Chapter 3 – Willa
THREE
WILLA
As we pull up in front of the looming building in downtown Hudson City, the late spring sun glinting off the tinted windows, the lines of paparazzi with their cameras at the ready come into view, and I start my routine to center myself.
Close my eyes, take five deep, calming breaths.
Remind myself that my bodyguard, Gabe, is here with me.
Remind myself that I have my armor on, my cool girl shield, that every hair is absolutely perfect.
Remind myself that I’ve got this, that I’ve done this a million times, and I’m so curated, they won’t be able to find a flaw.
By the time Gabe comes around to open my door, I’m in another zone, Willa Ston TM locked into place.
“Are you ready?” he asks, blocking the door for me.
I take in one last deep breath, then let a wide, welcoming smile take over my face before nodding.
He steps aside and offers me a hand, and finally, I step out onto the sidewalk and stand tall.
I wave and greet the small crowd in front of the building, the mask hiding the nervous energy that hums in my chest.
I wasn’t always like this, wasn’t always so nervous and anxious and skittish when it was time to face the press.
But something happens when the world begins to pick apart every photo that’s ever taken of you, when every flaw is dissected and interpreted to mean something more.
You become cautious, making sure every angle is perfect, choosing your words carefully, and learning to keep every single hair in place.
You build a shield, not to hide behind, but to protect yourself.
“Willa! Willa!” Voices call, camera’s flashing, as they try to get the best shot, the one that will be posted to social media and splashed in multiple magazines next week, be it in a streetwear article claiming that some aspect of my outfit is trend forecasting or a post speculating what I’m currently working on right now, despite just ending my tour for my last album a week and a half ago.
I smile at the strangely familiar faces: I feel like I know every paparazzo in this town. “Morning, friends,” I say in a cheery voice, lifting a hand and wiggling my fingers sporting a fresh manicure with nude polish.
“Willa! Over here!” one calls, and I turn my head toward him, smiling and giving him the shot he’s looking for while Gabe slowly moves us toward the door.
“Willa! What’s next?” another calls. I wink at her, then shrug.
“Going inside to figure that out now.” More excited chatter, and I grin, knowing that it will get the fans and tabloids talking and build anticipation for my next project, even if it’s not written. Gabe puts a hand on my back and guides me along as cameras flash and my name is called.
“Willa! Have you heard that Caleb is already dating someone else? What are your thoughts?” Caleb is the now-reformed bad boy I dated for almost six months, ending almost a year and a half ago.
“I wish him all the best. We had a great time together and ended things amicably. He’ll always be a good friend of mine,” I say graciously, always perfectly media-trained.
Before they can ask anything else, Jackie waves at me through the glass walls of the building, indicating my press time is over.
I give the crowd one last smile and wave before Gabe opens the door for me, and I step inside.
The doors close behind us, closing us in the building’s silent, peaceful lobby, and I take my first full breath since leaving the car, the adrenaline abating just a bit.
I brush a hand down my front, my shoulders relaxing just a bit as I revel in the quiet.
Still, I remain fully aware that the crowd is still taking photos behind me.
“What are those?” Jackie, my talent agent and brand manager, asks as we walk down the marble entryway, staring at the brown heels on my feet.
After my call with Adam, I got ready for today’s meeting, putting on the outfit Jackie had set aside for me, labeled Monday meeting.
A white, tight tank top, loose linen pants with a brown belt, chunky gold jewelry, and brown heels, though without even asking, I know why she’s annoyed.
“Hello to you, too, Jackie. I’m great, thank you,” I joke with a smile. Jackie is all business, all the time, and I can rarely resist the urge to poke at her a bit. “These are shoes. Brown ones. Peep toe?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, an irritated look on her face as she guides me to the elevators. “But those are not the shoes I picked out for you.” I lift a shoulder in a half shrug.
“The ones you left didn’t fit. Too big.”
“So you just picked out your own?” Jackie asks, clearly irritated. I roll my eyes at her dramatics.
“I have an entire closet of shoes. I’m an adult who can choose her own shoes, you know.”
“It's…” she starts, then sighs and shakes her head as if I’m a child she has to calmly redirect.
“It’s fine, but I’d prefer we stick to the plan.
We have to stick to the brand, Willa. It’s crucial.
” I don’t remind her that these shoes are the same boring brown as the others or that I really don’t think a single streetwear shot of my shoes is really going to make or break my career.
The elevator doors slide open as we approach, and when we step in, Jackie presses the button for the top floor before they slide shut once more.
Once the elevator starts moving, the shorter woman turns to me, a relieved sigh leaving her lips now that we’re closed off from the cameras down below, and a smile on her lips.
“Morning, my girl, how are you?” This is my favorite version of my manager, the sweet one who feels almost motherly to me, the one I’ve known almost my entire life, the one who’s been at my side since the beginning.
Jackie found me when I was barely seven, performing at a children’s pageant my mom had signed me up for.
At a young age, I was desperate to perform, and despite being a single parent, my mom was more than willing to feed into it, signing me up for everything and anything.
Community plays, chorus groups, singing lessons, dance classes, and pageants. Any chance to show off her daughter.
I’d chosen to sing as my talent, and I don’t want to toot my own horn, but even then, I was good and could capture a room.
Jackie had been there by a stroke of luck, and after she sought me out.
She told my mom she’d seen something magical in me, that she knew a few people in the industry, and wanted to see if they’d be interested in my trying out for a few parts.
She gave Mom her personal cell number—she loves to tell this part of the story, adding that she didn’t even have business cards yet, she was so new to the game—and told her to call her if they wanted to talk more.
A week later, my mom and I sat in an office and signed a contract for Jackie to become my talent agent.
After that, I auditioned whenever I could fit it into my school schedule.
I landed small parts, commercials, and extras, and even a few small roles, but I loved it.
Within a year, we’d moved from our small town to LA so I could take on more auditions, and Mom quickly acclimated to the role of my manager.
When I was nine, I got my big break, a role on a family sitcom as the cute, quirky daughter, and became a fan favorite.
But it was five years later, when I was fourteen and was cast in a large kids’ television network’s tween dramedy and got the chance to sing, that my career blew up.
Four years after that, I released my first album and never looked back.
Once I was of age and done with acting, Mom stepped down as my manager, retiring early and handing the reins to Jackie.
Through it all, Jackie has been my rock, the one always in my corner to cheer me on and make sure things move smoothly, and to make sure my career continues to grow.
“I’m good, Jackie. How are you?” She puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into her, giving me a side hug.
“Same old, same old. Nailing down the details for your next album release. Are you still on track for recording in November?” My stomach churns, but I hide my discomfort behind a shining smile.
“Absolutely.” She looks me over for a moment, but then the elevator dings, the doors slide open, and both of us step out.
We walk right past the receptionist, Jackie leading us through as if she owns the place.
I give a small wave to the receptionist, who smiles gently, despite glaring at Jackie.
It’s not unusual, since with her take-no-shit attitude, she often rubs people the wrong way.
I try to offset that by being as kind as possible, and I hope we manage to balance each other out.
When I enter the meeting room, I try to mask the confusion on my face, as Jefferson Sterns is sitting beside Leo. Jefferson gives me a wide, friendly grin, while Leo barely even acknowledges our entrance. Some would find it rude, but I’m used to it from the brusque man.
Leo Sinclaire has been my publicist for years now, ever since he suggested my fake relationship with his client, Riggins Greene.
After the scheme worked so well, it took my next album to triple platinum and skyrocketed me from arenas to stadium tours.
Jackie reached out to him to ask if he’d be interested in working with me full-time.
He’s a stoic man, always looking rather irritated, but he’s amazing at his job and, despite working in PR, has never made me feel like I’m selling my soul for my career.
His boss, Jefferson, though…
“Thank you both for meeting us today. As you know, the last album did absolutely spectacularly,” Jackie says, avoiding any small talk as she opens her folder and begins going over numbers, ratings, and the reception of the previous album and the subsequent tour.