Page 232 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

I race toward the tiny ensuite bathroom and drop to the floor in front of the commode.

I empty the contents of my stomach—which wasn’t much to begin with.

I was too nervous to eat breakfast or lunch today.

An apple and a snack bar are about all I was able to force down.

I heave the meager contents, then flush and sit back on the floor, panting.

Sweat beads my forehead, and my heart is banging so hard against my ribcage, it feels like it’s having its own concert in there.

A chuckle escapes me, the sound loud in the tiny space.

"Solene, are you okay? Solene?" Abby’s voice reaches me from the phone screen in the other room.

I shake my head to clear it, then rise to my feet.

My knees knock together but I manage to stay up.

I stagger to the sink, drink water from the tap, then glance at my flushed appearance in the mirror.

My skin is pale, my eyes too bright. There are hollows under my cheeks, but really, that only adds to the ethereal look of my appearance.

I’m wearing a silvery dress that comes to mid-thigh, paired with rhinestone, over-the-knee boots with heels that are, at least, eight inches.

Fortunately, they're platform heels—I insisted. No way am I stumbling onto stage and then face-planting, which I still might do if I don’t get a hold of myself.

"Solene, if you don’t tell me you’re okay, I’m going to call Declan right now and—"

I turn and step out into the dressing room, then yell across the room before I grab the phone. "Don’t you dare, you—"

"There you are," she says with relief.

"Don’t mention the name of that testa di cazzo in front of me."

She scowls. "Then don’t scare me the way you did just now."

"Sorry, babe, didn’t mean to. I just had a moment there, but I’m fine now."

She searches my features. "You don’t look better; you look a little feverish."

I roll my shoulders, then swing my arms and jump about a little. "Just trying to psych myself up, is all."

Luckily, my make-up is largely intact. It took a team of hairdressers and make-up—or glam artistes, as they liked to call themselves—to get me to look like this.

It took several hours sitting in a chair, too, and by the end of it, I was ready to tear my hair out.

They ignored my polite requests to stop and continued about their tasks with a grim determination.

It’s only when I jumped up and yelled at them to leave the room that they complied.

Apparently, you need to throw a tantrum for people to take you seriously.

Maybe that’s why stars get stuck with the label of being temperamental?

You're treated like an object, and people forget you have your own preferences and emotions, and the only way to get through to people is to raise your voice.

"I wish we could be there for your first performance, but with Isla’s wedding happening later today, it was too tight for us to make it."

"No, of course. You need to be there for Isla’s wedding. Please apologize to her that I couldn’t make it. I’ll be there as soon as I get a break from the tour."

"How many cities are you covering?"

"Not sure. Maybe forty or fifty?" I reach for a paper towel and mop the sweat on my brow. There, almost as good as new.

"Did you say fifty?" she cries.

"Uh, yeah. In the next five months, of course."

"Jesus Christ, woman, you’re going to do fifty cities in five months? That’s ten cities in a month—"

"Two cities a week, give or take." I raise a shoulder. "Good thing the label sprung for a tour bus, huh?"

"You have your own tour bus?"

"Yeah, now that I have a band—"

"A band? You have a band and you never told me?" she screeches, and I flinch.

"Ouch, easy, I need to save my hearing, now that I’m earning a living from it and my vocal cords."

"What else haven't you told me?" The lines on her forehead deepen. "You have a band, and a touring bus, and three million followers online. Bloody hell, you’re a certified star."

"You saw that, huh?"

"You mean the three million followers? A little hard to miss. Also, how else am I supposed to know what you’ve been up to? You refuse to keep in touch, don’t answer my calls—"

"Just been busy practicing."

"Bullshit. I'm calling you out on that, Sol. You're telling me you’ve been too busy to text me and let me know you’re okay?"

I flush. "I’m sorry, you’re right, I—"

There’s a knock at the door. "Hold on." I walk to the door and open it to find Rick. He holds out a package for me.

“Who’s it from?”

He tilts his head.

“If it’s from him, I don’t want it.” I’m about to shut the door when he plants his foot in the doorway, “You don’t have to open it; just let me put it inside the room so I can say I delivered it.”

I hesitate, then nod.

He strides in, places it on the dresser, then leaves.

"Who was that, Solene?" Abby asks.

“He sent me a package.” I don’t have to specify who ‘he’ is. We both know who I’m referring to.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” She asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“You know you want to.”

I do, goddammit; I do. The sound of the crowd in the arena reaches me through the closed door. I pale, then glance at the package again. The clapping grows in intensity. My guts churn.

“You okay, Solene?” Abby’s voice is concerned.

My heartbeat ratchets up. My pulse-rate spikes. I’m going to be performing live in front of all those people. Oh, god! Bile bubbles up my throat. I swallow it away.

“Solene?” Abby’s voice reaches me, “You went pale.”

“I... I’ll be okay.” I stumble toward the dresser, grab the package, take a breath, then another. You’re going to be fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.

I pull the wrapper apart, then open the black velvet box, and stare at the piece of jewelry.

"Solene, what is it?”

I hold up a tiny rabbit-shaped figure attached to it between my fingers.

"He sent you a charm?" Abby’s voice rises in excitement.

The box slips from my fingers. I fix the charm to the bracelet around my wrist—the bracelet he’d given me with an unsigned note which had simply said ‘wear this’ and I had, of course. I hold up my hand for her perusal.

"OMG, he’s thinking of you,” she cries out.

"Maybe." I rub my finger over the exquisite little bauble. The beating of my heart slows, and my pulse settles closer to its normal pace. My stomach, too, is behaving itself. Huh, seems the good luck charm is doing its job.

There’s another knock on the door, then a voice calls out, "It’s time, Ms. Sabatini."