12. Rae
12
RAE
L ast night, I took a sleeping pill.
It’s been three days since the night Harrison and I took the woman to the hospital. I haven’t heard anything about her condition. Nor have I heard from Mischa since the meeting when I arrived about my La Mer proposal.
Everything seems to be locked into a holding pattern—save my agitation, which seems to grow.
Since the night at Bliss, I replay finding that woman over and over, when I should be working or sleeping. I can’t unsee what I’ve seen, can’t help but wonder how many people have been hurt by Mischa Ivanov.
Today, I’m scheduled to do an interview. There’s a multicamera setup on this patio in Ibiza Town, and a few fans have clustered around to watch.
The last interview I did in Ibiza was the start of a rough period of my life—the reporter called me out on being with Harrison.
I’ve done dozens since then. I’m never quite comfortable.
“I’m here with Little Queen, who’s playing a residency at Bliss in Ibiza this summer.”
Cheers go up from the street, and I turn to grin at the fans gathered, which only makes them cheer more.
“You’ve built quite the following,” the interviewer says.
“I’m grateful to every person who listens.”
“Why is it important to you?”
“Because we’re all individuals going through our own shit.”
Her eyebrows lift, and I wonder belatedly if I can swear on this channel.
“What shit”—she sneaks an apologetic look at the camera guy, and I laugh—“are you going through?”
I uncross and recross my legs on the high stool, glad I wore ripped denim and sandals rather than a dress. “The usual. Working on some new songs. Soaking up the sun.”
The man I loved is trying to bring down a drug dealer while I’m trying to get said drug dealer to hire me .
I haven’t seen Harrison since the night of my show, and that’s eating at me too.
But after our call, Annie sent me a picture of Harrison holding her baby. It hit me hard. Not because I’ve ever thought of having kids with him. The idea of Harrison as a father seems completely at odds with his mission, his entire ethos.
But is it? Everything he did has been driven by love for the people he cares about. Even if he chose that love over our love.
Before the sleeping pill kicked in last night, I couldn’t resist typing out a text that I sent along with the image.
Rae: You better hope this doesn’t get leaked publicly. Ovaries will explode.
Harrison replied instantly.
Harrison: Even yours?
I stared at the message for too long. Was he up because he was thinking of me? Thinking of Mischa? Or something entirely unrelated—the direction of interest rates or the last season of the Great British Bake Off ?
Rae: I’m not maternal.
Harrison: I doubt that very much. But there is a precedent.
Then he sent me a picture of a teenaged Harrison holding a blond baby wrapped in a blanket.
Rae: Wow. Ash looks… innocent. You look as if you’d fight the world for him.
Harrison: I learned early to take no prisoners. Hesitation leads to weakness. Compassion precedes defeat.
I debated before responding.
Rae: That’s a good way to make enemies. You’ll always be fighting.
Harrison: It’s the only way I know how to live .
That was the tragedy.
He taught me how to fight—for myself, for my dreams, for the love I deserve.
But I want him to lay down his weapons.
Another text appeared before I could respond.
Harrison: I never stopped caring.
My heart kicked. Part of me wanted to believe it was true, not only for his sake but for mine.
I fell asleep soon after but woke still thinking of him.
“Something arrived for you before the interview,” the reporter says slyly, bringing me back. “Would you like to see it?”
I straighten in my seat, surprised.
One of the crew brings out yellow tiger lilies, and I take them, awkwardly shifting to grab the envelope and slide out the card. I read the single phrase written on the white paper.
Take no prisoners .
My body explodes into tingles as if Harrison himself brushed my hair back and whispered the words against my ear.
“You have an admirer. Well, you have lots of them,” the interviewer amends, grinning at the crowd. “This looks like a special one.”
Awareness has the hairs on my neck lifting despite the heat.
Harrison’s watching.
Flowers could be construed as not backing down, but he’d argue they’re just for support.
Too bad him being sweet is as destructive as a full-on assault on my body and my heart.
I tuck the card away. If I say I’m seeing someone, it’ll raise suspicion. But when she goes on, my task gets infinitely harder.
“You were linked to Harrison King last year. First in Ibiza, later in LA. Do you think he sent the flowers?”
I turn over my thoughts, knowing he’s watching. I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t resist. “He’s a fighter, not a lover.”
“Is that what came between you?”
My smile fades. “A lot of things came between us. But I’m a different person now.”
They think I mean a person who wouldn’t date Harrison. But that’s not it.
I’m a person who can handle the heat. Who can go toe to toe with not only Harrison, but anyone who threatens me and the people I care about.
“What’s next for Little Queen?”
“My residency runs another month. And…” An idea clicks into place. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to say this.” I sweep a coy look over the crowd and see every damn person lean in or bounce on their toes. “I’m working on something special, one night only, at the club everyone comes to Ibiza for.”
Screams erupt. Squeals and shouts of “Yes!” and “La Mer!”
“When?” another person hollers when the initial noise dies down.
“I can’t talk about it,” I say apologetically.
After finishing the show and taking a few selfies with fans, I change in the venue’s bathroom before I head out the back door.
A long, black car pulls up in front of the alley.
Rude .
I go to move around the back of the car, but it reverses so I can’t.
The front window buzzes down to reveal the driver, a severe-looking man in a suit. “Get in.”
Russian accent. My spine stiffens.
“Who the hell are you?” Even though I already know.
He holds out a phone showing La Mer’s social media page, where everyone is asking when I’m playing. My heart thuds, hiding the first hint of satisfaction in days.
“You tell me where I’m going and I’ll get my own ride,” I say.
“You want to work for him, you’ll get in.”
“Once I work for him, maybe I will. Now what’s the address?”
* * *
I pull up outside La Mer and shift out. For a moment, I wish Harrison was here. But he wouldn’t let me come, and I can handle this myself.
A huge security guard meets me at the door, and I start to go through it. He blocks my way and holds out his arms, motioning for me to do the same.
“You’re joking.”
A brusque headshake.
The impulse to run is still there, but it’s the middle of the day in an outdoor venue.
His venue.
I follow instructions, and the man pats me down before jerking his head toward the hallway. I follow him down it, realizing halfway through that I’m holding my breath.
Excitement starts to outweigh the nerves as we emerge into the main area.
It feels like a circus ring.
Or maybe a coliseum.
Bars line the perimeter. The stage is at the center, an altar for revelers to worship at.
The lights are rigged into the sides, a sophisticated network of technology.
“Don’t fuck with me.”
The cold voice has me whipping around to see Mischa emerge from another corridor. I haven’t seen him since the day I went to see him.
“I don’t wait around for things to happen. I thought you didn’t either,” I comment.
He stops in front of me, inches away. I force myself not to back up.
He grins suddenly. “You need the money? You should’ve kept King around after all.”
“Do I look like I need money?” I glance back toward the sports car I rented. “I’ve always had a soft spot for this place.”
Mischa prowls around me. “Personal memories?”
I think of dancing here with Harrison, him kissing me for the first time. But I say, “This is the biggest gig there is. I fucking want it.”
His rasp of laughter scrapes over my skin. “And you will do me a favor by playing here?”
I hold up my phone. “After my interview, you had three hundred comments in an hour asking when I’m playing. By tonight, you’ll have a thousand.”
“I don’t like people forcing my hand.”
“Really? I think you do.”
“Are you almost finished?” a feminine voice calls from behind me.
I turn to see a familiar blond woman emerge from the same hallway Mischa did.
“We haven’t formally met.” She wears a smile that’s bigger than her companion’s but no warmer. A thin veneer of cordiality sheathing a viper’s fangs. “I’m Eva.”
“Raegan.”
“I thought it was Tiny Princess?”
“Little Queen,” I correct.
The smile is still in place. “I suppose we have something in common now.”
I survey her form in surprise.
“We both survived Harrison King.” She holds out a hand. “There’s hope for you yet.”
Her huge diamond blinks in the light.
“Congratulations. Is this new?”
“Just this week,” she confirms. “I trust you haven’t seen Harrison in some time?”
I shrug. “Why would I?” It’s a bad idea to let on that we’ve been talking. Or fucking. Mischa might misconstrue that as us getting back together, which would mean my loyalties might have shifted.
“But you’ve seen his brother. You went to an event together.”
I turn to face Eva, new wariness setting up in my gut.
“I saw Sebastian recently in London too. A few months ago. He joined some friends in a VIP room.”
The pieces click into place.
This bitch is what Ash wanted to keep from Harrison. She pushed the drugs on Ash.
“Sounds like a party,” I say, matching my smile to hers.
“Too bad you missed it.”
My pulse is heavy against my ribs, either from the thrill of this place or my hatred of these people. “What would be too bad is you missing out on me playing here.”
Mischa’s shrewd eyes narrow on me. “Why is that?”
“Because your family has been in this business a long time.“ I purposely don’t allude to the drugs. “Do you know what that means?”
“It means I am powerful.”
“It means you’re the past. I’m the future.”
I sense the surprise in him that I would dare to speak to him this way. It’s an opening. One no person in their right mind would use.
Take no prisoners.
Mischa is like Harrison in some ways—egotistical, demanding. But without all of Harrison’s graces.
So, I know how to provoke him.
I turn back to the venue, sweeping my gaze over the dance floor. “Men who build theaters like to adorn them with gold and velvet to trick the audience into believing the venue is the spectacle. But no matter how comfortable the chairs, how gilded the balconies, it’s still only a blank canvas. A theater is only as good as its performers.” I close my eyes, take a deep breath of the sunlight and the fresh air. This place will transform at night, become something else, like I do. “I can’t tell you how many people have tried to keep me off stages like this one. But they won’t.”
Mischa watches me like a predator surveying its prey. “And why is that?”
I step closer, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The man before me is dangerous. As skilled as Harrison at business, more talented at manipulation, without the reservations about hurting people.
But I can be dangerous too.
“Because when I’m up there?” I nod my chin toward the stage. “They can’t fucking look away.”
Mischa’s nostrils flare. Blue eyes glow like cold embers, dragging down my body. The top and jeans cover most of my skin, but under his attention, I feel bare.
Blood pounds in my veins, fear and adrenaline. I’m no longer chasing. I’m being chased.
Eva knows it too. She’s at his side in an instant, her arm threading possessively through his.
“Your manager has my rates and terms,” I say to Mischa once his gaze returns to mine. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I haven’t won, but as I square my shoulders and head for the exit, I know I’ve done something very brave or very foolish.