The Industry

The Nepo

Chapter One

"Don't slouch."

Isola hadn't even realized she was slouching. Her shoulders pulled back on instinct, muscle memory kicking in before her mother's annoyance could. Her mom stood behind her, fingers pinching the fabric of Isola's tank top like she was fixing a mistake that just wasn't there.

"Posture reads confidence," her mom said. "Confidence reads lead. Lead reads fame"

Isola watched her mother and her in the mirror. Her mom's mouth moved faster than her hands. Always talking, always adjusting. Hair. Chin. Shoulders. As if Isola might fall apart if left untouched for more than thirty seconds.

"I'm standing straight," Isola said in a bored voice .

"Straight isn't enough," her mom replied. "Relaxed straight. There's a difference."

Isola exhaled slowly through her nose and tried again.

The bedroom was too bright. Morning light poured in through the window, catching on the gloss of her lips, the smoothness of her skin. Her mom had insisted on minimal makeup. Youth sells. Innocence sells. Even though Isola didn't feel innocent. She felt tired.

Her suitcase lay open on the bed. Half-packed. Her mom crossed the room and crouched beside it, rearranging things Isola had already arranged.

"Why is this folded like that?" she muttered, refolding a hoodie. "You don't want them thinking you're messy."

"They're not looking in my suitcase mom . jeez calm down," Isola said rolling her eyes as she turned to look at her mom trying her hardest to make her suitcase more presentable .

Her mom straightened slowly. "You don't know that."

Isola just sighed and turned back around .

Down the hall, her dad's footsteps padded closer. He leaned against the doorframe, rubbing his hands together like he wasn't sure whether to clap or pray.

"Morning, superstar," he said lightly looking at his daughter.

Isola smiled at him without thinking. A real one. It slipped out before she could stop it. She loved her father so much.

Her mom noticed. She always did.

"Did you drink your tea?" she asked, snapping her fingers once.

"It's cooling," Isola said, pointing to the mug on her desk.

Her mom walked over, picked it up, and held it out. "Sip. Small ones. Warm up your cords."

Isola took it, the porcelain hot against her palms. She sipped. The tea tasted like honey and something bitter underneath.

"Again," her mom said.

Isola sipped again.

"That's good," her mom said, finally satisfied. "See? Discipline." She said looking at her to loving husband. 

Her dad cleared his throat. "She knows what she's doing." He said avoiding his wife harsh stare.

Her mom turned to him with a tight smile. "And whose fault is that?"

Isola looked down at the carpet. She'd learned early not to be the object in that sentence.

In the kitchen, everything was already wiped clean. No crumbs. No clutter. The house always looked like no one actually lived in it.

Her mom set her bag by the door and crossed her arms. "Two years," she said, like she was announcing a prison sentence. "Seven days a week. Sometimes seven. No excuses."

"I know," Isola said.

"This isn't summer camp," her mom continued. "They will replace you the second you slip."

"I know."

Her mom tilted her head. "Do you?"

Isola nodded. "Yes."

Her dad stepped forward, placing a hand on Isola's back. It was warm. Steady. He gave a small squeeze.

"You're going to learn a lot," he said. "About music. About yourself."

Her mom laughed. "This isn't about self-discovery. This about her becoming big in the industry, no matter what it takes"

Isola shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her sneakers squeaked against the tile. She hated the sound.

The car ride was quiet at first. Her mom broke it five minutes in.

"No sugar in there," she said. "And if they start weighing you weekly , which they probably will you stay ahead of it."

Isola stared out the window. "I know."

"And don't get emotional," her mom added. "They like girls who are agreeable."

Her dad glanced over from the driver's seat. "She can handle herself."

Her mom scoffed. "Handling yourself gets you labeled difficult."

The house came into view too quickly. White walls. Tall gates. Cameras blinking. But this didn't really scare Isola as her mom has trained her for this since she was 3.

Isola's leg bounced. She pressed her hands into her thighs to stop it.

"Hey," her dad said softly. He reached back and brushed her knuckles with his fingers. "Breathe."

Her mom unbuckled first. "Remember," she said, turning around in her seat. "You belong there. You're not like the others."

Isola didn't know whether that was supposed to comfort her or.

Outside, boys milled around the entrance. Stretching. Laughing too loud. One of them glanced at her, then did a double take.

Her mom adjusted Isola's collar one last time. "Lead vocal," she said quietly. "Don't forget that."

Her dad pulled her into a hug, lingering longer than necessary. "Call me," he whispered. "Anytime."

Isola nodded. She didn't trust her voice.

Inside, a woman with a clipboard looked up. "Name?"

"Isola Selene Voss," Isola said.

The woman's eyebrow lifted. Just a little.

"Follow me."

Isola grabbed her bag. The strap dug into her shoulder. She adjusted it, straightened her back, and walked forward.

She didn't look back.

She knew better than that.