Page 1 of This Side of Beautiful

Chapter One

janae

Houston

March 7

Breathe. Breathe. Just fucking breathe.

I clenched my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms. The reflections of people walking past behind me and smiling, laughing, chatting it up with family, friends, and lovers on a Thursday night only emphasized my utter aloneness. Why was it so hard to return to the living?

Why is it so hard to step inside?

If I wanted my career back, this was part of it. Pushing through. Alone. Always alone. The drugs, the alcohol, the parties, the random sex, and worst of all, my nerves. They almost killed me. Almost. But for the grace of God, no diseases, no unwanted pregnancies. Just scars. Too many scars.

MILA wouldn’t have hesitated. MILA didn’t freeze.

I was born Janae Camille Warner, but MILA was the girl the world knew. I once wore the abbreviated play on my middle name, pronouncedMEE-lah, like a crown, something powerful, untouchable. Now the double syllables felt like a demon whispering at the edges of my mind.

A demon I fought daily to rebuke.

I stepped back from the doors, my rhinestone-covered cowboy boots scraping against the pavement. Cars honked, headlights flashed, drivers cursed, and the city’s rhythm roared around me. The noise matched the storm in my head, loud and relentless. I rubbed the engraved rose-gold coin I wore on a chain, letting its cool weight ground me. A tether before I floated away.

Maybe I could skip this. No one would care because no one even knew I was here.Go back to the hotel, Janae.Order some room service. Watch something mindless.Yeah.

No.

No, no, no.

The voice in my head was crueler now, laughing at my hesitation.Coward. Loser. You’re not MILA. You’re not even Janae. You’renothing.Just go home, you crazy bitch. Just go.

I didn’t have to be here. No one was expecting me. No one would miss me. The cameras for my reality show wouldn’t roll until tomorrow morning, marking the start of my comeback. Then I wouldn’t be alone. My makeup artist, stylist, manager, and crew would orbit me all weekend, filling the empty spaces. Maybe this time, I’d build real friendships with the people in my corner. Maybe I could get through a performance without the crutch of a high. Maybe I could finally shake this loneliness that clung to me like a second skin. Maybe I could find love again.

Where did that thought come from?Love had never been on my side. No family. No friends. No man. Just me,always me. So why the hell did I keep hoping, wishing, and praying like some starry-eyed kid who should’ve known better?

I scanned the street, desperate for an escape. For any car to take me back to the hotel. Then I froze. An Uber had dropped me off, a reminder of where I stood now. No private driver, no entourage, just me, budgeting my own damn money for the weekend. Once, I’d been a hip-hop princess worth millions. Now, I was catching ride shares like anybody else.

What a fucking joke.

I hated my mind. The way it never shut up, never let me breathe. My thoughts ran wild, unraveling, all because I’d made the mistake of leaving the safety of my penthouse suite. At least there, no one could hurt me. At least there, I could sink into hours of meaningless distractions, let the glow of the screen numb me. But here? Here, I was at war with myself, my own worst enemy.

People strolled through those doors like it was nothing, dressed to impress, laughing, belonging. I couldn’t even put one foot in front of the other.

Why had I done this to myself? A gala full of Black folks in my hometown, and I was showing up alone. It felt like prom all over again, except this time, I wasn’t just the girl without a date. I was the girl without anyone.

Voices sounded nearby. More people walked past me, and I pulled my black Stetson down, covering my brows. I didn’t want to be recognized yet, especially looking like a maniac, pacing in front of the convention center on a busy street in Houston.

The last thing I needed was more noise. More whispers, more assumptions that I was still that pill-popping, drunken mess I used to be. That I still was a lost cause. If I wanted people to see the real Janae Warner, I had to show up as myself.

But who was that?

Did I have to beJanaeWarnerto be seen at all? And if so, what did that even mean? A has-been? A ghost of the girl I used to be? Another artist chewed up and spit out by the industry before thirty, fading from the charts like I was never there at all?

“Ugh,” I groaned aloud in frustration. “Just open the door and walk in. Show your face, pretend you’re that girl everyone loved, and go back to the hotel and crash. Simple. No more than thirty minutes… an hour at the most. Make your rounds. Speak to Del. Take selfies with the entertainment and fans. Pretend like you have another event to hit before the night is over. It’s the rodeo in Houston. There’s always some party popping off somewhere. I can easily sell it.”

“Did you say something?” a woman asked.

Not realizing I’d been talking aloud, I shrank farther inside myself and moved my shoulder to block my face. She walked past with her date, her gait suggesting she’d already indulged. Probably alcohol. For a flash, I envied her. And not for the fine-as-hell man on her arm who smiled flirtatiously at me. The longer I paced outside on this busy downtown street, the more I looked even crazier than I felt. I checked my phone again. There was no word from Dr. K ormy ex.

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