Amina

Suffocating.

That's what I was doing.

Why did I agree to this? Why did Bach ask me to do this?

Signing me to his label should have meant spending time prepping in a studio, warming my vocal chords, and training myself to release an album in a safe environment.

But this... this was a madhouse.

People rushed around backstage, all of them shouting. No one looked happy, not even the women who wore plastic smiles. I didn’t belong here. This was my worst nightmare.

Gripping my stomach, I hunched over in the corner. “I’m so screwed,” I whispered. Violet had run off somewhere to make a phone call. She’d asked if I was fine, and I’d assured her I was, but... I wasn’t. I couldn’t be.

I should sneak away, I thought, tempted by the idea. But when I imagined how disappointed everyone would be in me, I lost my courage. There was no winning this one. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hide; my only option was getting on stage and doing my damnedest to not fail.

But I was going to fail.

It was my fate.

It always would be.

“Are you Amina?”

I blinked at the bombshell-blonde holding a tray of drinks. “Um, yes?”

She smiled wide, then offered me a glass. “Here, I was told to bring this to you.”

“By who?”

Her head tilted as she gestured off to the side, where the noise of the crowd was coming from behind the curtains. “Mr. Devine sent it. Along with this.” Dipping her fingers in her cleavage, she extended a piece of paper to me.

I took it gingerly. “Thank you.”

Satisfied, the woman swung her hips and escaped out of view. I wasn’t looking where she went, I was too interested in the paper in my hand. Setting the champagne on a table covered in makeup, I peeled open the note.

Amina,

Whisper my name.

I will always hear your voice, even if the ghosts swallow me whole.

I read the lyrics multiple times. I knew them by heart, but coming from Bach... written in his perfectly angular ink strokes... they meant something more than just a reminder of a song I’d heard a thousand times.

Does he want me to imagine he’s the only one listening out there? Was this some weird version of pretending the audience was naked to give yourself courage? I smiled helplessly at the idea of stone-hearted Bach trying to make me feel better.

Folding the note into a neat square, I put it in the pocket of my dress. Why didn’t he come see me in person if he wanted to give me advice? Then I remembered what Violet had told me in the dress shop. Right, she said she’d keep him away from me so I could focus.

She must have warned him to keep away.

But he’d sent me a message in spite of that.

Something squealed behind the curtains; microphone feedback, then a girl’s voice. “Well, well, well, hey there, everyone! Ready for more music? We’ve got plenty to share!”

Violet exploded around a corner, startling me. “Are you ready?” she asked. “You’re up next.”

I filled my chest with a big, deep breath. Then I snatched the glass of champagne off the table and downed it. “Ah!” I gasped, shaking myself from my fingertips to my toes. Violet watched with raised eyebrows, but she didn’t comment. “Okay,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m as ready as I’m going to be.”

She ushered me forward, smoothing my hair, checking my makeup as she went. I’d opted to have Alexis keep things in the purple hues to match my dress. My eyelashes were dramatic, my lipstick was, too—but Violet assured me it needed to be extreme for the crowd to see from where they were.

A man with a headset saw us coming. He waved frantically. “Go, go! You’re on!”

And then I was blinded by the spotlights overhead. Everything glimmered, the air wavering from the sound of constant talking or lingering applause. There was a mic on a stand; a voice came from above, someone I didn’t know. “Here we go! For her debut performance, and for your pleasure here at the All That Glitters Gala... it’s Beats and Blast’s very own Amina Richards!”

Thunder erupted from the crowd. People had no clue who I was but were clapping enthusiastically. I faced the audience, shielding my eyes and trying to make sense of all these strangers. The sound was constant but the longer I waited, the more it calmed down.

All too abruptly, the entire room was silent.

Waiting for me.

Oh god. Oh god, I can’t do this.

Nothing was coming to my mind. I squeezed the mic, my tongue heavy and dry. I couldn’t sing. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even run.

Whisper my name.

Remembering the hand-written note set my heart thudding faster, but not from fear. I licked my lips, wishing I could get a single lyric out. “Bach,” I croaked instead, so softly the mic didn’t pick it up. Would he fly from the crowd, swoop me up and save me? Or would he shuttle me off when the night ended in some taxi, sending me home to Portland?

Everything was blurry... my head felt light. Someone coughed, a polite noise—a subtle hint I needed to begin. I was dizzy from breathing too fast. Everyone in the audience was a blurry blob.

I will always hear your voice...

There, out in the sea of faces, one became clear: jewel-bright eyes, a mouth so serious it could never be truly sweet, never create gentle words, only roughness. Bach. He was going to be so disappointed in me.

Then I looked closer.

That man... he wasn't frowning because he was angry. The tension around the edges of his eyes said Help me. He was praying for my success. He didn't just want me to perform, he needed me to. I'd never had anyone look at me with so much hope before.

How could I run away from that?

Gripping the mic, I summoned all my confidence. All the hope I’d denied myself for years. And I sang my damn heart out.