Page 17 of Collide
I groan, rubbing my temple. “That bad?”
“They’re calling you ‘The Long-lost Heiress.’ And, the airport photos? Not your best. Also, apparently, some anonymous source thinks it’s hilarious that you flew coach despite being ‘worth millions.’”
I let out a dry laugh, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. A bitter knot twists in my gut. It’s not like I asked to be born into wealth. As far as I’m concerned, I’m not worth anything. Yet here I am—reduced to a punchy headline.
They don’t know about the rejected demos, the failure that was LA. They didn’t see the years I spent away, carving out a life of my own, trying to be more than my last name. Trying to be more than a constant disappointment. And now, with one drunken night, I’m back under their magnifying glass, scrutinized and dismissed in the same breath.
“Great.” I shift under the blankets.
Riley rolls over beside me. “Babe, you’re famous again.”
“Perfect. Just what I ordered—public humiliation with a side of hangover.” I sigh, sitting up.
“We need to strategize our next steps. We need to control this narrative STAT. Do you have time today?” Kylie asks, not mucking around. I groan mentally.
“Sure,” is all I can muster, my head pounding like an elephant is tap dancing on my temples.
“See you at eleven.” Kylie ends the call.
After we sluggishly get ready, Riley staggers to the bathroom and, with a groan, empties what’s left of last night into the toilet. I wince at the sound, shaking my head.
“You good?” I call out. A weak thumbs-up emerges from the doorway before she disappears back inside.
Riley and I emerge disheveled but showered and dressed. Philippa, bless her sweet heart, is in the kitchen making bacon, eggs, and pancakes. The smell alone makes my mouth water, despite the lingering hangover fog. I watch her, moving between the stovetop and the counter, humming to herself as if she didn’t spend the night out like the rest of us. I shake my head, both impressed and slightly envious of her ability to function like a normal human being.
“You woke up half the building with your cackling. Figured you’d need the hangover cure,” she says, preparing us a plate.
Riley presses her head to the cool countertop and mumbles, “My bad.”
“Coffee?” I ask, and Philippa points to the rather fancy coffee machine.
“Grab a cup and press the button, it will make whatever you want.” Philippa places the plates in front of us on the kitchen island.
I take an empty cup, placing it under the machine as it whirls and beeps, the smell of coffee instantly filling my nose. Clutching my cup like I’m Gollum fromLord of the Rings, I take a sip of the sweet precious nectar, letting the warmth fill me.
“How was last night?” Philippa asks, sipping her coffee.
“Awesome,” quips Riley with a mouth full of pancakes.
“Itwasgreat.” I snort, less than enthused, already dreading the eleven a.m. crisis meeting. The thought of sitting through another round of damage control makes my gut knot.
It brings me back to the contract renegotiations. After I bailed on promoting my first album, the label was less than thrilled. At the time, I didn’t care. Most of it was a blur. I was promptly abandoned by my previous manager before Mark swooped in.
But the idea of being dissected, packaged, and sold as a palatable version of myself doesn’t sit right.
“Except I’m onPage Six.” I sigh, taking another long sip of coffee. “And it doesn’t look good. Kylie’s coming over today to strategize.”
Andrew steps into the kitchen, still flushed from his early morning run, the newspaper tucked under his arm. He shakes his head, tossing it onto the island between us.
“You’re famous!” he announces, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “Congratulations.”
Philippa, ever curious, snatches the paper before I can react, unfolding it with dramatic flair. “Let’s see what the vultures have to say this time,” she muses.
She clears her throat and begins reading aloud. “The long-lost heiress returns to claim her rightful place within the Montgomery Dynasty, though our sources say this little songstress has her sights on something a little different, much to the chagrin of the Montgomery Patriarch. Our sources also report that she flew in coach when her father sits on the board of said airline. Was Daddy displeased?”
She pauses to glance at me from above the paper with a raised brow, her eyes full of mirth, before continuing, “The heiress was spotted partying it up with an unidentified friend at Bungalow 8 at the Pacific Records album wrap party for rapper J Jones. She’s rumored to have signed a three-album record deal with Pacific Records USA after some success back in Australia, where her single ‘Ignite’ topped the Hottest Hits Australia charts for five weeks in a row, receiving numerous illustrious Australian Music Awards for the pop hit. However, she was mysteriously absent at the ceremony before disappearing into obscurity for years, only now emerging. Is there more to this disappearance than meets the eye? Why did she vanish at the height of her success? Was she recovering from a secret drug problem in rehab? We’ve reached out to her representatives for a statement, but so far, silence speaks volumes.”
I groan, rubbing my temple. “Of course, they had to throw in the ‘drug problem’ speculation. Wouldn’t be a proper hit piece without it.”
