The guitar felt heavier than she remembered.
Rhea sat on the cold floor of her dressing room, legs crossed like she used to in Micah's garage, the instrument resting in her lap. She ran her fingers along its neck, pausing at the tiny dent near the third fret — the one she'd made during an open mic night in Philly, strumming too hard in a fit of nervous rage. The memories came rushing back like a flood.
She hadn't touched it in weeks.
Her new producers said it was "too rustic," her songs "too introspective," and the guitar itself "not visually aligned with the brand." But now, alone with no cameras, no lights, and the lingering sting of Micah's words, the old strings called to her like an old friend.
She strummed.
The sound was raw, imperfect, beautiful.
The lyrics didn't come right away, but the feeling did — that fire in her gut, the ache of honesty rising up through her throat. She didn't want to write a hit. She wanted to tell the truth. About the loneliness, the pressure, the shame of being adored by strangers while losing everyone who mattered. About the fear that this dream she'd chased for so long had become a nightmare with glitter on top.
She played until her fingers burned.
And when she stopped, she cried. Not the soft tears of frustration, but the deep, furious kind. The kind she used to cry when she was seventeen, locked in her bedroom with nothing but her music to keep her sane. Back then, music was her rebellion. Her survival.
Somewhere along the line, it had become a product.
She didn't know how long she sat there, but eventually, her phone buzzed. Celine.
Celine: Congrats on tonight. Trending #3 worldwide! Check your inbox. Vogue wants you for a cover.
She stared at the message, thumbs hovering over the screen.
Then she locked the phone and tossed it across the room.
She stood up, guitar in hand, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her makeup was smudged, hair falling loose, mascara streaking down her cheeks — and for the first time in weeks, she looked real.
And powerful.
The fury was no longer something to hide.
It was her fuel.
That night, she wrote a song. Not for the label. Not for the charts. Just for her. It was messy and unpolished, scrawled across pages of a hotel notepad, full of lines that didn't rhyme and chords that didn't always fit. But it was true.
The next day, she told her team she wouldn't be going to the Vogue shoot. Celine nearly had a meltdown. The label threatened penalties. The internet speculated she was spiraling.
But Rhea didn't care.
For the first time in a long time, she was writing her story again.
And this time, she wouldn't trade it for applause.