Chapter 1
“Tonight, we have breaking news that”s sending shockwaves through the music industry. In a shocking turn of events, scandal has erupted around Eden Rivers, the pop sensation who once captivated our hearts. An exclusive video has surfaced, allegedly exposing a forbidden affair between Rivers and all four of her bandmates from Sonic Revolution.”
My eyes slowly flutter open, and as I regain consciousness, a wave of disorientation washes over me. Blinking in confusion, my surroundings come to focus as I take in the details of where I am.
I find myself lying on the floor in the front room of my home.
My heart pounds as I scan the area, realizing I’m alone.
Using every will in my body, I lift myself up to follow the sound of the distant chatter blaring from the kitchen. A chill runs down my spine as I become aware of my own confusion. I attempt to recall the events leading up to this moment, but my mind feels foggy and fragmented. Fear claws at the edges of my consciousness, and I instinctively clutch the wall for support. Using it as my guide, I gradually make it to the kitchen, and my eyes scan the room. The room is dark except for the glow coming from the TV screen.
The stainless steel appliances and pristine countertops seem untouched, and panic sets in as I realize I have no recollection of what happened to me or how I came to lying on the floor.
Glancing at the television screen flickering with images of me and the band, the volume is on high, and the sound’s piercing my head.
Where is the remote? The noise is hurting my head. I glance at the table where my eyes zone in on the stack of papers, everything from bills to letters and music sheets with handwritten notes. The only messy area in this entire kitchen.
Fumbling for the remote control hidden under this pile of mess, my trembling hands struggle to turn down the volume. Pulling a chair out, I sink into it, and a sense of isolation engulfs me. My home, once my shelter, now feels like a labyrinth of uncertainty.
I gasp in horror as I look down at myself. The clothes I’m wearing aren’t mine; a messy, oversized outfit hangs loosely from my frame. I finger the fabric, the foreign texture adding to my sense of unease. Glancing down at my feet, I see that these shoes clash with what I would usually wear.
”This scandal has not only tarnished Rivers” reputation but has also sent shockwaves through the future of the band. Sources reveal that the Sonics, in light of the controversy, are contemplating breaking ties with Rivers to salvage what remains of their careers.”
My attention is seized by the news anchor as my head whips around towards the screen.
What the actual fuck?
”This has not only shattered the dreams of America”s pop princess but has thrown the future of the band into jeopardy. The once-united force that dominated the music charts is now on the brink of dissolution.”
My cell phone buzzes a message, and I frantically look around and spot it charging on the kitchen counter.
I cock my head as I gaze at it.
How odd!
It’s something I always do when I come home, yet I can’t even remember what happened to me or how I’ve come to wearing these foreign clothes or what the fuck the news anchor is talking about.
Hoping the message is from one of the guys explaining everything, I hastily make my way to the buzzing device. A frown forms on my face, realizing it’s some local press agency offering exclusivity for my side of the story. I angrily cast the phone to the side and brush my hand through my head in thought.
My mind races, entertaining the unsettling notion that I might have been drugged and kidnapped. Paranoia whispers through my thoughts, leaving me on edge. I strain to remember anything, but the memories elude me like shadows slipping through my fingers.
I snatch my phone again and select Jagger’s number from my list of favorites, only to reach his voicemail. I do the same with Haze, then, Asher, and then Callum, and all my calls are sent to an automated answering service.
Please phone me. Something bad happened.
I hit send in the group chat I have with the boys.
The TV drones on in the background, its images a surreal backdrop to my growing anxiety. The weight of the unknown pressing against my chest.
I rarely watch TV and only use it for background noise. There’s no way I left it on this loud and forgot about it. Living in this massive five-bedroom home, smack in the heart of Bel Air within the foothills of the Santa Monica mountains, can get lonely and quiet. Disturbingly quiet.
It feels like only two days ago, Callum and Haze were in this kitchen, and for the most part, the band is in and out of this house so often that the lonely void I felt when I first moved in quickly disappeared with the presence of my boyfriends.
Picking up one of the music sheets that sit idly on the table, my heart and mind go back to the memory of Callum sitting on one of these chairs, and my body is casually draped over his lap, wearing nothing but his T-shirt. Haze is jamming on his guitar as we play around with some new songs.
The songs we knew our record label would not appreciate because it was the direction the five of us dreamed of going in and getting out of this bubblegum pop we loath to the core.
I look back at the screen and at my phone, which is empty of any missed calls and messages from them. These once-shared secrets and dreams now feel like shattered fragments of a broken mirror, reflecting only the harsh realities of the present.
Have they abandoned me?
I grab the remote and switch to a different news channel.
“In an unexpected twist, a scandal has unfolded involving Eden Rivers, the pop sensation who once enthralled our emotions. A recently surfaced exclusive video is allegedly revealing a controversial affair involving Rivers and all four members of her band, Sonic Revolution.”
Desperation etches across my face, I clutch my head, trying to piece together the fragments of my memory. I’m caught in a web of confusion, my surroundings, and circumstances shrouded in mystery, leaving me to grapple with the unsettling possibility that I have been thrust into a reality that is not my own.
My thoughts are a tangled web of emotions – confusion, anger, and a profound sense of loss.
The uncertainty of all four boys’ current whereabouts adds another layer to the already complex narrative of my life. Did they leave because of the media’s accusations and that our relationship was brought to the public eye? Or was there another motive hidden in the shadows of our unraveling relationship?
Suddenly, the ring of my phone jolts me out of the current brain immobilization. My heart beats a million hits per second, thinking it”s one of the guys. I need answers.
Please let it be Jagger.
Or Asher, or Callum, or Haze.
My heart drops again when I see the caller’s name on the screen, and all my hopes die with it.
It’s Oliver Jones, our manager. The infamous music mogul who discovered us and put this band together.
“Oliver,” I say, trying my best to sound calm.
”Only time will tell how this scandal will impact the future of the band and whether Eden Rivers can recover from this public relations nightmare.”
I grab the remote and turn the television off.
“I’m guessing you’ve already seen the news,” he says solemnly.
“I got a text message from Jessie Walters. She wants exclusivity on breaking my silence,” I say as I turn my laptop on to the security cameras outside the property. The gates are filled with reporters and paparazzi waiting to catch a glimpse of me.
Shit.
Goddamn leeches of the media world.
“I would advise against any commenting,” Oliver states with a firm tone. “In such cases, I would take a step in the direction of our beloved Queen E, who snubbed the tabloids on royal gossip. She survived all that royal drama, and you can too. Don’t be tempted to talk, regardless of what they offer. They’ll spin it to make you look bad. Watch the infamous MJ interview, and you’ll understand what I mean. Talking does no one any good.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Where are the boys?” I ask, changing the topic and dreading the answer.
Suddenly, I’m met with radio silence on the other end of the line.
“Oliver?”
Did something happen to them? And here I thought they abandoned me when all along, something must have happened to them too. Maybe they were drugged and kidnapped too.
The memory of being at a party with Brittney and the girls immediately comes to mind. It’s a bit foggy, but it’s the last thing I remember. I look at the screen of my laptop.
It’s Tuesday.
Suddenly, the ball of realization drops hard.
Hold the fuck on.
I’m sure the party was on a Friday. Brittney had a screen test for a television show that morning, and we were at the party celebrating her getting the part.
“Listen, luv.” Oliver interrupts my thoughts, his hesitation is evident in his voice.
Oh god, something happened.
A sense of foreboding washes over me, amplifying the confusion in my mind as dread creeps in.
“Eden, darling, right now, we should let the dust settle. Maybe talk about going solo in the near future. Get you into a studio to do some recordings.”
The earlier dread takes a nosedive into the pit of my stomach. The realization hits me –I’m getting kicked off the band, and half of me is trying to figure out why.
Memory loss.
Scandalous video.
My relationship with all four band members.
My career.
An unsettling lump forms at the back of my throat, and I struggle to maintain composure.
“I didn’t send the video, Oliver. I didn’t even know there was one.”
“I know, darling,” he says, stopping short of elaborating further.
Oliver Jones owns us, holds all the power to our music careers, and now he’s going to cut me loose, abandon me to be eaten alive by the pack of dogs waiting outside my gates of hell.
I was brought into Sonic Revolution two years ago, transforming it from an all-boys band to a dynamic group with a new dimension. Initially met with resistance, it took our first number-one hit for the guys to warm up and recognize our potential together. Then, a year ago, our friendship took a different turn when all four boys admitted their crushes to me. Relentlessly pursuing me for months, they treated me like their queen until I decided to let them in a little.
It”s not that I wasn”t attracted to them. Who wouldn”t be drawn to the four Brits who reshaped the international landscape of pop music and boy bands? I became every fan”s dream and nightmare – every girl wanted to be me and, at the same time, loathed me, quickly becoming their envious target of objectification. As the only girl in the band and front runner on stage, I took center stage in their private lives too, blocking out female groupies wanting to hook up with the boys.
Little did those female fans know that the guys had collectively decided to discontinue encounters with groupies during our tours– a choice or demand that I never personally insisted upon.
The boys had a following way before the band had a name. And so did I.
Oliver Jones hand-picked us from hundreds of contestants on a six-month-long TV show. My old girl band, Sugar Vixens, and the boys” band Sonic Revolution were formed on live broadcast, and we battled it out while the country voted on which band they wanted to win.
The girls won, but both bands went on to make hit after hit. Oliver managed both groups, and it wasn’t long before the media made it out that we competed for the top spot and even started rumors that we inter-dated with each other.
However, the reality couldn”t be more different. Our bands rarely ran in the same circles.
Our autonomy dissolved the moment we signed on with our record label. Technically, we never had a say in our stage personas. We found ourselves not only overshadowed in the selection of our attire, the styling of our hair, and the application of makeup, but this extended to the very core of our public image. The invisible strings of societal expectations dictated not just how we performed but also who we were permitted to share our lives with. Every romantic involvement had to pass the scrutiny of our publicist as if love required approval. Conforming to a rigid narrative, we were confined within the boundaries of gender norms.
Our lives became scripted, the roles were predefined, and authenticity was sacrificed at the altar of public approval. Diversity was stifled in this theatre of illusion, and our sincere desires were relegated to the shadows, overshadowed by the relentless spotlight of conformity.
Remember that whatever you do, you risk the careers of your entire band members so don’t bloody do it. —the strict words of Oliver Jones echoed in our heads for six years.
He became our manager, mentor, career advisor, and father figure.
Two Grammys later, Oliver decided to add some spice to the boy band with female vocals and felt that I was better suited to singing main vocals with the Sonics. Little did he bank on that two years down the line, after a world tour and spending almost every single minute of the day either working or relaxing, my bandmates and I would end up falling for each other.
It wasn’t just teenage infatuation; the five of us fell hard.
Except I was reluctant to act on my feelings. I kept telling myself I was merely crushing on the guys. Being attracted to four people wasn”t normal, but they convinced me we could make it work. They pursued me, and I finally relented.
I didn”t realize they were recording our private moments. I didn”t release the video the media is talking about, so one of them must have done it. I”m still figuring out why I let my guard down; I should have known better. I’ve been on my own my whole life, so why did I think I could trust them?
“Who released the video, Oliver?”
As my hand passes over the thick, vertical scar at the top of my chest, I feel the rough texture beneath my fingertips. My heart doesn’t want to believe any of them are capable of doing something so venomous.
But I need to face the truth: someone had to record us, and someone had to know about us. The only people who knew were the Vixens and the Sonics.
The Vixens had no reason to do this.
But the guys going AWOL justifies their guilt.
“I don’t know darling, but…,” Oliver’s constant hesitation is raking on my nerves. “They’re here in England recording a new album.”
New album?
I glance once more at the music sheets on the table. This was the new stuff we were secretly writing together.
“They never —” I stop abruptly.
Then, it hits me fast. They left California last week because they knew what would go down.
I was framed. Were they also responsible for my memory loss? I’ve lost several days of my life that I can’t remember.
“Am I being fired from the band? Is this what this phone call is about?”
“I’m sorry, luv. Maybe when this blows over, we can sit down. All of us. We could talk about it. But I need the lads to be focused on releasing a new single. It’s what the label has requested to try and kick this under the carpet.”
It’s me they’re kicking under the carpet.
I’m being fed to the lions so they can save the band.
“What about me?” I ask with a solid lump in my throat. “Are you dumping me too, Oliver?”
“Of course not, luv,” he says, almost too fast. “Let’s look into getting you a solo career. Maybe have a brand new look for you in a year or two. Back and stronger than ever.”
A year or two?
“So, four guys banging one female in an illicit video, and I get tainted with the bad brush.”
“It didn’t look like they were forcing themselves on you, luv.”
“Oh god, Oliver!” I cringe. “You saw it?!”
I haven’t even seen it. Fuck. I can only imagine what is on there.
“Just bits, Eden. I had to for legal reasons. I’m your manager, darling, I’ve known you since you were … uh … what do you Americans call it? A tween.”
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
I wince and quickly turn to the search engine on my laptop and idly scroll through my social media feed, anticipating a disaster.
“I deserve an explanation from them,” I insist, focusing my attention back on the discussion. “They’re purposely avoiding me, and my phone calls are diverted to voicemail. This isn’t fair, Oliver. They treat me like garbage, and I’m taking all of their slack.”
Truth is, I’d like to curl up and cry it out, except I feel angry and confused.
My brain is one seriously bewildered mush of confusion as I try to puzzle all the blank bits together.
“Luv, let’s talk again in a couple of days. I’ll be in LA next week, and we’ll chat then. Chin up, darling. This will pass.”
I end the call with Oliver, remain sitting on the bar stool, and lean my elbows over the counter, holding my head in my hands, trying to come to terms with this nightmare.
Fuck. This is so fucking crazy.
My fingers comb through my head slowly as I raise my head and open my eyes, only to be diverted to the laptop screen. I click on a link, and my world suddenly shifts.
A disturbing sense of unease settles in as the screen unveils a shocking revelation. Staring back at me is a video thumbnail that freezes the air in my lungs. My heart pounds erratically as I recognize my own face, an unwitting protagonist in an illicit video.
Dread courses through my veins, and a cold sweat forms on my brow as I hesitate before clicking play. The room falls silent, and the screen”s glow illuminates the darkened kitchen.
I press play, and the video, a violation of my privacy, unfolds before my eyes, exposing an intimate moment I never intended to share with the world. Each passing second intensifies the humiliation, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable.
My mind races with disbelief and horror as I grapple with the violation of what’s happened to me. It’s not just this video.
Fear consumes me with a steadfast sense of terror.
I know something terrible happened to me between the missing days that I cannot recall.
In a desperate attempt to regain control, my trembling hands fumble for the mouse, desperately trying to close the window and erase the haunting images.
It’s not just this video that’s launched me into a horrifying realization.
A knot tightens in my stomach as I struggle to piece together the fragments of my memory. The unsettling feeling gnaws at me, a silent scream echoing in the recesses of my mind.
My gaze darts around this room, searching for clues, but every detail seems to blur into a disturbing haze.
I dash over to the drawer where Catalina keeps everything organized. I take out the purple leather holder where I keep my passport, among other private documents. The silence is broken only by the rhythmic pounding of my heart, which trembles with an underlying sense of dread.
I open it to find my passport’s not here.
The mere act of standing feels like navigating through a thick fog. As I stumble forward, an indistinct darkness seems to shadow my every step. Whispers of doubt and fear echo in my mind, painting an ominous picture I can’t quite grasp.
Haunted by an unexplained sense of impending doom, my mind is playing tricks on me.
Maybe Catalina, just misplaced my passport.
Yeah, that must be it.
Except I can almost taste the metallic tang of anxiety as I grapple with the notion that something sinister lurks just beyond the edges of my consciousness. A shiver crawls down my spine, and an invisible weight presses upon my chest, making each breath a struggle.
The lingering feeling that something terrible happened to me.
Somewhere in the deep dark area of my mind, I know I had traveled to a foreign country.
I can’t remember getting on a plane, but there’s that obscure memory of waking up in the back of a traveling vehicle and looking out the window at the unfamiliar landscape, knowing I wasn’t in the US anymore. It’s almost as if it were a dream than reality.
My attention is quickly drawn out of my deep thoughts as I focus on the screen of my laptop. It’s automatically switched to the security app, and I return to the counter to see what’s on alert.
I catch the screen showing me a dark image moving toward my bedroom door, and I’m alerted that there’s an open window inside the guest bedroom.
Panic surges within me as I realize there’s an intruder inside my home.
“Fuck,” I whisper, seeing two more dark images on the screen entering the hallway upstairs.
I stand frozen. The pale glow of the laptop screen casts an eerie light across the kitchen. My eyes remain fixed on the security camera feed, and a shiver runs down my spine. The dark figures, wearing all black with face masks, move with purpose, inching closer to my bedroom.
My heart races as a sheen of cold sweat forms on my forehead. The weight of fear presses heavily on my chest, knowing all too well that this might be the relentless stalkers who have haunted me for almost a year. The security system I had installed as soon as I moved into this house only a few months ago was supposed to bring me a sense of safety, yet now it’s become a tool revealing the threat that lurks within my sanctuary.
The carefully constructed illusion of security crumbles as reality sets in — the danger is not just outside my door but inside my home.
They’ve been here before. I don’t know how, but my mind tells more than I can understand.
Summoning all my courage, I grab my cell and attempt to dial 911, my fingers trembling as I hold the device.
“Speak about me, and I will kill you.”
His voice is loud and clear in my mind, except I don’t know who it belongs to. All I know is that my life is over if I utter a word to anyone.
Feeling a chilling mixture of terror and desperation, I realize that the panic room might currently be my only safe option right now.
Quietly slipping away from the kitchen, I find refuge in the kitchen pantry. The hidden door opens soundlessly, and I step into the small, dimly lit panic room. But a new wave of anxiety washes over me as I closed and bolt the door shut.
I have no cell phone reception. My lifeline to the outside world is severed, and I’m left alone with my fear and the surveillance feed from the small wall screen connected to the camera facing outside the hidden door in the pantry.
The minutes drag on like an eternity, each second punctuated by the sound of my own racing heartbeat. My hand once more caresses the scar on my chest, reminding me to take my anxiety down a notch.
Suddenly, the screen alerts me to the presence of someone in the pantry. I watch the three intruders approach the panic room, relief washing over me as the door resists their attempts to break in. Their faces remain hidden behind their dark masks and deep hoods.
Click.
No. No. No.
They couldn’t. They’re not supposed to.
“Get her out,” The deep, muffled voice says. He’s wearing a device like he did before.
I’ve been in this predicament before; I recognize the suppressed voice.
How?
How do I know this?
What happened to the five days I can’t recall?
The two men drag me out of the pantry and hold me tight to face the third one.
“Do you know who I am?”
I shake my head.
“Please,” I beg.
“I want to kill you.”
“Why?” I ask, tears running down my face.
I think I know why.
I’m yanked forward, and he twists my body so that my back is against his, and I’m now facing the other two masked men. He grips me hard against him as he holds a knife to my neck, the blade pressed into my skin enough to draw a little blood.
“Your body and soul belong to me, Eden Rivers. Talk to anyone, and I will kill you. Talk to your friends, and I will kill you. Call the cops, and I will kill you. One step out of place, and I will come for you.”
I shake with uncontrollable fear.
“Do you understand?”
I nod as best I can. He presses the knife further into my skin.
“Yes,” I say with a loud whimper.
“Good. Now go back into the pantry and pretend none of this happened.”
I do as I’m told and watch them through the security feed, inside this so-called safe room, depart the area, but they linger on at the front screen.
One of them drops something on the kitchen counter.
It’s my passport.
My stalker invaded my home with his two accomplices, and they still remain out there waiting for me in the shadows.
I can’t do this anymore.
A screaming voice in my head is telling me to run.