Chapter 1 #3
Miranda’s ruby lips purse in disapproval.
She’s never liked Ant—probably because unlike most people he isn’t afraid of her and has reminded her on more than one occasion that she’s not his boss—I am.
“Cassandra.” My eyes narrow at her refusal to use the name I’ve asked her to.
“You’re more popular than ever right now.
We need to capitalise on that before the buzz of your tour dies down.
If you disappear for a month, nobody will care by the time you’re back. You need to stay relevant.”
It’s complete and utter bullshit, and we both know it.
While in the earlier days of my career it was important to seize every opportunity, these days most opportunities will become available to me if my team asks for them.
I’m not so full of myself to think it will always be that way but right now I’m fortunate enough to be in a position where I can pick and choose what interviews I’ll do and what events I’ll attend without worrying that saying no to an opportunity will mean it’s never offered again.
“Nothing you’ve listed is something that couldn’t have waited until I was back from my break—you know that. Why did you schedule all of this when I told you long before the tour started that I would need some time off afterwards?”
“Melody,” she begins, as though I’m the one being unreasonable.
“Mother.” See how she likes it. Her red-painted lips flatten into a thin line of displeasure.
Once I turned eighteen, she told me to stop calling her Mum and call her Miranda instead.
She said it was so that I would seem more professional when she accompanied me to photoshoots and interviews.
That I would no longer be the kid country music star represented by her mum.
Instead, I would be seen as an adult accompanied by her manager.
At the time it sounded reasonable, and I so desperately wanted to be taken seriously, but that was then.
For a while, I’ve suspected the decision was more about her and how it made her look.
She certainly doesn’t act like my mother anymore—she hasn’t for a long time—but she’s all I’ve got.
Miranda is an only child. Her relationship with her parents was strained, and they passed away before I was old enough to reach out to them on my own.
My dad’s never been in the picture—from what little I’ve gathered over the years, I think he knew Miranda was pregnant but wanted nothing to do with her or me.
Whatever the reasons, my mother is the only family I have.
If anyone else were behaving this way, I would have fired them long ago.
Sure, my mother is good at her job, but she also crosses every boundary I’ve ever tried to set and completely disregards my wishes in favour of her own wants.
Ant and my friend Liam keep telling me to let her go, but I’m too worried about the drama she’ll cause if I do.
Whenever she senses my patience with her reaching its limit, she’s always quick to remind me she has the power to ruin me.
Miranda’s made it clear she’d have no problem going to the press and feeding them a sob story about being fired by her only child after putting in years of hard work to make my dreams come true.
Now, exhausted after months of touring, my peace stolen yet again by her waltzing into my space without permission only to belittle me and make demands, it’s difficult to remember that this was ever my dream and not only hers.
“You can’t back out now. It will look unprofessional. You don’t want to earn a reputation for being a spoiled princess, do you?”
Princess. The jab is intentional, and she’s hit her mark.
Miranda knows how much I hate the ‘princess of country’ image she came up with.
I wasn’t keen on it as a teenager and I’m certainly not a fan of it now that I’m a grown woman the media insist on infantilising.
The void in my chest that my brief time with Ant distracted me from is back at the forefront of my mind.
I’m too tired to argue. What I need in this moment, even more than the month off I was promised, is for her to go away.
The tension drops from my body, all the fight leaving me.
I wipe all traces of emotion from my face, burying my true feelings so deep that even I’ll find it difficult to dredge them back up.
“Fine.” My voice sounds like me, but somehow not.
There’s no animation, only flat vowels and consonants strung together in a farce of agreement. “Email me the schedule.”
Her victorious smile is so vicious I can’t even take any pleasure from spotting the smear of lipstick on her artificially bright white teeth.
“Excellent.” A few quick taps on her phone and then she’s sliding it back into her designer handbag.
“I’ll call someone to get rid of this.” She flicks a hand towards mine and Ant’s abandoned feast.
“Fine.” I’m not hungry anymore. If Ant wants something else, he can order it after she leaves. I don’t like wasting food, but it’s the lesser of two evils when objecting will only keep her here longer.
She makes the call on the suite’s phone but doesn’t leave until a member of the hotel’s staff comes to clear everything away. God forbid I sneak an extra bite of cheesecake in the five minutes between her call and their arrival.
“This is for your own good, Melody. It’s my job to keep you on track.
Careers like yours don’t just happen. They take hard work to build,” she continues, as if everything I am is because of her and not the work I put in, the hours I practiced, the sacrifices I made.
“You’ve never had a head for business. I don’t expect you to suddenly understand how all this works, but I do expect you to do as you’re told. ”
She waits by the door, tapping her foot expectantly, and I realise she won’t leave until I acquiesce.
For a moment I imagine taking the patent black stiletto off her foot and stabbing her with it. It’s enough to enable me to force a polite smile to my lips. “Yes, Miranda.”
The moment the door clicks shut behind her, Ant emerges from his room.
“You heard everything?”
“I did.”
“I let her take your food. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about that.” He sits beside me. “Are you OK?”
“Of course. Haven’t you heard? I’m country music’s princess. What do I have to be sad about?”
He gives me an unimpressed look. “Try again.”
“I’ll be fine. I have to be—apparently the show’s not over yet.” Standing, I grab a bottle of water from the room’s fridge. “It’s late. I’ll see you in the morning or, later today, I guess.” My bedroom door closes with a dull thud before Ant has the chance to reply.