Page 2 of Crucible

My mom is another story.

She was a junkie turned housewife turned junkie again before she died. My dad used to be her dealer and, ironically, was the one who got her clean after they fell in love. He stopped dealing once she became pregnant with me, and they both became law-abiding, tax-paying citizens.

Sounds too good to be true, right?

That’s because it is.

When my dad was murdered over a decade-old grudge, my mom went right back to her old ways. Uncle Marston wasn’t having it, though. He threw her into rehab, and before the ink on the court-ordered papers was even dry, he moved me out here to Los Angeles, where he put me on a stage for the first time and told me to sing.

I wasn’t used to performing for a crowd back then—for family, yes, but never for total strangers and never competitively. At first, I wasn’t sure it was what I wantedanymore. It felt like a betrayal to my parents. Uncle Marston used to be a bigwig executive at Savant Records before he quit to manage me.

Before that, he had been trying for years to convince my parents to let him work with me, but they weren’t going for it. My parents’ only dream for me had been to make sure I never grew up to be like them—which, for my mom and dad, meant walking the straightest line ever.

Singing had distracted me from my grief. It gave me an outlet for the pain of losing them, and for a long time, I didn’t look back. I didn’t care what the other kids my age were doing. I didn’t mourn the experiences I missed out on. I didn’t even care if the pressures and powers my fame gave me stunted my emotional growth.

“Move on, Joanna,” my uncle finally speaks. “Aurelia already said no, and no one here is going to force her.”

Without turning around, I smile victoriously.

Some may say having my every whim catered to has made me rotten, but I don’t care. I learned early on that the “grown-ups” weren’t going to rock the boat or bite the hand that fed them, so I’ve been walking all over people long before I was old enough to drive.

The money and fame are great, but the power is what I really live for.

While Joanna and Uncle Marston bicker about me, I study my perfect manicure with the Pretty Girls Wear Pink gel nail polish in shade number eight.

Two years ago, I rocked pink nails for the entire month of October in my publicist’s feeble attempt to show my support for breast cancer awareness. I was only permitted poses that kept my hands visible in photographs—no matter how awkward—until I was finally asked about it during an interview. I thenrecited Joanna’s prepared statement of solidarity, and just like that, I became the face of breast cancer.

A month later, I signed an annual eight-figure partnership deal with the largest cosmetic company in the world. In exchange, they slapped my face and name on as many overpriced products as they could and made a mint selling to people who could barely afford to walk through the door.

A multi-billion-dollar company got richer, and I was exalted in the media for making it happen.

I fucking hate pink.

A trip to the nearest salon may be a flimsy excuse to leave, but I take it. Spinning on my Dolce heels, I finally give my team my full attention. “I’m not doing any interviews, nor am I apologizing for something I’m not sorry for.”

“Aurelia—”

“I’m talking now. The public may not like this new me, but guess what? It’s the me they’re going to get from now on. Find a way to fix this that doesn’t include me sacrificing my last shred of integrity.”

I feel my uncle’s gaze on me, but I avoid it because I know if I look at him, I’ll back down. I always back down.

I see my chance for the first time—an open window while the walls are slowly closing in on me.

I run for it.

Freedom.

I refuse to apologize to Tania, but I will express my gratitude. Thanks to her scheming, I’m free.

I finally get to drop the act and maybe, just maybe, find out who I really am. And if it’s the villain everyone thinks I am, well, so be it.

AURELIA

One Year Later

It feels like I’m on the lam.

The moment I step out of the chauffeured car in the dead of night, my uncle takes my arm in a harsh grip and ushers me across the tarmac as if I’m an errant child. Cassie, my newest assistant in a long line of failures, silently follows like a meek little mouse, the tail of her blue and purple striped scarf flowing in the wind behind her.

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