Page 56 of Duty Unbound

“Don’t.” I held up a hand. “Let’s talk to PR first. We don’t need to escalate this.”

“But he’s making us look bad!”

“And responding without a strategy will make it worse.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing away the headache that had been my constant companion for days. “This is exactly what Adam wants—attention. Let’s not give it to him.”

Nova huffed, dropping onto the plush sofa. “Fine. But he’s such a jerk. The way he keeps undermining us, spreading rumors that I’m difficult to work with…” She trailed off, examining her freshly painted nails. “I caught him telling one of the sound guys that I use autotune for every performance. Can you believe that?”

I could, actually. Adam Foster had been making our lives increasingly difficult since the tour began. Nothing overtly threatening, just a thousand tiny pinpricks designed to irritate and undermine.

He rescheduled Brooklyn’s sound checks without notice, claimed equipment that had been allocated for Nova’s show, and left passive-aggressive notes for the crew. He’d even gone so far as to accuse us of sabotaging Brooklyn’s lighting during her set in Memphis—a ridiculous claim that nonetheless required two hours of my time to defuse.

But unfortunately, the Citadel team hadn’t been able to find anything tying him to either the Barbie dolls or the roses at Nova’s house. As a matter of fact, he had a pretty solid alibi in another state the night the creep had broken in to the house with the flowers.

“Just ignore him,” I said, more sharply than intended. “He’s trying to get a reaction.”

Nova stared at me, eyes widening slightly at my tone. “Are you okay, Mel? You seem…tense.”

That was the understatement of the century. It must be really bad if Nova was actually noticing.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” I glanced at my watch. “You should be getting ready. Thirty minutes to showtime.”

She lingered, a rare moment of actual concern crossing her face. “You know you can talk to me, right? If something’s wrong?”

The irony of Nova asking if I needed to talk almost made me laugh. When was the last time she’d shown any interest in my inner world? But her expression seemed genuinely worried, and I felt a pang of guilt for my uncharitable thoughts.

“I know. Thanks, sis.” I forced a smile. “Now, go get into costume. Marina will have a fit if you’re late.”

She hesitated, but then nodded and slipped out the door, leaving me alone with my reflection and thoughts once more.

I stared at the mirror. The reflection showed a woman worn thin by responsibility—pinched expression, rigid posture, eyes that calculated problems rather than dreamed. When had that happened? When had I stopped being Melanie Rivers and become simply an extension of Nova’s ambition?

The door burst open again as the makeup team arrived with Nova’s costume. The moment of quiet self-reflection vanished as I was pulled back into the vortex of preshow excitement.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the wings watching Nova gather her dancers in their traditional preshow circle. They wore their elaborate masquerade masks, already costumed for the opening number that had become the tour’s signature. Usually, this was one of my favorite moments—the energy, the collective breath before the plunge, Nova at her most genuine as she connected with her team.

“This tour has been amazing so far,” she told the group, her voice charged with excitement. “But tonight is going to be thebest yet. I can feel it.” She looked around at each masked face, ending with mine. “We’re family out there. We’ve got each other’s backs, right?”

A chorus of agreement rose from the circle.

“One, two, three—” Nova started.

“Nova rising!” they shouted together, hands thrusting skyward.

Any other night, I would have felt a surge of pride, of connection. Tonight, I just felt hollow.

The group dispersed, heading toward the stage entrance. Nova paused, squeezing my arm.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“Go break a leg,” I replied, dodging the question. “They’re waiting for you.”

She studied me for another beat, then nodded and hurried after her dancers.

I stood alone in the suddenly quiet backstage area, the opening bars of Nova’s first song vibrating through the floor beneath my feet. The crowd roared as she appeared through the smoke and lights, their enthusiasm a physical wave that washed over everything.

I should be out there, watching. Making sure everything ran smoothly. Instead, I found myself walking back to the empty dressing room, the door closing behind me with a soft click.

Silence, finally. I leaned against the vanity, staring at my reflection—dark circles, tense shoulders, a face that bore little resemblance to the creative, carefree person I used to be before Mom died and Nova’s career exploded.

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