Chapter One: The Night It All Changed
The night the world discovered me, I should have been happy.
I should have been ecstatic — the girl from nowhere, finally somebody.
But even as the cheers shook the walls, even as the lights burned bright enough to blind me, something inside of me whispered:
Be careful. You are leaving yourself behind.
I ignored it.
Of course I did.
I stood on that tiny stage in my hometown — the old theatre with peeling red curtains and broken seats. I gripped the microphone so tightly my knuckles turned white. My heart was a drum in my chest, so loud I thought it would drown out my voice.
I closed my eyes, took a breath, and sang.
From somewhere deep inside me — the part of me that still believed in miracles — I sang every word like a prayer.
And for a moment, it was real.
Pure.
I didn't notice the man in the third row until the song ended.
Slick black suit. Golden cufflinks. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
When the crowd erupted, he didn't clap. He just studied me, like he was already planning what to do with me.
By the next morning, everything had changed.
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The contract came first.
Thick white paper, thick black letters. Promises of studios and albums and tours.
My mother cried when she saw it — tears of joy, she said. Pride.
My father warned me to be careful. That everything shiny isn't made of gold.
But I didn't listen.
I was seventeen. I thought I knew better.
I signed my name in a room that smelled like leather and money, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
The ink was still wet when I felt it — a strange tugging in my chest.
As if some invisible thread had snapped loose inside me.
But I brushed it off.
I had dreams to chase.
---
At first, it was everything I had imagined.
Photo shoots. TV interviews. Fans screaming my name.
They curled my hair, painted my face, stitched me into glittering dresses.
They called me beautiful. They called me brilliant.
They called me special.
I should have felt powerful.
Instead, I started feeling like a doll in a glass box.
Smiling when they told me to. Speaking words they had written for me.
Laughing on cue.
Piece by piece, the girl who sang in fields was being erased.
Replaced by something shinier.
Something emptier.
And still, I told myself it was worth it.
How could it not be?
This was what I had always wanted.
Wasn't it?
---
The night I heard my song on the radio for the first time, I sat alone in a hotel room.
The city lights blinked outside the window, cold and distant.
The voice on the radio — my voice — didn't even sound like me anymore.
I pressed my forehead against the glass, the cold shocking my skin.
"This is your dream," I whispered.
"This is what you asked for."
But my reflection just stared back at me — hollow-eyed, silent.
And somewhere deep inside, a voice I barely recognized murmured:
You are losing yourself.
I shut it out.
I had a show to prepare for.
A brand to protect.
A soul to sell.
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