes, listening as the latest track fills the space through the studio speakers.
The melody wraps around me, warm and familiar yet fresh, like an extension of my own heartbeat, resonating deep in my chest. When the final notes fade into silence, I open my eyes slowly to see Mark leaning against the sofa in the control room, tablet glowing softly in his hands as he scribbles notes for marketing.
“I feel like we’re still missing something,” I call from inside the booth, tapping a restless finger against the mic stand. “What do you think?”
“You could definitely use something a little more upbeat,” Sonia agrees, sliding her headphones off and shaking out her sleek, platinum bob. Her sharp eyes study me through the glass, sensing my frustration. “How’s the writing going?”
“Okay,” I lie, forcing a smile. Truthfully, writing isn’t going at all.
Most of these songs are resurrected from notebooks I filled years ago—lyrics that didn’t quite fit my first album but have finally found their moment.
Michelle and Sonia have worked their magic, transforming my raw words into polished melodies.
Yet I haven’t written anything new since my mom died; grief drained me dry, and I’ve spent all my energy clawing back from the pit, leaving little room for creativity.
“Maybe something deeper, more seductive. Something sexy and edgy,” Michelle suggests thoughtfully, twirling a pencil between her fingers as she leans back in her chair.
As if I have genuine experience with that. My love life consists of failed dates as a teenager with boys who quickly lost interest. My songs speak of love in wistful metaphors, inspired by secondhand stories from friends or characters in novels, never my own tangled heart.
“I don’t know.” I sigh softly, glancing down at the scuffed wooden floor, avoiding their hopeful gazes.
“Elena, you’re in New York City, one of the most inspiring places on the planet,” Michelle urges gently. “Step outside, breathe it in. Let the city inspire something in you.”
“Exactly,” Sonia chimes in, her voice confident. “The big L—it sells!”
Love.
The eternal muse, a theme universal yet painfully personal. I’ve sung about it countless times, but always from a distance, a safe observer rather than an active participant. Dread seeps out of me.
“We could bring in some guys from Nashville,” Michelle adds casually, flipping through contacts on her phone. My eyes widen sharply.
She laughs lightly, shaking her head. “Not like that, girl, relax. Writers. Nashville has some of the best songwriters in the business. I know a few who’d love to collaborate, help you flesh things out.”
I hesitate, uncertainty knotting in my throat. “I’ll think about it,” I stammer, exhaling heavily. “For now, let’s run through a few more ad-libs on ‘Sparks.’”
Michelle and Sonia nod simultaneously, headphones slipping back over their ears, fingers dancing quickly across the soundboard.
Taking a deep breath, I steady myself in front of the microphone, chasing one more perfect take.
Hoping somewhere within these four padded walls, I’ll rediscover the spark I’ve lost.
Mark glances up, smiling reassuringly. “Initial feedback is looking really good on the first few tracks,” he shares, scrolling through comments from the advance listening session. “They especially love ‘Rise’ and ‘Sparks’—strong contenders for singles.”
I take another deep breath, absorbing the information. “What about ‘Nightfall’? That one’s personal.”
Mark nods knowingly. “Mixed reactions. Some think it’s too introspective for a single, but others say it could become your signature track.”
Michelle removes her headphones, tilting her head thoughtfully. “I agree with Mark. ‘Midnight’ is my vote—it’s fun and meaningful. ‘Nightfall’ might not appeal to everyone, but if you’re comfortable sharing it widely, it could resonate deeply.”
“Or it could become a hidden gem,” Sonia adds, swiveling in her chair. “Something your true fans discover and hold on to.”
Mark stands, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Whatever you decide, we trust your instincts. This is your story to tell.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. The studio feels less like a workspace and more like a haven where creativity flourishes among trusted friends. “Let’s listen one more time,” I suggest, smiling at each of them. “Then I’ll know for sure.”
Sonia grins, turning back to her board. Michelle offers me an encouraging thumbs up, while Mark resumes his position, ready to capture any final thoughts.
The music fills the room again, every note confirming that, no matter the decisions ahead, my vision is being honored, supported, and celebrated.
“A few more tweaks and we’re on track for the digital album drop on the 10th of September,” Mark starts, scrolling through his phone and flicking through his laptop as Kylie walks in.
“You’re also set to perform ‘Ignite’ from your previous album on Rise and Shine America , plus an interview segment as Australia’s darling, and promoting the upcoming album,” she announces nonchalantly.
“ Rise and Shine America ?” I ask, my mouth dry as I gape at Kylie and Mark.
“Yes.” He nods, grinning from ear to ear. “They’ve asked for you.”
“Lara Spencer is a huge Starstruck fan,” Kylie chimes in, clapping her hands together. “You were her pick to win, and she wanted to snap you up as soon as she heard you were in the country.”
“Plus, she owes me a favor, and this will give you massive exposure,” Mark adds with a grin, as if it’s all business as usual.
“Awesome.” I smile nervously, feeling the anxious excitement bubble up inside me.
Wow, Rise and Shine America —that’s crazy!
The realization hits me sharply; this isn’t just another gig, it’s an enormous opportunity, my first real test on a major U.S.
stage. The thought of millions watching, judging, hoping—it’s exhilarating yet daunting, and I feel the weight of expectation on my shoulders.
“Wait till you hear what’s next,” Mark teases, grinning wider than ever, clapping his hands together to snap me out of my dazed thoughts.
“ Starstruck America wants you to perform your new single at their season two grand finale in October!” Mark beams, and I feel my breath catch in my throat, a whirlwind of excitement and fear tightening my chest. It’s not just the prestige of the moment or the massive audience awaiting me.
It’s the realization that this could define the next chapter of my career, shaping the way the world sees me as an artist.
“Hey, did you want to grab a coffee?” Mark calls out from behind me as I’m heading out.
“Sure.” I say, grateful for the moment to step away from the intensity. He smiles in return, and we head down the bustling street toward a nearby coffee shop.
As we walk, we chat casually—Mark talks me through ideas for my music video, his plans for a trip to the Bahamas in December, and about an ‘amazing track’ one of his other artists is producing for another huge international artist.