Chapter 3
Charlie
The penthouse bed sprawls before me like a pristine white desert, king-sized multiplied by two, with its crisp Egyptian cotton sheets stretched taut over a mattress that barely registers my weight.
Six people could lie star-shaped across it without touching fingers, which only amplifies the empty feeling in my chest as I sit here, a solitary island in an ocean of too much space.
I’m sitting cross-legged in the center of it, still in the overly fluffy hotel robe I put on two days ago, my phone lying on the duvet in front of me like a grenade with the pin pulled.
The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight against the Manhattan skyline, sealing out even the thinnest ribbon of light.
Beyond that fabric barrier lies a sixty-story drop, glass-walled skyscrapers catching the sun like massive mirrors, and eight million people going about their day.
It’s a breathtaking view all the way up here in the stratosphere of wealth, but I’ve been in this hotel for two weeks.
Stalled. Unwilling to look at the city that watched me crumble under the spotlight, forty thousand phone cameras capturing every second of my public unraveling.
“…and honestly, Charlie, the response has been better than we expected.”
Sage’s voice floats up from the speakerphone, calm and measured. That’s what I pay her for—to be the steady hand when everything else is chaos. She’s been my publicist since I was nineteen, and she’s never once raised her voice at me, even when I’ve given her plenty of reasons to.
“The usual trolls are out of course,” she continues, “but the overall tone is concern. People are worried about you. That’s not a bad thing. It humanizes you.”
“Great.” My fingers find a thread escaping from the duvet’s edge, and I pinch it between thumb and forefinger, working it back into the fabric like I’m trying to erase evidence of imperfection. “Glad my public breakdown is good for my brand.”
“That’s not what I—”
“I know.” I close my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Marcus interrupts, his voice sandpaper-rough from what I’m sure has been a marathon of damage-control calls since my meltdown.
“The label’s been breathing down my neck, Charlie.
I hate to ask, but I need to give them something right now.
A timeline, a statement, something…anything. What do you want to do?”
“Marcus,” Sage scolds. “We called to check on her, not to talk shop.”
“Well, shop is my job,” he snaps back, exhaustion sullying his mood. “You take care of her, and I take care of her bank account.”
“I want to refund everyone,” I cut in before their bickering escalates.
Silence on the line.
“Everyone who was at the first New York show,” I clarify, even though I know they understood me the first time. “They paid to see a concert. They didn’t get one. I want to give them their money back.”
Marcus sighs—a long, exhausted exhale that tells me exactly how this conversation is going to go. “Charlie, that would bankrupt the tour. We’ve already canceled two more shows while you’re recovering.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should care,” he grumbles. “We’re talking about millions of dollars. Tens of millions actually. These are sold-out stadiums. The venue fees alone—”
“Those people saved up for months to see me. Some of them probably couldn’t afford it in the first place.”
I picture the faces in the crowd, the ones who worked double shifts just to afford nosebleed seats.
The college kids who chose my show over textbooks.
The parents who surprised their daughters with birthday tickets.
And what did they get? Me, crumpling to the floor mid-chorus, leaving a packed stadium in stunned silence.
“And they saw you,” Marcus adds. “After you left, they streamed the Vegas performance. Most of the crowd stayed. Everyone got a free drink ticket.”
“That’s not good enough. How is that fair? They deserve—”
“Charlie. They knew the risk when they bought the tickets.” His voice has shifted into business mode, the one that makes me feel like a product instead of a person. “There’s a clause in every purchase agreement. No refunds, no exceptions. It protects us from exactly this kind of situation.”
“It doesn’t feel right.”
“It doesn’t have to feel right. It has to keep the tour alive.”
My mouth opens to protest, but the words die somewhere between my brain and my lips. Something hot and tight builds in my throat, and I press my fingernails into my palms until they leave half-moon indentations.
“Cancel it,” I say quietly. “I’m done.”
“Cancel what?” Marcus asks, his tone sharpening.
“The tour. All of the shows. I don’t want to postpone. I want to cancel.” I take a breath. “I need some time, Marcus. To focus on my mental health. To figure out what’s going on with me lately. I can’t just—”
“Charlie,” he says, gentler now, which is somehow worse. “I had a call with the label this morning. A long one.”
I wait.
“This tour is the only thing keeping you relevant right now. Album sales are down. Streaming numbers are flat. The label invested heavily in this tour because they believe it’s the path back to the top.” He pauses. “If you pull out, they’re done.”
“Done?”
“Done investing in you. Done promoting you. Done, period.” Another pause.
“They’ll drop you, Charlie.” His voice catches, and I hear him take a breath.
“Look, I hate even saying this. I don’t want to be the one who—” He stops.
Starts again. “The label sees you as…replaceable. God, that sounds awful. But they think it’s easier to manufacture some TikTok nobody than resurrect a has-been.
Especially one that’s…struggling. I’m on your side here, I swear.
I fought for you in that room. But I promised I’d always shoot straight with you, right?
Even when it kills me to do it? This is the reality.
If you walk away from this tour, you walk away from all of it. ”
I press my palm flat against the duvet, grounding myself in the texture, the coolness of the fabric. Perhaps I should be crying, but my tear ducts have officially gone on strike—probably unionized while I was sleeping. Good for them.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. It’s strange—“okay” wasn’t the response in my mind. Somewhere between my brain and my vocal cords, fuck this turned into okay. “Okay,” I repeat, just to hear how it sounds. “I’ll figure it out. Tell them I’ll be ready for Boston next week.”
“Are you sure?” Sage’s sweet voice massages the silence. “Canceling Boston won’t break the tour. We can get you another couple weeks—”
“I’m sure.” I drag the back of my hand across dry cheeks. “I’m fine. Really. I’ll be ready. Just make sure we get an extra rehearsal in beforehand, okay? I want everyone there—dancers, singers, the whole crew. We’ll run it until my feet bleed.”
I meant it as a joke, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve left bloodstains inside those rhinestone-crusted boots.
We say our goodbyes. Sage tells me to stay off social media, and promises to handle the press.
Marcus ensures me he’ll go back to the label and shove my comeback down their throats so hard they’ll choke on all my success.
Then the line goes dead and I’m alone again in this enormous bed in this enormous room in this city that suddenly feels like a cage.
The thought of stepping back on stage makes my stomach twist into knots that would impress an Eagle Scout, but what choice do I have? The show must go on, as they say. Even when the performer has nothing left.
I think about calling Claire.
My phone is right there, her contact just a few taps away, and I know she’d answer. She always answers, even now, even when she’s supposed to be on strict bed rest with a pregnancy that her doctors keep calling “high risk” in voices that make everyone around her nervous.
But that’s exactly why I can’t call.
Claire is in bed because she’s growing a human being. She’s creating life, nurturing it, protecting it with every breath she takes. Her stillness has purpose. Her rest has meaning.
I’m in bed because as much as I want to fix myself, I don’t understand what broke. It wasn’t the letter. No, I was broken long before that secret reared its ugly head. That particular truth might’ve been the final nail in the coffin, though.
But I don’t want to start a conversation I know I can’t finish. So I don’t call Claire. Instead, I pick up my phone and open my text thread with Grayson.
The last message is from two weeks ago, right after the collapse. A single line from him: Heard what happened. That sucks.
That sucks. Two words. No follow-up, no check-in, no “are you okay” or “do you need anything.” Just that sucks, like I’d told him I got a parking ticket instead of having an epic breakdown during a live performance.
I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering, trying to figure out what I even want to say. What I want from him. What I ever wanted from him in the first place.
Three months ago, I thought I liked him.
We met at a party in LA I didn’t want to go to—some industry thing where everyone was trying too hard to look like they weren’t trying.
I liked his laugh. It was a raspy bark, probably the consequence of thousands of bong hits.
But it sounded so unpracticed. So un-charming and I liked that because it felt real.
We went on three dates. Dinners at places with waiting lists, walks on beaches closed to the public, the kind of performative romance that looks perfect in paparazzi photos.
The conversations were short and empty. His eyes were on his phone more than on me, even when I wore my sexiest little black dress.
He’s no Price Charming, but I’m twenty-three.
There’s no time like the present to settle.