When superstar Kade Hendrix steals Ivy's song, she falls into his world of public scrutiny-and his arms-just as the rest of her world falls down around her.
Ivy is sure superstar Kade Hendrix won't notice his number one fan in the crowd of his intim...
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My hair was sticking up in every different direction, there were three separate coffee stains on my shirt on it's second day of wear, the bags under my eyes were starting to take up prime real estate on my face, and if they got any more noticeable they'd have to start paying rent.
Bree had just been checked into a top tier mental wellness facility (a sensitive way of saying mental hospital) two days ago and after her 72-hour psych hold in the hospital after her attempt, I officially only had two days to write and produce a solid song to present to the fans at my 'intimate concert' as well as the reps that would be in the crowd.
My agent assured me that Spotlight Records would only be sending a rep for a regular evaluation, but I knew it was something else.
They were making sure my work was still up to snuff despite what had happened.
My life was under a fucking microscope, my sister had just tried to off herself after getting the shit beat out of her by her low-life ex-boyfriend, and I was being forced to write new music and get ready for a show that I would rather perform in hell.
I was contract-bound, though, and since Bree was well and cared for (at least physically, considering her mental state was another matter entirely), I couldn't skip this event.
This was for the hardcore fans—the worst of the worst (or best, depending on your point of view).
These were the kinds of fans who stalked my social media accounts religiously, followed me on gossip blogs, followed my footsteps throughout every town I travelled and were lifetime members of my ultimate fan club.
Needless to say, I didn't want to upset them.
God only knows what would happen if I didn't show up, or didn't have anything new to show for the record label reps.
After my newest single sales dipped by a considerable margin, my contract was on a thin line.
My royalties were going to start being re-negotiated if I didn't deliver, and the thought of being paid less in the future for the same exact job just because the quality of my new music wasn't being appreciated in the same way other styles or genres I've tried had been was honestly disgusting.
They all wanted me to be some cookie-cutter copy of the chart toppers all the girls loved to idolize and all the guys loved to hate.
I was not going to be the next Shawn Mendes or Sebastian Jennings—no matter how well they did on the charts and the amount of profit they brought in on tours.
Music wasn't supposed to be about the amount of money you could squeeze from the pockets of teenaged girls and their parents. I used to write to get away from the rest of the world and just get my emotions out on paper, to deal with everything toxic in a healthy way.
