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CHAPTER FOUR

LENA

“Do you have any idea how hard this is going to be to cover up?” My mother paces behind her gaudy mahogany desk. “The media is having a heyday.”

I pull at the snag in my mulberry silk skirt, most likely ruining it for good.

If my closets weren’t full of a hundred other awards show and sponsor gifts like this one, I might be a little more remorseful watching the fabric go to waste.

Besides the unnecessary gifts, the royalties of my singles alone could afford me to stock my closet with these too-expensive skirts for the rest of my life.

Settling down into my seat, I send off an SOS: My mom is about to murder me text to my best friend, Joss, trying to buy some time. I am so not ready to be berated by my mother today. Three dots appear, then vanish, replaced by a headstone emoji and three simple letters: R.I.P.

Thanks, Joss. I know she loves me, but she’s like the hardest person ever to get ahold of.

“Are you hearing me?”

I lift my eyes to meet my mom’s, her deflated lips pressed into a flat line, no doubt in need of maintenance injections soon.

When they’re in this in-between stage, it reminds me of the face I remember her having when I was little.

The one that looked more like mine. Back before my career consumed both of our lives.

“Callum got what he deserved,” I say.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“It’s not like he died or something. A couple of minor burns and some superficial damage to a dingy dressing room are hardly things that should make the news.”

“It’s a historic building, Lena, and it wasn’t isolated. The heat charred that whole wall. Discolored it. Ruined the original wallpaper.” She leans over her desk. “Did you know that wall is shared with a restaurant? They had to evacuate because they didn’t know where the smoke was coming from.”

I try to fight the stinging sensation biting at my nose and eyes. Don’t let her see you cry. Not today of all days.

Her eyes cut into me sharper than her tone when I don’t respond. “Have you seen the tabloids? Antonia, please read her the headlines.”

Antonia clears her throat, obediently reading from her tablet. “Lena Lux Re kindles Flame with Callum Porter at Allister King's Music Hall.”

She falls silent, and my mother urges her on with an impatient roll of the wrist.

“Lena Plans Hot Night for Callum at King’s.” She swipes across the screen, pulling up another article. “Lena and Callum Heat Up King's Music Hall.” Another swipe. “Lena Lux: Callum’s Queen at King’s.”

I brush a stray hair from my forehead. “We should be pressing charges. Those headlines are slanderous.” I look from her to Antonia to where Gustav’s tucked into the corner by the door. “Right? They can’t say those things as though they’re facts. There’s no proof.”

“You were allegedly spotted entering his dressing room and then photographed exiting the building. When was the last time you were able to go anywhere without a pack of paparazzi trailing you?”

I lift a shoulder, wishing I knew. Performing has its perks, but losing all anonymity as a teenager is not one of them.

My mother doesn't understand my recently developed aversion to being in the limelight while offstage. She tells me my fans would be disappointed if they knew how ungrateful I am and that it takes some people multiple decades to build what I’ve accomplished in less than one.

Is it so bad to want to save some aspects of my life for me?

I imagine she’d be squawking a different tune if the roles were reversed.

My mother sighs. “Lena, this is bad. Maybe even worse than your little outburst at the Grammys. I still don’t know how your record label let that one slide.”

“I didn’t trip that girl. The train of her dress was too long. She just wanted attention.”

“You knocked her over.”

“Not on purpose,” I counter.

“Maybe if you’d shown some restraint at the bar that evening you’d have been able to stay upright.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, her inky brows furrowing. “Regardless, she screwed up her ankle. We had to pay for her medical bills.”

I pick at my chipped manicure. “You know people will try to suck any finances out of us that they can. They’d bleed us dry if we let them, even if it’s an accident.”

“Was the Callum thing an accident?”

“He deserved it.”

My mother’s stare is stony.

I roll my eyes. “So maybe I overreacted this once.”

“Overreacted?” She rubs her temples as Antonia ducks behind her screen. “Lena, you covered that boy’s dressing room in an accelerant and lit it on fire.”

“I spilled a drink next to a candle.”

“You threw a bottle of alcohol at him.”

I try to keep my breezy shell of nonchalance intact, but it begins to crack as panic sets in. The damage wasn’t intentional. I didn’t mean to scare anyone. Throwing the bottle was more out of frustration than anything.

I stare at my hands folded in my lap. “He called me a sell out.”

“You can’t weaponize a beverage because some gap toothed fool from England called you a name.” She sinks into the chair behind her desk, her voice softening in a way I haven’t heard in forever. “Honey, why did you show up there anyway? We both know things between you two didn’t end well.”

I shrug.

Why did I go? It’s a loaded question.

Because I was in the area. Because I made sure my recording schedule and location would line up with his coastal tour dates.

Publicly confessing I lit the fire would be an easier feat than admitting I’d done something so completely desperate to be in the same vicinity as my ex.

But he isn’t just another ex in my long line of failed flings.

He’s the ex. The one that, despite his imperfections, was supposed to work out.

And somehow… he didn’t. I shouldn't be shocked I lost him. Sure, Callum could have been a better boyfriend, but I’m not void of blame either.

Between work and my strict social schedule, I hardly had any time left for him.

How could he not move on after that kind of neglect?

She heaves a sigh, flipping open her laptop and sliding on her blue blocker glasses. And just like that, my mother vanishes, and my manager is back. “Antonia, how do we spin this?”

Antonia scrolls her screen, shaking her head, her plum lips pinched in concentration.

Mom rolls her eyes, pulling out her phone and shoving to her feet. “Well, think of something. I need to make some calls.”

Part of me hopes she’s blowing things out of proportion—again—but deep down I know this time we can’t smile or pay or talk our way out of it. Things are royally screwed up, and there’s no one to blame but myself.