Chapter 25
25
Valerie
Morning comes too soon.
After a long, lingering good-morning kiss, Caleb escapes to his own room to shower and prep. I’m sweetly sore from the sex and groggy from sleep deprivation—but I chug coffee from room service like my life depends on it as I start to get ready for the day.
I ran down to a beauty supply store after the Punk! magazine shoot and bought a fresh jar of vegan dye to cover up my blond. My first instinct was to grab my signature Pink Crush, but then my eyes fell on the Lavender Daze.
All that talk from Rowan telling Caleb to do something familiar but fresh rushed into my head. I bought the Lavender Daze without another thought, and now I’m stuck with it. Maybe it wasn’t the right call, but this is a change I can control, and it’ll definitely keep the fans talking.
And I need them to keep talking.
Sure, I could have a professional dye my hair, but that didn’t feel right going into today. I’ve always done this part on my own, knowing it’ll get me the results I want. Rowan agreed to let me have this one thing, as if they sensed somehow how much I needed to have something under my control.
Becoming this version of Valerie Quinn one more time.
So I pour the conditioning dye into a bowl, slip on some gloves, and begin working it into my freshly platinum strands. My hair is short enough that it doesn’t take long, and soon the entire bathroom looks like a violet ink explosion. While the color sets, I clean off the sink and countertops, then run a bath to exfoliate and shave my legs.
Once I’m scrubbed clean and moisturized, there are still a few minutes left on my timer before I can rinse my hair, so…I scroll social media. News about us is everywhere today: the concert, Jane’s premiere, my relationship with Caleb. Hell, even Theo tried to reach out to me, and Gossip Daily has nice things to say.
And I realize—we did it.
The posts don’t say anything about my reputation. I’m not being tied to Theo Blake or Roxanne Leigh or anyone else I’ve dated in the past. No one is bringing up old mistakes I’ve apologized for a hundred times. They’re all talking about how heartwarming it is to see me and Caleb back together again—one comment even says it’s making them believe in soulmates.
Hell, it’s making me believe too. Relief washes over my skin like cleansing rain.
We accomplished what we set out to do this summer. My name is no longer associated with heartbreak and scandal. Everyone is talking about us in a good way. A few of the posts and articles and videos speculate about what’s next for the Glitter Bats, and Epic Theme Song is mentioned multiple times. It’s exactly as we planned.
If The Network wanted me to turn my reputation around, I’ve officially done it.
My stomach still twists with anxiety, but it’s all nerves and espresso. We’ve rehearsed every single moment of the concert, gotten through multiple run-throughs—I even have planned where I’m standing and what I’ll say when it’s my turn to talk between songs.
I’ve got this. We all do.
Soon enough, it’s time to wash out my strands, and I follow my old hair process like a ritual, taking comfort in the familiar routine. Each movement grounds me further, and I feel the anxiety melting away. The soft purple is a shock as I dry my hair, but I like how it looks. Like me, but also new. It makes my eyes pop, and I play that up as I add texturizer to my hair and put on mascara.
The stylists will make me up properly later in the day, but even barefaced, I feel like I’m on top of the world. I’m making music with the people I love tonight. Caleb is back in my life—for good, if I can do anything about it. And with how things look online on top of it all, I’m so close to having everything I wanted.
Nothing can ruin this perfect day.
My stomach growls, so I call down to the hotel restaurant and put in an order for room service. Just after I hang up, my phone rings again. It’s a number that’s not in my contacts, but it has an LA area code, so I assume it’s just the restaurant verifying my order.
I got a little carried away with the substitutions, but I hate mayo.
“Hello, this is Valerie,” I answer.
“Valerie.” A familiar voice draws out the last syllable of my name in a possessive way. A chill runs down my spine. “This is Ryan Tate from Gossip Daily . So glad I caught you.”
My jaw tenses, and I sink onto the foot of my bed. “Hello, Ryan. I apologize—you’re not in my schedule for today. Unfortunately, I don’t have time for an interview.” There’s nothing unfortunate about it. No doubt, he’s trying to throw me off my game.
And the next thing he says sure does just that. “This will be quick. Any comment on Epic Theme Song ’s cancellation?”
Panic blurs my vision, and I have to clutch the phone to keep from dropping it. “What?”
“Surely you’ve heard the news, right?” His voice is triumphant, a little vindictive. “Or…whoopsie, did I just spill the beans? I have a very reliable contact at The Network who confirmed they’re finally pulling the plug. I wanted to give you a chance to give me your reaction, unfiltered, before the press release drops.”
My hands start to shake. This can’t be happening. Finally, I get my shit together enough to respond. “No comment.”
“That’s a shame. Good luck tonight, by the way. All eyes will be on you.”
I end the call and toss my phone on the bed.
“Fuck!” I shout, to no one.
This can’t be happening. I did what they asked. They sat on a decision for months, made me turn my personal life into a sensation, and then they do this. Today of all days.
Was this all a game to them? All this scheming, and it wasn’t enough.
My shoulders tighten. These Network assholes are filming our concert, and they’re sending some of the higher-ups, so I’m going to have to play nice with the suits all day. Even though they’ve just ruined my career. It’s sick.
Unless Ryan was lying, I rationalize. Maybe he’s just messing with my head, trying to get me to say something inflammatory—it wouldn’t be the first time the press has set me up. I was just too stunned to give him what he wanted.
I pounce back on my phone, practically throwing myself across the bed. Frantically, I start scrolling social media for something, anything , to give me a sign. For a blissful few minutes, everything looks totally normal.
And then, in my costar Lola Martinez’s stories, I see it. Lola has snapped a picture of a giant iced matcha and a pink macaron. In the tiniest of text, she’s written:
Just got the most terrible news. Even my little treat between rehearsals isn’t making it better, but at least I tried.
It could be unrelated, but I have to know for sure. I scramble to a seat and start a video call.
My heart races as she picks it up almost immediately. Lola is Mexican American, and her dark hair is piled into a neat ballerina bun on top of her head. She’s a dancer as well as an actress and singer—a true triple threat—and I imagine by her leotard that she’s heading into some kind of rehearsal. But she doesn’t look her usual serene self.
There’s something wild and stressed about her, and it puts me on alert.
“Oh my god, Val.”
“Ryan fucking Tate just called me asking for a comment because—he claims—our show got canceled. Is it true? What do you know?”
Her eyes widen. “I spoke with Patricia about an hour ago. My agent has been trying to get more answers, but it sounds like we’re done.”
The news hits me like a punch in the gut. “Shit.”
She tosses her free hand up in the air. “They weren’t even planning to call us.” She swears under her breath. “They were going to let us find out in the press release!”
I place a hand on my chest, trying to breathe. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I wish,” she says. “I had a good panic about it in the bathroom, had to take a Xanax.”
“Did they give us any kind of explanation?”
Lola gestures to someone off-screen, then refocuses on me. “No, not that I could get from my agent. I know Tyler has an in, so I was going to try to call him after my rehearsal.”
Tyler Rowe. I have zero desire to use his in , but it might be necessary to let the nepo baby call in a precious favor. “Let me know what you find out.” I swallow back the tears in my throat. “God, Lola, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
She shakes her head. “No, you can’t put this on you. They would have renewed us months ago if we really had a shot. Besides, you’re like the hottest thing in LA right now. I’m really sorry you heard the news like this, and at the worst possible time, but I hope you can forget it all and focus on being incredible out there today.”
My gaze goes blurry, and I blink. “God, how am I supposed to go out there after this?”
“It’s hard to focus.” She laughs bitterly, but her eyes are still sad. “I wish I could make the concert, but I just booked the new national tour for Legally Blonde , and they’ve got us in all-days to learn the choreography.”
“That’s incredible. Congratulations,” I say. I hope she can’t tell how hollow my voice is. Lola will be fine after Epic Theme Song . She did Broadway before, and she’ll do Broadway again.
“Thank you,” she says. “Can we talk soon? I think I’m still in denial, but I’ll need a good cry later this week. I’m so, so sorry you found out right now . I would have called you, but I was hoping you could avoid the news for at least one day.”
“It’s…what it is,” I say.
She frowns, her eyes soft and sympathetic. “Break a leg, babe.” And then she ends the call.
I groan. I need to get down to sound check, but everything feels numb. I haven’t booked a single audition since the Epic Theme Song hiatus. Sure, I can have Wade broaden my net to television now that I’m no longer tied to a show, but this feels like an ending.
My career as an actress is over.
I stand up and begin to pace, trying to make sense of it all. Is this really it?
No one wants a failed leading lady with a messy reputation. I’ll be lucky to book guest-starring roles again. As soon as the news cycle for the reunion—and hell, the cancellation—is over, I’ll fade into obscurity. The only thing I have left is the Glitter Bats. It’s ironic, since the whole reason this reunion started was to salvage my career, and now there’s nothing left to save.
It’s all too much. I stride over to the big windows and pull the curtains closed, trying to shut out the world.
We tried to fix my image, and it actually worked. But maybe it was doomed from the start. My knees go weak at the realization that Lola was right—if they were going to renew the show, they would have done it months ago. Anything I did was never going to be enough.
Defeated, I sink to the scratchy hotel carpet. It scrapes my bare legs like sandpaper, but I’m too stricken to care.
After tonight, I’ll be nothing more than a girl who used to be famous. Unless I can think of a way to turn it all around, all I can do is hold myself together until the last notes of the encore.