2. Back To Black #2
I groan, pushing a hand through my hair before answering, “Kylie.”
“Elena, are you ready to rejoin the world?” Her voice is brisk, businesslike.
“What’s going on?” I ask, pacing toward the window. Outside, the late afternoon light bleeds through the glass, soft and golden against the skyline.
“Well, there’s no sugarcoating it. Your absence has been noted.
This is release week for your album. You should be out there—doing interviews, being seen, talking about Rise—not hiding away.
The media’s circling. They’re dragging up your disappearance, rehashing the whole Alexander saga.
They’re painting you as a bad investment—the numbers are great, but the label is worried. ”
Exhaustion creeps in, draining whatever lightness I had earlier. I scrub a hand over my face, exhaling hard.
“Not to mention the staged photos of Madison and Alexander doing the rounds, they’re calling it the golden reunion—painting you out to be the sad ex.”
Fuck.
Riley’s expression shifts—sympathy, worry—but she stays quiet.
“Okay, what do we do?”
Kylie sighs on the other end. “I can tell you what to do, but at the end of the day, Elena, it’s your choice. This is your career on the line.”
“I know.” Shame creeps into my voice. While this is everything I’ve ever wanted, the constant performance—the pressure to be on—especially now—feels suffocating.
My feelings never seem to matter—not when my reputation is on the line.
“I trust you, Kylie. Help me navigate this, what do you suggest?”
“Put on a show. Fake it. You might feel like shit, but no one needs to know that,” she says without missing a beat.
Her words land like a punch, but she’s right. Clip on the strings, smile for the cameras, become the puppet they expect.
“Reclaim the narrative,” she continues. “You’re not heartbroken—you’re booked, busy, moving on.
Let Alexander have his happy little family bubble.
You? You’re young, wild, free, having the time of your life.
Hell, we could even stage a date—something to make it look like you’ve moved on. That’s my suggestion.”
Riley’s watching me now, arms folded, waiting for my reaction. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, eyes fixed on the city beyond the glass, and wonder how much of me I’ll have to lose to keep this promise to my mom.
“Okay—let’s do it,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Not the date, but maybe a night out with friends. Well…friend. I really only have Riley.”
Riley beams, her grin bright and cheeky, as if the two of us against the world is all we’ll ever need. And maybe it is. She’s the sunshine to my darkness—the light that refuses to dim no matter how heavy the shadows get.
“No, that’s good. It’s a start,” Kylie says, her voice brisk again.
“We can get your sister involved. You only need to be photographed arriving at the club. Stay ten minutes, sneak out the back, head home. Then, for the love of God, get back to work. The label’s scheduled an A&R meeting for Monday. Mark and I expect you there.”
Sounds like a plan, I guess.
A performance dressed up as freedom.
“I’ll be there.” I glance at Riley, who gives me a subtle thumbs-up.
“Great. I’ll loop Mark in. Expect Rio tomorrow afternoon. Do you need Mark to coordinate with your sister?”
“No, I can ask her.”
“Perfect. Have a good night out—and remember, smile on. Kylie out.”
The line clicks dead. I stare at my reflection in the darkened window, the city lights flickering behind me, and wonder if pretending to be okay is the first step toward actually feeling it.
The next day, Rio arrives with his glam team in tow.
“I, for one, think this is a brilliant idea,” Riley declares, tossing back the questionable cocktail she’s mixed. “Show that tosser what he’s missing.”
“Precisely.” Philippa adjusts the strap of her dress, its satin catching the light. “I’m glad you invited me out tonight—any excuse to get glammed up and spend time with you.” She glances over her shoulder. “You too, Riley.”
“Aww, I know you love me.” Riley winks, handing her a glass.
Philippa takes a sip and coughs. “Good lord—is there any mixer in this?”
“You’ll drink it and be grateful,” Riley quips.
I laugh, shaking my head at the pair of them. They bicker like sisters—one by blood, one by choice. Two pillars keeping me upright in this mad, glittering world.
“You’re all finished, Miss Montgomery,” Inga says, stepping back.
“Oooh,” Riley gasps. “I love it—it’s so sleek.”
I turn toward the hallway mirror. My hair falls pin-straight, shining under the downlight. The makeup is bolder than usual—darker liner, a hint of shimmer at the corners of my eyes. Rio’s dressed me in a silver dress that is slinky and clings like liquid moonlight.
“I’m thinking these,” he says, holding up a pair of thigh-high lace-up platform heels. “They’ll be a bitch to get on and off, but they’re fresh off the fall runway.”
“Oh, Elena, those are divine,” Philippa says, eyes widening. “Christian Louboutin?” she asks Rio.
“Good eye,” Rio answers with a grin. “I called in a favor—only the best for our girl.”
Our girl.
The words settle warm in my chest. For a moment, I see them all—Rio with his perfectionist flair, Inga with her gentle precision, Mark managing the trajectory of my career, even Kylie guiding me through the treacherous waters of the media and I realize how much they pour into me.
The clothes, the makeup, the appearances…
they’re more than vanity. They’re their craft, their livelihood.
My showing up keeps all of us moving. We’re cogs in the same machine.
With that in mind, I straighten my shoulders, feeling resolve replace doubt. Even if I fake it tonight, I’ll fake it for them—and the fans who still believe in me and the music that brought us here.
I reach for Rio, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Now, what did I do to deserve such royal treatment?”
He presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “Oh, sweetie, you’re fabulous. You’re kind, gracious—you even gifted me that Hermes vintage leather belt because I redid your wardrobe, and I was paid to do that. Some clients don’t even remember my name. You, my dear, are special.”
Before tears threaten to undo Inga’s masterful work, my phone buzzes—a message from the driver waiting downstairs to whisk us into the night.
Rio was right. The heels are exquisite, but getting them on feels like a full-body workout—both Riley and Rio had to assist. By the time the three of us pile into the town car, we’re breathless with laughter, perfume and adrenaline mingling in the air.
The city blurs past in streaks of gold and violet as we glide toward 1OAK—New York’s glittering heartbeat.
A place where fame and infamy intertwine.
When the car stops, I’m the first to step out. The world explodes in light—flashbulbs bursting like fireworks, people shouting my name. My pulse spikes—too fast, too loud—and before panic can take root, Riley’s hand slides into mine, cool and steady.
Don’t trip.
I lift my chin, draw in a slow breath, and step forward. Riley follows, effortless as always.
“Let’s show ‘em how us Aussies like to party,” she says with a grin.
I throw my head back and laugh, the sound carries on the buzz of the crowd. Somewhere deep inside, I know that shot will be everywhere by morning.
Philippa joins us, looping her arm through mine as we stride toward the velvet rope. The bouncer—a wall of muscle and ink—unhooks it with a nod.
“Ladies,” he rumbles. “Enjoy your night.”
Inside, the club glows fuchsia, the bass thrumming through my ribs. It smells of liquor, smoke, and money. This isn’t a dive bar—it’s the spot. Old-school R&B fills the air, smooth and sultry. Bodies sway, lights flicker, and the night hums with possibility.
“We did it,” I breathe, in disbelief and relief—that I didn’t trip, that I kept myself together.
“Alright,” Riley says, eyes bright. “Shall we drink or dance?”
“Let’s do a loop like Kylie said—and then sneak out the back?” I suggest.
“What? We did not spend hours getting ready just to let all this go to waste.” She gestures to the three of us.
“I know,” I admit. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this.”
“You’ve been plastered to that couch for days,” Riley counters. “You’re out. That’s the first step.”
“Let’s stay for half an hour,” Philippa offers gently. “If you want to go after that, we’ll go.”
I glance between them—their eager eyes willing me to find my way back to myself.
Part of me knows it’s too soon. The other part knows I’ve spent too long drowning in the quiet ache of sadness.
“Drinks?” I shrug.
They both squeal in unison, their laughter spilling into the pulsing air—and that alone is enough to seal my resolve.
With arms linked, we snake our way through the crowd. I spot a few faces I recognize—people whose songs and movies I’ve admired, others I’ve seen on magazine covers, their bodyguards flanking them.
It’s hard to believe that months ago I was squishing my toes in the sand at Jervis Bay, and now here I am—strung up in a pair of fuck-me heels, breathing the same air.
“What’ll it be, ladies?” asks the bartender.
“Three cosmopolitans, please,” Philippa says, setting up a tab for us.
“Coming right up.”
“Philippa Montgomery?” says a voice behind my sister. A tall blond man stands there with a boyish grin—handsome enough—but he reminds me of another blond I really don’t want to think about right now.
My broken heart creaks in my chest.
“Cooper Witney, is that you?” Philippa gushes. “I haven’t seen you since graduation. How have you been?”
“Great. You know how it is—getting into the family business and all. I read your feature in Fortune recently about that three-hundred-million-dollar property acquisition. Daddy must be proud,” he remarks, though I can’t help but notice him sneaking glances my way.
She laughs, and they talk shop.
I turn away from them and grab the freshly made cosmo.
“You doing okay?” Riley asks, taking a long sip of her drink.
I nod.
“Well, looks like you caught someone’s eye,” she says playfully.