“Great.” Her tone is overly sweet and flaky, like spun cotton candy. “We have tickets to the gala of the year, and we need to look our best.”
My stomach rolls as I grip the dress tighter. “Why?”
Mellie beams at me, coming over with a tiny leather pouch. She drops it on the bed beside me, then starts pulling out various tubes of makeup, holding them up to my face as she decides which to keep out.
“Word is Aiden James is gonna be there,” she gushes, uncapping a bottle of liquid foundation. “And he’s looking to place a bid at the live auction.”
I lean back, my insides knotting together at the thought of being in the same building as the rock god I spent my formative years drooling over. At one time, I would’ve already known he was in the city.
I’d probably have planned to arrive at the gala myself.
But a lot’s changed over the last two years. My obsession lessened—or at least, I thought it had.
The sweat beading along my hairline suggests otherwise.
“So, what? You guys are gonna try to talk to him?”
“Why not?” Mellie says, shrugging. “Might as well try to get him to see what we have to offer.”
“We aren’t a charity, though. We don’t have anything for him to bid on.”
Mellie and Aurora exchange a snicker, and then Aurora’s walking over and bending in front of me, cupping my knee. She squeezes slightly, the gesture condescending as she offers false pity.
Or maybe she really does pity me—I can’t tell what’s worse.
“Oh, sweetie,” she says, her lips stretching back over pearly white teeth. “A live auction means they bid on you.”
2
“You’re late.”
My fingernails drum on the polished surface of the dining table. The dull, rhythmic thud follows the patter of my heart as it beats woodenly, a hum I try to ground myself in as I stare down my father.
With the New York City skyline looming through the ceiling-to-floor windows behind him, Sonny James almost looks like the king he fancies himself.
Tall, though not as tall as me. A lean, athletic build that resembles mine, although it bears the evidence of his age.
Dark-brown hair that he keeps combed back over his head to hide the dime-sized bald spot at the crown, and a face chiseled by the gods themselves, crossed with wrinkles and heavy with the unmistakable weight of failure.
For a moment, I see what the rest of the world once did as he steps out of the shadows. A flash of charisma and ease, chin held high as if he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
“My flight got delayed.” He pulls out the velvet-backed chair at the opposite end of the table, sinking down with a sigh. “Your mother was supposed to tell you.”
Pausing the tapping of my nails, I press the edges of each tip into the wood, my jaw clenching of its own accord. The silver rings adorning my inked fingers glint in the dim lighting, cast by the muted crystal chandelier above.
Twisting the thick bloodstone on my thumb, I stare at the red oval until bright splotches form at the edges of my vision. I curl the digit inward, hiding the face of the jewel, and reach forward with my left hand for the glass tumbler of Jack and Coke in front of me.
Music industry royalty, Forbes once called the James family—technically, the James-Santiago family, given that my parents never married and the latter is my official last name. With a washed-up Colombian pop star sensation as a mother, and a composer turned label owner as a father, the world supposes I have more talent in my pinkie finger than most people can fathom.
More problems, too.
My stomach pinches as I think about the state of the walk-in closet off my bedroom. Hidden behind a pocket door, the mess inside is something the gossip rags would love to get their grubby hands on.
Piles and piles of clothing, some mine and some from my parents, my ex, and my best friend. Some that don’t fit, and some that never belonged to anyone in the family—just items I’ve picked up from various events and hotel rooms over the years.
Things I simply can’t part with.
Just in case.
Bringing the glass to my lips, I toss a drink back, reveling in the way the burn soothes my worries, quelling the obsessive thoughts before they can cement in place.
“Callie doesn’t tell me anything until the moment before it’s supposed to happen.” I pause, daring my father to disagree about my mother’s reliability.
He won’t, of course. Her poor time management skills are only one of the reasons he strayed from their relationship.
The promise of fresh, young pussy was the other.
“Remind me why you made her your manager over me,” my father says, swiping the other glass from the middle of the table. He mimics me, taking a sip without breaking eye contact, the sleeve of his navy Brioni suit riding up as he lifts his hand.
I run my tongue over the front of my teeth. “Well, for starters, I don’t have to worry about her fucking my girlfriend.”
He blinks, and the large vein in his forehead throbs, the way it always does when he’s annoyed.
Well, join the club. Finding you with your dick inside the only girl I’ve ever been with wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for me.
“I see we’re still holding grudges.”
Lifting one shoulder, I point my tumbler at him. “Are you still fucking her?”
“Aiden.”
One of my eyebrows cocks.
Reaching up, he rubs at his temple with his thumb. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”
I can’t deny that the betrayal stings, but it’s been long enough at this point that Sylvie Michaels is practically a fever dream to me now.
A painful one that left scars, but distant nonetheless.
“Then I’ll say the same thing about why Mom is my manager.” Crossing my arms, I shrug. “Besides, she knows what she’s doing.”
If nothing else, the woman is dedicated to her job.
Being a mom, not so much.
Grunting, he sets his glass down and leans back in his seat. “And I don’t? Son, I think you’re forgetting who taught her what she knows.”
My grip on the tumbler tightens, rage scratching at my throat with his use of the word son, as if that’s not a privilege he lost.
Placing my glass on the table, I straighten my spine and check the bulky Chanel watch on my wrist.
Part of me wants to drag this out. Make him squirm. But I know Callie will be pissed if I’m late for the gala, since I’m supposed to be the headliner of the event, and I don’t feel like dealing with her right now.
“I want to talk about my contract.”
He freezes, the oxygen around us evaporating with his stillness. “Why?”
My expression flattens, and he shifts in his chair, pulling at the knot in his tie.
Buying time.
Finally, my father sighs. “Aiden, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Slipping my thumb beneath the band of my watch, I smooth the calloused pad over the corrugated flesh there, grounding myself in the sting of new ink. The latest reminder.
“Why not?” I prod, poking my nail into the linework; a simple pair of wings, something random I got before last night’s show in Detroit.
“Because…” He drags a hand over his mouth. “There’s a lot of money on the line.”