♫ Everything I want, I have
Money, notoriety, and rivieras
I even think I found God
In the flashbulbs of the pretty cameras ♪
{Lana Del Rey—Without you}

Rehearsing from morning to night kept Coralie busier than ever, and she couldn't be more grateful for it. It was the perfect time for such an opportunity to land in her lap. To allow her to forget about her personal life and her mishandling of her heart. She couldn't permit any distractions, and was so exhausted when she got off work that she scarfed down a bit of food, half fell asleep in the shower, and put her phone on silent as she went to bed.

No one reached out to her—and in truth, no one could, since she'd blocked all three men—but she had to admit she wished Michael had said something. Her note to him was blunt, loaded with confessions in quick sentences, and hurtful truths. She'd expected him to text her and tell her how much he hated her, how he wished she'd choke on one of the dicks she loved to suck on, or some other savage comment. He was bound to leave NYC soon, and she wondered if she'd see him before he left, if anything so he could spit in her direction and tell her how much of a crude bitch she was. And she'd deserve it.

Such a reaction from him would make for an excellent song, she knew; but she also knew it wasn't Michael's style. Mature as he was, he'd likely set the note aside and needed time to digest it.

Well, she'd give him all the time he needed, but didn't anticipate he'd speak to her again.

Which meant she had two options left; Ryan? Or Chester? And there was always the choice of no choice—running away from both men and staying celibate as planned. At least until she found someone she wouldn't be prone to cheating on. Someone who had Ryan's sexiness, Chester's adventurous nature, and Michael's kindness all wrapped into one body.

She rarely, if ever, bumped into Delilah and Bella. She didn't mean to avoid Bella, but Delilah was a different story. The emotions that had come out when Coralie had caught them together were still raw, and Delilah's had been the worst of them all. She'd been living with Coralie, dealing with her mood swings, challenging her decisions—and all the while she'd been sick and tired of her. How many times had she snuck out to chat with Bella about her anger? And how many times had she hidden how she felt to not hurt Coralie's feelings, yet Coralie did nothing but hurt hers? How many times had she judged Delilah harshly, assumed she was no better, told her to mind her own business?

Coralie was sick to her stomach when she remembered Delilah's scowls, the fire burning in her brown eyes—whether from fury at Coralie, or lust for Bella. And the words she'd used to scar Coralie. Oh, Coralie was scarred, all right; to the point of keeping out of Delilah's path in fear of more of her sentiments unleashing and worsening her already morose mood.

Thinking of the gig helped cure Coralie's pain. Not completely, but it dulled and only resurfaced if she didn't fall asleep fast enough, or in pauses between songs she listened to on the Subway, on the way home.

She crept into the office early in the morning—which helped her chances of not bumping into Chester—and hurried out in the evenings, with a hoodie over her hair and a limp to her steps. She danced, sang until her throat was inflamed, and paid no mind to anyone around her when she wasn't in the studio.

Still, with all the rehearsals and the meetings with Nikita—packed with advice on how to handle the crowd, how to speak to Mellie, and how to act if her songs weren't applauded and she was booed—it didn't dawn on Coralie that she had such a huge event coming up until Friday, the night before it was set to occur.

That evening, she received a ping from her Facebook, and opened the app to see that she'd been tagged in a promotion—for the gig. Her gig, with Mellie.

"Shit," she said, sensing her cheeks grow hot and her saliva get stuck in her throat. Seated on the couch with a glass of wine—after an excruciatingly long week, rendered worse since Tuesday night's fiasco with Michael and the girls—she was finally relaxed. But now, her relaxation melted, transforming into anticipation. Anxiety. And a pinch of excitement.

The post was on High Top's page, with a giant picture of Mellie on its front. It was one of her album covers—she belted into a microphone, and wore holed jeans and a cropped top that showed her flattened, nearly painted-on abs. When released, the cover had been a jab at early two-thousands' girl bands and performers, but it ended up shooting Mellie to the top of the charts and exploding her success.

The flyer itself was simple, but drew the attention in a bold, bubblegum pink font.

"Tomorrow night — Get intimate with MELLIE MURRAY — SOLD OUT — enter to win an exclusive backstage pass!"

Below Mellie's picture was a tiny paragraph that jumped out at Coralie as if smacking her in the face.

"Featuring up-and-coming artist CORALIE AMBER WATSON — opening act."

It wasn't much, and this font was smaller, not bold, and thankfully not pink; but it was there. It was her name, in capital letters, no less, on a poster for an event she'd been working her ass off for, and still didn't quite believe was happening.

Seeing this anchored her in reality and reminded her that she'd done the right thing to cut out distractions. This was what she'd been dreaming of, and it was real. And had she let those boys get the best of her, had she continued to succumb to her lust, she might not have made it to this level.

A tear slid down her cheek, tickling her, and with a giggle she wiped it away and took her glass of wine to her bedroom. The girls would be home soon—they'd gone on a date to some chic restaurant Bella babbled about—and Coralie didn't want to burden them, to take away from their time together.

***

She woke the next morning to hundreds of notifications. The Facebook post had drawn many people to her page, and she had tons of friend requests and follow alerts to go through. Though she smiled as she navigated the comments—several celebrities had encouraged her, her, not Mellie!—her fingers ached by the time she put her phone down and stretched. It was nine a.m., and she'd planned to spend the day at Central Park, enjoying the fresh air, the distance from her cozied-up best friends, and the space to clear her mind. She'd need to be sharp tonight, and she fretted that staying locked up in the apartment would prompt her to check her phone, which would urge her to check in on the guys—and she couldn't. Not today. Tonight was too important.

So she took a Lyft, strolled around the Park, people-watched. She threw a frisbee for a dog and got licks and hugs from a puppy. She showed a young girl how to hula-hoop, and bought a hot-dog from a vendor, allowing the bun to melt in her mouth and the mustard to sting her tongue. The scent of cut grass and sharp bark accompanied her as she walked, breathed in, breathed out, remained calm. A group had started a yoga session on a large patch of grass, and she considered joining them; but her alarm went off, reminding her that she had to get home to get ready.

For once, she didn't let Delilah take control of her wardrobe choices, because the record label had sent her the clothes she was to wear. A signature Mellie-like outfit—low-cut jeans, a skimpy, spaghetti strap top, platform open-toed heels. She loved Mellie, truly; but what was with her constant blast-from-the-past vibe? Why channel the old-school Britney and Christina style?

Coralie had no say in the matter, and got dressed while trying not to cringe at her reflection. She didn't have the body type to pull off such a style—she'd requested a longer top to cover her belly pudge—and wasn't too keen on performing for her first important show garbed like this. But it was this, or pass up the opportunity of a lifetime, right? Who knew if she'd score any other shows if she grew a reputation of not wanting to conform to rules.

When she came out of her room, hair styled and straightened, eyelids sparkly, mascara so thick she felt like it weighed her down, she'd expected a snicker from Bella and a chortle from Delilah. Yet neither laughed nor mocked her; like Michael had before, Delilah praised her perfect imitation of a dancer for Christina in Dirrty, and Bella clapped and acknowledged her cool shoes. They'd donned outfits that matched hers, for the occasion; out of pity or real support, Coralie wasn't sure she wanted to know.

In silence, they shared a Lyft to the event. High Top was across town, not far from where Coralie had met Michael in his hotel room. Stuck in the middle seat, she was solemn, but every time her gaze wandered, she peered out at the lamplit streets wondering if Michael was there. If he was taking evening strolls, pondering what Coralie had told him, weighing the pros and cons of forgiving her. Or if he'd already gone home and scratched Coralie's name from his heart.

"You nervous?" Bella, as was her habit, broke the silence and grabbed Coralie's hand. "I'm happy I could be there for you, tonight. For a second I thought you might—"

"—tell us to fuck off and uninvite us," finished Delilah, who patted Coralie's thigh. "I'm happy too, by the way. No hard feelings?" She batted her coated lashes and her berry lips lifted into a weak smile.

It was a smile Coralie had never been able to resist, so she smiled back and dropped her head onto Delilah's shoulder. "Never. I should be apologizing to you." She squeezed Bella's hand. "Both of you. I'm a piece of shit."

"You're not." Bella scowled at her. "And we're sorry for making you feel that way. Your tumultuous life has had an adverse effect on Delilah, but she never meant to make you feel like a dickhead for it, did she?" She arched an eyebrow, peeking at a head-shaking Delilah.

"I'm impulsive; sue me. At least I got my thoughts out in the open." Delilah nudged Coralie off her so they could look at one another; Delilah's eyes were sparkling, and not because of her fuchsia eyeshadow. "I meant what I said, but Bella's right, I never meant for the dickhead part."

Coralie snorted and flipped to Bella. "Dickhead, huh? Jeez, you're sounding more American by the minute, my friend. Are you okay with that?"

Bella's cheeks infused with splotches of prune and she glared into her lap, fixated on her glittery clutch. "No. But that's what I get for dating an American, isn't it?"

"Oh?" Coralie returned to Delilah, whose darker skin had flushed to a purplish hue. "Dating, huh? Is it official, then?"

"Yeah." Delilah's eyebrows snapped inward, and she pursed her lips. "Do we need your blessing or something?"

Not altogether shocked by Delilah's defensive demeanor, Coralie caressed her cheek. "If you want to be together, I'm not standing in your way. Just," she gulped and scrunched her nose, "don't hide something that huge from me in the future, yeah? Smack me with it; it helped me snap out of my selfishness. Don't hesitate, next time."

After an awkward yet sweet group hug in the backseat, their car pulled up at the venue. The building's entrance was packed with people. Some were lined up before the elevator, decked in their finest outfits, ranging from grunge to straight up luxurious. A few stood on the outside, brandishing tickets for sale. And some were snapping pictures for their social media or live-streaming to express their excitement at tonight's show.

It wasn't quite a concert, but it felt like one. And with the horde of guests waiting to get in, the area reminded Coralie of when she'd accompanied Ryan to his store's opening. The same flashing lights from photographers, the same onrush of voices and squirms and heels clicking on pavement.

It appeared no one knew what Coralie looked like; she and the girls squeezed in easily. She'd been given a laminate pass—VIP performer, it said—and had no trouble getting inside after showing it to the security guards. She was then escorted to a service elevator in the back of the building, since the main elevators were for attendees or the building's other occupants.

Sharing the ride with a few servers for the event—who kept squinting at her as if trying to figure out who she was—she held hands with Delilah and Bella, pressure mounting in her gut, rendering her nauseous. She'd overcome her stage fright, for the most part, but the night's events were unraveling before her, poking at her, mocking her.

Was she talented enough for this? Could she hold her own before Mellie came out and wowed the crowd? Would anyone be wowed by her?

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened to a steel-walled corridor. The servers exited at once, aware of where they had to go; but Coralie was stuck, her limbs like lead. Her lungs constricted, her forehead became damp; a panic attack was on the horizon.

Recognizing the signs, Coralie's friends were at the ready to help her. Delilah tugged her out, and Bella asked a nearby security guard where the dressing rooms were. She motioned at Coralie's badge—hanging limply in Coralie's sweating hands—and he guided them down the corridor.

They moved by a side entrance into the bar area, and though they didn't go through it, it caught Coralie's eye. She spotted the stage, at the rear, lining massive tinted glass windows. A few VIP seats were up front, and a red rope delimited the actual show space, with high tables and chairs spaced out alongside it. The middle was open, like a dance-floor, the tile shiny and shimmering from a mirrored ball dangling from the ceiling. Behind the tinted glass was a vast patio already filled with ticketed guests.

She'd had no clue how large the venue was, and stiffened at the sight. Hundreds of people might cloister in that space soon. And she feared she'd forgotten all the lyrics to her songs and all the dance moves her instructors taught her.

Shit. Get yourself together, Cora. You can't fuck this up.

She regained her bearings as Delilah hauled her farther down the hallway, following the security guard and passing the back-side of the bar. Scents of fried appetizers and bubbling champagne filled Coralie's nostrils and somehow soothed her. Her stomach growled—maybe it wasn't anxiety, but hunger? She'd barely eaten all day.

They passed a closed door with a golden placard affixed at its top, that said MELLIE MURRAY. And a few feet down from there was another door, smaller, but adorned with a similar sign:

CORALIE AMBER WATSON.

There it was again—her name, in big font, blaring at her, screaming at her that it was real, it was all real.

Inside was a narrow space, but bigger than Coralie had prepared herself for. She had a sitting area with a plush couch and a coffee table covered in fried goods, cheeses, waters, mini liquor bottles. A desk off to the side served as a vanity, with a lit-up mirror propped atop it, leaning against the wall. A few stools were parked on either side of the door, and a lush rug took up the middle of the room.

The desk chair was hard and uncomfortable, and its wheels were squeaky, but Coralie sat and gaped at her pallid, petrified reflection.

Her make-up hadn't smeared from her perspiration, thank goodness. But her eyes were red, her neck was pulsing with fright, and she kept wringing her hands.

"Hey." Bella spun the chair to her, her bright eyes wide and warm with pride. "You're amazing. You're ready for this. It's what you've always wanted."

Delilah swung the chair in the other direction, towards herself. Though her expression wasn't as kind, Coralie recognized the determination in it. The stubborn sassiness that always comforted her, no matter how harsh. Delilah smirked at her. "You got this. I know you won't disappoint."

Their encouragement helped, and yet something was missing. No, not something—someone. Several someones. Coralie twisted to her reflection and gritted her teeth.

One with a godly body, sporting fitted suits like no other and whisking her off her feet. Another with a sexy smile and a strong presence and a heart that beat only for her. And yet another with a curtain of dirty blond hair and mysterious green eyes that always snuck up on her, and a spontaneity that often scared her.

They wouldn't be in the crowd tonight. No Ryan, no Michael, no Chester. And she wasn't sure how she felt about their absence, as they always cheered her on, motivated her.

Tonight, she'd have to perform without them.

♥♥♥