Page 17

Mel

Two days later, nothing felt particularly better. My phone buzzed on the vanity. I closed my eyes, counted to five, and finally glanced down at the screen.

Hey Mel, been thinking about you a lot lately. Would love to grab coffee again sometime? Let me know?

The sender wasn’t in my phone under a name, but I knew it was Tommy Fitzsimmons from the coffee shop six months ago. The guy I’d gone on exactly two dates with before realizing there wasn’t a single spark between us. He’d messaged me a few times since then wanting to go back out, but I’d sidestepped him.

Not that I had much time to date anyone right now, but even if I did, Tommy wouldn’t be on my list. He was nice enough—perfectly pleasant conversation, decent job at some tech company—but about as exciting as watching paint dry .

The irony that I’d rather watch actual paint dry than go on another date with him wasn’t lost on me.

I turned the phone facedown without replying. He’d also messaged me a few times since the tour started since I was on the East Coast, and he lived…somewhere on this side of the country. I couldn’t remember exactly where. But I wasn’t interested, and it was better not to lead him on.

My thoughts drifted to Ethan. To that kiss we’d shared in my suite what seemed like forever ago. The way his hand had curved around the nape of my neck, the solid warmth of him against me. Unlike Tommy, the chemistry between Ethan and me was undeniable—at least on my end.

But apart from that single kiss and a vague mention of dinner “when things calm down,” nothing had materialized.

It was time to face the facts. Ethan Cross didn’t strike me as a man who hesitated going after what he wanted. Which led me to a conclusion I’d been avoiding: maybe he didn’t really want me after all. The kiss had been a momentary lapse in judgment, perhaps. A mistake he wasn’t eager to repeat.

I sighed, rubbing the tension from my shoulders. I shouldn’t be thinking about Ethan anyway. I had enough problems without adding romantic complications to the mix.

“Mel! Did you see what they’re saying online?” Nova burst through the door of the dressing room, still in her bathrobe after her preshow shower, phone thrust forward like a weapon. “That asshole Adam Foster leaked footage of your argument backstage in Louisville!”

“What?”

She dangled her phone at me. Sure enough, there was the video—slightly grainy but clear enough—showing Adam Foster and me facing off in the hallway, both of us looking like we were one step away from throwing punches. The headline above it read: RISING TENSIONS: Nova Rivers’s Team Clashes with Opener’s Manager .

“Great.” I handed the phone back. “Just what we need.”

Nova was already tapping furiously at her screen. “I’m going to post a response right now?—”

“Don’t.” I held up a hand. “Let’s talk to PR first. We don’t need to escalate this.”

“But he’s making us look bad!”

“And responding without a strategy will make it worse.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing away the headache that had been my constant companion for days. “This is exactly what Adam wants—attention. Let’s not give it to him.”

Nova huffed, dropping onto the plush sofa. “Fine. But he’s such a jerk. The way he keeps undermining us, spreading rumors that I’m difficult to work with…” She trailed off, examining her freshly painted nails. “I caught him telling one of the sound guys that I use autotune for every performance. Can you believe that?”

I could, actually. Adam Foster had been making our lives increasingly difficult since the tour began. Nothing overtly threatening, just a thousand tiny pinpricks designed to irritate and undermine.

He rescheduled Brooklyn’s sound checks without notice, claimed equipment that had been allocated for Nova’s show, and left passive-aggressive notes for the crew. He’d even gone so far as to accuse us of sabotaging Brooklyn’s lighting during her set in Memphis—a ridiculous claim that nonetheless required two hours of my time to defuse.

But unfortunately, the Citadel team hadn’t been able to find anything tying him to either the Barbie dolls or the roses at Nova’s house. As a matter of fact, he had a pretty solid alibi in another state the night the creep had broken in to the house with the flowers.

“Just ignore him,” I said, more sharply than intended. “He’s trying to get a reaction. ”

Nova stared at me, eyes widening slightly at my tone. “Are you okay, Mel? You seem…tense.”

That was the understatement of the century. It must be really bad if Nova was actually noticing.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” I glanced at my watch. “You should be getting ready. Thirty minutes to showtime.”

She lingered, a rare moment of actual concern crossing her face. “You know you can talk to me, right? If something’s wrong?”

The irony of Nova asking if I needed to talk almost made me laugh. When was the last time she’d shown any interest in my inner world? But her expression seemed genuinely worried, and I felt a pang of guilt for my uncharitable thoughts.

“I know. Thanks, sis.” I forced a smile. “Now, go get into costume. Marina will have a fit if you’re late.”

She hesitated, but then nodded and slipped out the door, leaving me alone with my reflection and thoughts once more.

I stared at the mirror. The reflection showed a woman worn thin by responsibility—pinched expression, rigid posture, eyes that calculated problems rather than dreamed. When had that happened? When had I stopped being Melanie Rivers and become simply an extension of Nova’s ambition?

The door burst open again as the makeup team arrived with Nova’s costume. The moment of quiet self-reflection vanished as I was pulled back into the vortex of preshow excitement.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the wings watching Nova gather her dancers in their traditional preshow circle. They wore their elaborate masquerade masks, already costumed for the opening number that had become the tour’s signature. Usually, this was one of my favorite moments—the energy, the collective breath before the plunge, Nova at her most genuine as she connected with her team.

“This tour has been amazing so far,” she told the group, her voice charged with excitement. “But tonight is going to be the best yet. I can feel it.” She looked around at each masked face, ending with mine. “We’re family out there. We’ve got each other’s backs, right?”

A chorus of agreement rose from the circle.

“One, two, three—” Nova started.

“ Nova rising !” they shouted together, hands thrusting skyward.

Any other night, I would have felt a surge of pride, of connection. Tonight, I just felt hollow.

The group dispersed, heading toward the stage entrance. Nova paused, squeezing my arm.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“Go break a leg,” I replied, dodging the question. “They’re waiting for you.”

She studied me for another beat, then nodded and hurried after her dancers.

I stood alone in the suddenly quiet backstage area, the opening bars of Nova’s first song vibrating through the floor beneath my feet. The crowd roared as she appeared through the smoke and lights, their enthusiasm a physical wave that washed over everything.

I should be out there, watching. Making sure everything ran smoothly. Instead, I found myself walking back to the empty dressing room, the door closing behind me with a soft click.

Silence, finally. I leaned against the vanity, staring at my reflection—dark circles, tense shoulders, a face that bore little resemblance to the creative, carefree person I used to be before Mom died and Nova’s career exploded.

“Why am I still doing this?” I whispered to my image staring back at me.

The question hung in the air, unanswered. How long was I going to keep doing something I didn’t enjoy just because it was what my mother had wanted so much before she died? The weight of her dream had become my burden, and I’d carried it faithfully—but at what cost ?

The truth was, I didn’t know who I was outside of Nova’s world anymore. My entire identity had been shaped around being her support system, her manager, her sister in the shadows. The few moments I felt truly myself were when I was painting—but even that wasn’t because of the act itself, but because of what I painted.

Every landscape, every little house nestled in mountains with children playing outside—they weren’t just scenes. They were my dream . My secret heart’s desire, never articulated to anyone, barely acknowledged, even to myself.

In my heart of hearts, I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, with a family and a home of my own. A dream so simple, so fundamental, yet so impossible while I was playing super-manager for Nova.

And even if by some miracle I could break free, who would want that life with me? My thoughts slipped to Ethan, to the kiss we’d shared. A man like him—dynamic, driven, commanding—would probably find the idea of a stay-at-home wife laughably quaint.

He made me feel seen, did what he could to make my life easier, but that didn’t equate to true interest. Not the kind that could withstand the reality of who I really was beneath the manager face.

I wasn’t a girl boss. Wasn’t power-hungry. Wasn’t interested in being in charge. I did it all because that’s what was needed.

But it wasn’t what I wanted.

I pushed away from the vanity. I was done for the night. Nova was onstage, the security team was in place, and for once, no one needed me for anything urgent. Thankful this particular concert venue was connected to the hotel, I could slip away to my hotel room, maybe even get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before tomorrow’s chaos began anew.

The walk to my room was mercifully quick and quiet. I slid the keycard into the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

I paused immediately. Something was…different.

My gaze swept the room, landing on a neat arrangement in the sitting area, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it.

Painting supplies.

A compact set of acrylics, fresh brushes, a small portable easel, and a travel case that would make it all packable for the tour.

My breath caught in my throat.

Was this from Nova? A rare moment of thoughtfulness from my sister?

The exhaustion that had been dragging at my limbs all day seemed to wash away, replaced by something light and intoxicating. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and approached the paints like they were a mirage that might disappear if I moved too quickly.

I sank onto the plush carpet, spreading the paints around me like a lifeline. My phone buzzed from where I’d tossed it onto the bed, but for once, I didn’t even glance at it. Let the world wait.

The blank canvas beckoned. I squeezed out dabs of color—blues and greens, earth tones, hints of yellow for light. My brush moved almost of its own accord, seeking the image that lived in my heart.

I didn’t paint the city lights visible through my hotel window. I didn’t paint the endless highways or arena backstages that had become my reality.

I painted home —the dream I barely let myself believe in. The dream I so desperately wanted.

A small house nestled in mountains, surrounded by open green space. A place where children could run without security guards watching every move. A garden in the back, flowers climbing a trellis. A dog sprawled lazily in the sun .

A family. Stability. Love.

The world faded away as I lost myself in brushstrokes, in textures, in the purest expression of myself. Time slipped past in a blur of color. No demands. No schedules. Just this.

With each stroke of the brush, each dab of paint, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. The headache that had been my constant companion receded. For the first time in weeks, I breathed deeply, fully present in the moment rather than mentally juggling a dozen crises.

I added touches of lavender to the wildflowers in the foreground, blended soft whites into the clouds overhead. The little house took shape beneath my brush—not grand or elaborate, but warm. Welcoming. The kind of place where a family could grow, where memories could be made.

There was joy in this creation, in bringing to life something that existed only in my heart. Something that was mine alone, untouched by Nova’s fame or my mother’s expectations. This vision of home, of the life I secretly yearned for—it was the most honest part of me.

I leaned back, examining my work with a critical eye. It wasn’t perfect—the perspective was slightly off in one corner, and I’d made the mountains perhaps too blue. But it captured the feeling I’d been reaching for—peace, belonging, rootedness.

Everything my current life lacked.

Yet as I sat surrounded by paint tubes and water cups, the night melting away around me, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in far too long—contentment. Pure, simple contentment. No matter what kind of crazy waited for me tomorrow, I had this moment. This piece of myself that I’d reclaimed.

And for now, that was enough.