This Side of Beautiful

Chapter One

janae

Houston

March 7

Breathe. Breathe. Just fucking breathe .

I clenched my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms. The reflections of people walking past behind me and smiling, laughing, chatting it up with family, friends, and lovers on a Thursday night only emphasized my utter aloneness. Why was it so hard to return to the living?

Why is it so hard to step inside?

If I wanted my career back, this was part of it. Pushing through. Alone. Always alone. The drugs, the alcohol, the parties, the random sex, and worst of all, my nerves. They almost killed me. Almost. But for the grace of God, no diseases, no unwanted pregnancies. Just scars. Too many scars.

MILA wouldn’t have hesitated. MILA didn’t freeze.

I was born Janae Camille Warner, but MILA was the girl the world knew. I once wore the abbreviated play on my middle name, pronounced MEE-lah , like a crown, something powerful, untouchable. Now the double syllables felt like a demon whispering at the edges of my mind.

A demon I fought daily to rebuke.

I stepped back from the doors, my rhinestone-covered cowboy boots scraping against the pavement. Cars honked, headlights flashed, drivers cursed, and the city’s rhythm roared around me. The noise matched the storm in my head, loud and relentless. I rubbed the engraved rose-gold coin I wore on a chain, letting its cool weight ground me. A tether before I floated away.

Maybe I could skip this. No one would care because no one even knew I was here. Go back to the hotel , Janae. Order some room service. Watch something mindless. Yeah.

No.

No, no, no.

The voice in my head was crueler now, laughing at my hesitation. Coward. Loser. You’ re not MILA. You’re not even Janae. You’re nothing. Just go home, you crazy bitch. Just go.

I didn’t have to be here. No one was expecting me. No one would miss me. The cameras for my reality show wouldn’t roll until tomorrow morning, marking the start of my comeback. Then I wouldn’t be alone. My makeup artist, stylist, manager, and crew would orbit me all weekend, filling the empty spaces. Maybe this time, I’d build real friendships with the people in my corner. Maybe I could get through a performance without the crutch of a high. Maybe I could finally shake this loneliness that clung to me like a second skin. Maybe I could find love again.

Where did that thought come from ? Love had never been on my side. No family. No friends. No man. Just me, always me . So why the hell did I keep hoping, wishing, and praying like some starry-eyed kid who should’ve known better?

I scanned the street, desperate for an escape. For any car to take me back to the hotel. Then I froze. An Uber had dropped me off, a reminder of where I stood now. No private driver, no entourage, just me, budgeting my own damn money for the weekend. Once, I’d been a hip-hop princess worth millions. Now, I was catching ride shares like anybody else.

What a fucking joke .

I hated my mind. The way it never shut up, never let me breathe. My thoughts ran wild, unraveling, all because I’d made the mistake of leaving the safety of my penthouse suite. At least there, no one could hurt me. At least there, I could sink into hours of meaningless distractions, let the glow of the screen numb me. But here? Here, I was at war with myself, my own worst enemy.

People strolled through those doors like it was nothing, dressed to impress, laughing, belonging. I couldn’t even put one foot in front of the other.

Why had I done this to myself? A gala full of Black folks in my hometown, and I was showing up alone. It felt like prom all over again, except this time, I wasn’t just the girl without a date. I was the girl without anyone.

Voices sounded nearby. More people walked past me, and I pulled my black Stetson down, covering my brows. I didn’t want to be recognized yet, especially looking like a maniac, pacing in front of the convention center on a busy street in Houston.

The last thing I needed was more noise. More whispers, more assumptions that I was still that pill-popping, drunken mess I used to be. That I still was a lost cause. If I wanted people to see the real Janae Warner, I had to show up as myself.

But who was that?

Did I have to be Janae Warner to be seen at all? And if so, what did that even mean? A has-been? A ghost of the girl I used to be? Another artist chewed up and spit out by the industry before thirty, fading from the charts like I was never there at all?

“Ugh,” I groaned aloud in frustration. “Just open the door and walk in. Show your face, pretend you’re that girl everyone loved, and go back to the hotel and crash. Simple. No more than thirty minutes… an hour at the most. Make your rounds. Speak to Del. Take selfies with the entertainment and fans. Pretend like you have another event to hit before the night is over. It’s the rodeo in Houston. There’s always some party popping off somewhere. I can easily sell it.”

“Did you say something?” a woman asked.

Not realizing I’d been talking aloud, I shrank farther inside myself and moved my shoulder to block my face. She walked past with her date, her gait suggesting she’d already indulged. Probably alcohol. For a flash, I envied her. And not for the fine-as-hell man on her arm who smiled flirtatiously at me. The longer I paced outside on this busy downtown street, the more I looked even crazier than I felt. I checked my phone again. There was no word from Dr. K or my ex .

They’d lied and said they would be here for me when needed. Now, I needed their comforting guidance, and neither had answered their phone or responded to my frantic texts for help. I had to do something to settle myself as more people walked inside the doors wearing expectant smiles and cowboy hats.

Purpose . I had to have a reason for standing outside and talking to myself like the crazy person I felt most days. Okay. I couldn’t keep calling myself crazy… maybe unbalanced was a better description.

Does that really sound better?

Or should I just call it what it is?

Except that wouldn’t feel any better.

People don’t know what it’s like when your mind won’t slow down for days, when you’re wired at three a.m. with a million ideas that all feel like genius. Or when the world dulls overnight, and suddenly every step feels like moving through wet concrete.

When it’s not just being up or down. It’s being at war with yourself.

The air felt too thick, pressing down on me. My breaths came shallow and quick, my pulse pounding in my ears. I needed something. Someone. Anything.

Instead, I lifted my phone higher and turned on the camera.

Pretend. Pretend you’re live. Pretend you’re okay.

The oval face staring back at me wasn’t wild or crazed, no matter what the voice in my head whispered. My honeyed brown skin was smooth, my lips glossed, my eyes dark and wide. Only I could see the storm brewing beneath. The deep burgundy barrel-curled waves of my wig framed my face, bold and defiant like armor.

I forced a smile. Wide. Girl-next-door wide. The kind that had disarmed teachers when I was a kid, softened angry producers when I was late, charmed interviewers when I was high. I’d had hits. Multi-platinum hits. I’d grown up in this city, not one known for music, yet it had produced Beyoncé, Meg Thee Stallion, Bobby “Blue” Bland, Paul Wall, ZZ Top, Bun B, and my personal fave, Geto Boys. H-Town both haunted and inspired me.

I used to run this town.

And I would again.

I lifted my chin. Yep. I’m that queen .

“You’ve got this,” I whispered to my reflection. “You’ve got this.”

I clicked record.

“I see you,” I said to myself, my voice low and steady, even though my heart thundered. “You deserve this. All that noise in your head? That’s just trolls. Trolls who never thought you’d make it. Trolls who don’t matter. But you do. You’re here. You’re going to walk through those doors and show them exactly who you are. You can have it all. Being on top again is just around the bend.”

I jabbed at my reflection like I was reaching through the screen, shaking myself awake.

“You can and you will walk into this party solo. No entourage. No crew. No man. And you will not fall apart. Three years sober. Three years of work. You’re ready. You are Janae. The dopest baddie making a grand entrance. You don’t need anyone but yourself.”

That’ s all you’ve ever really had anyway.

I pushed out a slow exhale and drew in a deeper breath, steadying the thrum in my chest. The wildness in my eyes shrank into a glint, the fear settling just beneath the surface but no longer controlling me.

I clicked stop, slid my phone into my bag, and tilted my hat. Squaring my shoulders, I gripped one of the massive double doors of the convention center and pulled it open, ready to step inside. Clad in a vintage, all-black tailored pantsuit, I let my newfound confidence and just enough cleavage lead the way.

This wasn’t about applause. Wasn’t about cameras or fans or the industry.

This was about me.

I exhaled again, slower this time. My pulse still raced, but the storm inside me quieted just enough.

I could do this.

I had to.

My courage blew away a few seconds later when I stepped into the huge ballroom and observed the dimly lit banquet setup. I’d imagined more of a dark, crowded club scene with people dancing or milling around so that my solo appearance didn’t seem so… well, lonely. Most of the denim- and diamond-clad guests sat at western-themed decorated tables that filled every corner of the room, sans a small dance area in front of a live band and DJ booth. Guests hugged, laughed, and greeted each other like they were at a family reunion. The waitstaff, dressed in black and white, smiled as they served guests hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

I checked my pulse on my laced-out smartwatch. One thirty-five was too high. I took long breaths, trying to decrease my heart rate. I closed my eyes briefly and murmured, “Just stay on the edge so if you have to run, you can.”

As a waiter passed by, I grabbed some stuffed mushrooms on a small plate. I needed to keep my hands occupied as I scanned the crowd, hoping to see Del, my manager, or a familiar, friendly face from my past in the music business. I chomped on the tasty morsel as I strolled on the periphery of the ballroom. Del had said he would sit near the front at a table for the performers and guests if I decided to show up.

The guests radiated excitement, eager to attend one of the premier events for Houston’s Black elite. Black cowboys and the rodeo had been a part of Texas history for generations. Enslaved Black men had been among the first wranglers called “cowboys,” a term that had nothing to do with the rugged mythos of the Wild West and everything to do with their servitude. Not to be confused with “cowhands,” they were the backbone of an industry that would later erase them from its narrative. After emancipation, many of these skilled Black men became some of the most respected and capable cowboys in the West, even as history tried to erase them.

As a Houston native, I understood the importance of celebrating our place in spaces that had once shut us out. This gala, the crown jewel of Black Heritage Night at the rodeo, was an annual tradition, an honor to attend. And tomorrow, I would take the stage as a surprise guest of headliner Cash Black.

The joy was palpable with smiles, laughter, and a sense of homecoming woven through the room. But as I stood on the periphery, all I felt was loneliness as their excitement evoked my sadness.

I’d never imagined that if I were ever asked to perform at the rodeo, a place I’d gone to countless times as a child, I’d be here alone. No mother or brother in the crowd, beaming with pride, shouting that I’d made it. No ex, no man on my arm, whispering how proud he was of me.

I’d pictured Adam Temple, the retired NFL player I’d spent four years loving, standing beside me, sharing in the moment. But I’d burned that bridge to the ground long ago.

Now, on the eve of what should’ve been a momentous night, the only person I had in my corner was my manager of six months. A man who had sought me out after I posted a video of myself singing Lauryn Hill’s ” Ex-Factor” on IG — my mother’s favorite song. A moment of nostalgia that went viral. A moment that led to this.

Del saw something in me. Maybe something real, maybe something profitable. I wasn’t sure yet.

Both my last manager and my record label had unceremoniously dumped me after my final scandal, an affair with a married music producer. His wife? A beloved singer with a fanbase ten times more loyal and rabid than mine. I had been the villain in that story, and the industry had washed its hands of me.

Now, I was here, clawing my way back, trying to be seen as something other than a mistake.

I needed to find Del. I fumbled in my purse for my phone, distracted, gripping the tiny saucer in my other hand when someone bumped into me.

Everything fell. My plate and my purse crashing to the floor. My hand shot out to grab something, anything, to steady myself, and landed on the edge of a nearby table. A glass of water tipped over, drenching the bodice of the woman seated there.

She gasped, pushing back her chair, eyes wide with irritation.

“Sorry… sorry,” I stammered, struggling to regain my balance. But the room had started to spin.

Oh no. Not now. Not here.

I braced myself against the table, forcing deep breaths. I can do this. I can do this.

“Aren’t you that rapper?” a voice piped up from the table.

I blinked, vision swimming. My heart thundered in my ears, drowning out the voices around me. My knees felt like liquid. Find something to focus on . Find something.

“Are you okay?” Another voice. I couldn’t tell whom it belonged to.

A phone appeared in my face. A young man holding up his fingers in a peace sign, grinning at the screen, angling for a selfie.

I recoiled, my breath catching in my throat as I caught my reflection in his phone. Wild eyes, lips slightly parted, panic written all over my face.

I shook my head and backed away, mumbling, “Sorry.”

The young man bent down, scooping up my purse. He held it out to me hesitantly. “Are you okay, MILA?”

Not my name.

That name was dead. That name had been my destruction.

Hearing it now only made my chest tighten further.

Coming here had been a mistake.

This night was for family. For friends. I had neither.

The walls felt like they were closing in, the music too loud, the lights too bright. I needed air. My breath was coming too fast, too shallow, my chest caving in.

Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart slowed, dragging me down with it.

“Sorry,” the boy muttered, stepping back.

The woman in the soaked dress waved him off. “Leave her alone. She don’t want to be bothered, whoever she is.”

Whoever she is.

Didn’t even recognize me.

Maybe that was better. Maybe it was worse.

Breathe. Breathe.

I can’t. I can’t.

Breathe .

I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere . I have to go. Right. Now.

I turned, ready to run, but smacked into a hard chest.

Strong hands caught mine, grounding me.

I blinked up, stunned by the warmth of his grip before my vision settled on the striking face staring down at me.

Arresting hazel eyes. Smooth caramel skin with hints of toffee and features carrying the traces of a blended African and Asian heritage. Maybe Indigenous. Perhaps not his parents. Somewhere down the line, he carried his ancestor’s defined cheekbones, Nubian nose, and lips that pouted naturally. His hat wasn’t quite like the others at the gala, and even in my heels, he towered over me. His chambray shirt was loose, but the way he held me — firm and steady — told me he was strong.

For the first time in minutes, my mind slowed.

The noise in my head quieted.

I could breathe.

He was the object that settled me.

“Janae?” His deep voice held familiarity, curiosity, recognition.

This beautiful stranger knew me?

I searched my mind, desperate to place him.

His hands were still wrapped around mine, like he knew I was on the verge of falling apart.

Like he didn’t want to let go.

And for some unexplainable reason, I didn’t want him to either.