The sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting golden streaks across the pale pink walls of Ariella's room. She was still in bed, but her phone buzzed relentlessly on the nightstand. Bleary-eyed and tangled in silk sheets, she reached over and groaned when she saw the caller ID.
"Mira (Manager)"
"Morning, Mira," Ariella croaked.
"You disappeared after the set yesterday. What the hell, Ari? We had a mini viral moment. You're on three reaction blogs already. The public is eating it up. Where the hell were you last night?"
Ariella winced. She'd bailed early, overwhelmed by the whirlwind attention, dodging her mom's inevitable wrath. She wasn't ready for this level of scrutiny—not yet.
"I had to get out of there. It was too much," she mumbled.
"Too much? Baby girl, you're not a songwriter in your bedroom anymore. You're trending. This is the game now. If you want to win, you have to play it."
Ariella sat up, tension coiling in her chest. She hadn't planned to go viral. She just wanted to sing.
"I get it. I'll be ready for today's rehearsal," she said.
"You better be. You're performing at the Verve Lounge Showcase this weekend. Your name's already on the list. Your mother signed the contract."
Ariella's stomach dropped. "Wait, what? She signed for me?"
"She's your guardian and you're still under twenty-one. She has control over your initial contracts. Look, kid, this is a power move. Big producers will be there. Don't waste it."
The call ended before Ariella could respond. Her chest ached. Her mother had always told her she wasn't allowed to pursue music—and now she was signing her up behind her back?
Something was off. Something didn't make sense.
---
Downstairs, the scent of roasted tomatoes and sautéed onions filled the kitchen. Naomi was dressed immaculately as always—powder blue blouse, hair sleek, earrings matching the gold rims of her coffee mug.
"Why didn't you tell me you signed something on my behalf?" Ariella asked, voice sharp.
Naomi didn't flinch. She turned from the stovetop and met her daughter's eyes. "Because I knew you'd object. And I also knew you wouldn't have gotten that performance slot without someone with influence."
Ariella felt her throat tighten. "So, what? You're managing me now?"
Naomi sighed, the first real crack in her perfect armor. "I'm protecting you. The moment I saw your face trending, I knew it would bring the past crawling back. I needed to control the narrative."
"You mean control me."
Naomi didn't answer.
Ariella's voice trembled. "You said music would ruin me like it ruined you. Now you're pushing me into it?"
Naomi turned off the stove, her hands trembling slightly. "It wasn't the music that ruined me. It was the man attached to it."
Silence. A long, charged pause.
"So, it's true then," Ariella said. "The rumors... the scandal. That was you."
Naomi nodded slowly. "I gave everything up to protect you. To keep your name clean. Don't waste that, Ari. Don't fall into the same trap."
Ariella's eyes stung. She didn't want protection that felt like a cage.
---
Later that afternoon, Ariella found herself in a luxury rehearsal studio downtown. The walls were soundproofed, the acoustics crisp, and the mirrors wide and ruthless.
She stood on the small raised platform, mic in hand, facing Mira and a few shadowy figures—industry scouts, rumored to have connections with streaming giants.
"We've got a surprise guest tonight," Mira said. "You're doing a duet. The chemistry test. Don't mess this up."
Ariella blinked. "A duet? With who?"
Before Mira could answer, the studio door opened.
Axton LaRoche stepped in like a walking thunderstorm—tall, cold-eyed, magnetic in a black hoodie and designer boots. He surveyed the room like he owned it.
Ariella's heart stalled.
She'd seen him before—on billboards, magazine spreads, and music award stages. The son of that LaRoche. The one Naomi had fled from all those years ago.
And in this moment, Axton had no idea who she was.
Mira smirked. "Meet your duet partner."
Axton gave her a bored glance. "Let's get this over with."
Ariella froze. There it was—the ghost of her mother's past, staring her in the face.
She swallowed her fear and stepped up to the mic. Her voice wouldn't shake. Her posture wouldn't falter. If this was fate playing games, then she was done being a pawn.
Let the game begin.