Page 231 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Solene

"Whew, the two of you are catnip for social media," Harry glances up at me from his phone.

I glance out the window of the plane. Not a private jet, but a commercial airliner, though we’re flying business.

Harry'd mentioned to me it was only a matter of time before I'd get upgraded to first. In all honesty, it doesn’t matter to me that much. I’m just glad to be out of LA, and the house that reminds me so much of him.

After Declan threatened the pap, the man claimed he’d sue Declan for assault.

Declan laughed in his face. Then shoved the camera at his chest, before he pivoted and stalked past me to the waiting jet.

He avoided me completely. Pretended I wasn't there.

Stronzo blanked me. He threatened the pap and told him to stay away from me.

Then, he didn't have the decency to say goodbye before he got on the plane, which subsequently taxied down the runway and took off.

The pap continued taking photographs of me until I threw myself into the back of the car.

The tears began flowing down my face before I could completely shut the door, and that, along with the one of me slapping him and the one with my legs wrapped around his waist, are the ones being splashed across the media.

Rick drove me to Abby’s place, and the two of us proceeded to get stinking drunk.

For me, it didn't take much. She, wisely, didn't share any of the social media pictures with me.

The next morning, I managed to make it to the airport, driven by a silent Rick who told me Declan had arranged for a private plane to take me back to LA.

I almost refused to get on it, but given I needed to be back for meetings with the label, I decided to accept the gesture. For now.

In all honesty, I’ve given up trying to understand the rationale behind the man’s actions.

I slept most the way back to LA, then met up with Harry the next morning.

The rest of the day was taken up with meetings with labels.

I hoped our pictures would stop circulating online by the next day, but apparently, twenty-four hours later we're still headline news.

"I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but this on-again, off-again relationship theme, is fucking amazing PR." Harry nods in my direction.

He’s been briefing me about the rest of the meetings he’s set up for me.

"Is it, though?” I bounce my sneaker-clad feet on the floor. “Am I not being seen as simply another pretty face and a Hollywood star’s girlfriend?"

"Any PR is good PR." His tone is serious. "Also, this way, your face continues to be in the news, which is going to be amazing for when your record drops."

I hunch into the oversized sweatshirt. His sweatshirt.

I borrowed it from his closet. Even though it was washed, I'm sure I can smell him on it. I miss him so much today, I wore it to my meeting with Harry. Yep, I’m pathetic.

The man, clearly, doesn’t see me as a priority in his life, while I wear the sweatshirt he wore because it makes me feel closer to him. Loser with a capital L, that’s me.

"When are you meeting him next?"

"Meeting who?"

"Declan?"

"I have no idea."

"Hmm…" Harry purses his lips. "I could check with Giorgina and let you know."

"No thanks." I jerk my face in his direction. "I don’t want her thinking I don’t know what's going on with Declan. If he wants to see me, he’ll reach out to me. And then… I'll think about whether I want to see him."

He frowns. "That’s not going to help your profile."

"Fuck my profile." I glance at my phone, which I use mainly to record my songs.

"You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew how many views the video of your song racked up."

"How many?" I ask, pulling up the playlist of the tunes I’ve recorded. I need to listen to them and figure out how to improve on them. Harry found me a band on short notice, and it's lucky we clicked on the very first try. That’s what happens when you’re a singer who can’t play a musical instrument.

You’d think my mother would have allowed me to play the piano.

After all, it's a musical instrument that fits right in with her traditional outlook of a woman’s role in society, right?

But nope, the only pianist available locally to train me was a man, so that was ruled out.

Didn't matter that he was old enough to be my father. That’s how sheltered an upbringing I had.

That’s when I decided to make my voice my instrument.

Which is fair—but as he pointed out, and this time he was right, if I was going to perform on stage, I'd need a band.

So, I agreed to let him help me put one together.

"Twenty million views."

"What?" My phone slips from my nerveless fingers onto my lap. "B-b-but the last time I checked, it was five million."

"A second wave of listeners came in. It happens sometimes. I'm sure the headlines with you and Declan didn't hurt."

"O-k-a-y." I lean back in my seat. "So, that’s good, right?"

He nods.

"Which means, I don’t have to worry about additional PR and stuff?"

Harry laughs. "It doesn’t work that way. You’ve got some massive momentum going, but you need to build on it. And the best way to do that is to be seen with Declan and—"

"Not happening." I hook on my earphones and scroll down my list of recorded tracks.

"But the press is going crazy for the two of you—" He waves his phone at me. "Forty-eight hours since that pap clicked the two of you, and they still can’t stop talking about #Declene."

“#Declene?”

“Yeah. Declan plus Solene equals Declene. You have your own couples’ hashtag.”

“O-kay?” I raise a shoulder.

“That’s all you have to say?” He stares.

"Actually, I’m not sure I like the sound of it.”

His jaw drops, then he seems to collect himself. "Nonsense. You’re the biggest thing since Bennifer and Jelena."

I look at him blankly, then shrug. "Who are they?”

"What?" His eyes bug out even more. "You don’t know who they are?”

"Of course I do," I lie.

Shit, all that time spent hidden away in Napoli under my mother's careful scrutiny hasn’t helped my pop culture knowledge.

But it has meant I've had a lot of time to write, and enough lyrics and song tunes to fill many records.

And thankfully, I sang. In secret... A lot.

To keep myself company but also, because deep inside, the dream of becoming a singer and using my voice in some form never went away.

But becoming a popstar? Nah, that never factored anywhere in my realm of possibilities.

Unaware of my racing thoughts, Harry continues to talk, "Then you’ll know that the fact they're comparing you and Declan to these gods of the zeitgeist is huge."

"The gods of what?"

"The zeitgeist, the defining spirit of our times."

"O-k-a-y." I pull the hoodie up over my head and forward, so it cuts out his face.

"You have a good thing going here, Solene. It’s a one-in-a-million opportunity. Don’t screw it up."

Three months later

"You sure you’re going to be okay?" Abby’s worried voice cuts through the noise in my head. I take a deep breath, then another. I can do it. I can. I’m only facing a crowd of ten thousand. No problem. So what, if this is my very first live performance, ever.

"Of course I’m going to be okay. I’ve been practicing for this," I place my phone on the side of the dresser then stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m in the dressing room of Staples Center, one of the leading live performance venues in Los Angeles.

I take a sip of water, and my stomach heaves.

It’s probably because I took my back pain medication on an empty stomach.

Not only have I lost my appetite since I started prepping for my live performances, but I've also found that being on my feet non-stop seems to strain my back in a way that has never happened before.

I should probably consult a doctor, but who has the time?

For now, the over-the-counter variety of ibuprofen will have to do.

I place the bottle on the vanity counter, then practice my deep breathing to help calm down.

"You’ve been practicing in front of a virtual audience. Performing in front of a real one is bound to be daunting," Abby murmurs.

Y-e-p, from someone who didn’t know what social media was four months ago, I’ve turned into someone who spends every second not recording plugged into the online space.

Turns out, they love me. They really do.

I have close to a million fans following me on my main social feed, and they love to hear me perform.

I have women swooning over my voice and my looks, and men proposing to me every day.

And boy, does it soothe my ego to have my virtual friends hang onto my every word.

Especially since, my so-called boyfriend has been AWOL since he walked onto the plane.

I know, I’m trying to fill the Declan-shaped void in my life with the adulation of fans, but hey… At least they want me. They love my singing. They can’t get enough of me. And if this is where I'm going to get love, then why shouldn’t I embrace it?

"A lot of my virtual fans have promised to be there in the audience to cheer me on."

"Well, that’s sweet of them. And I’m sure you’re going to do a stellar job. All I’m saying is, it’s okay to acknowledge you’re nervous."

My guts churn. Bile boils up my throat. I fix a smile on my face and swallow away the acrid taste coating my tongue. "Nervous? I’m not nervous." My stomach gurgles. My guts heave. "I’m not—" The sour taste intensifies in my mouth. "Oh, god, I’m going to be sick."