Rhea sat in the back of a black SUV as it weaved through late-night traffic. The city lights painted stripes across her face — white, gold, red — flickering like camera flashes. Her body leaned into the plush leather seat, but her mind wouldn't rest. Tonight was her first live TV performance. A milestone. A victory. A prison.
Celine had gone over the choreography at least twenty times.
"You'll walk in on beat four. Smile on eight. Hit your mark, mic to the lips by ten. Got it?"
"Got it," Rhea had said.
She didn't.
The truth was, Rhea hated choreography. It wasn't just the rigidity — it was the expectation to be someone else. They wanted the Rhea from the viral video, but shinier. Sharper. Marketable. The kind of fire you could contain in a glossy magazine spread. The kind of fury you could package into lyrics and sell to teenagers.
Her hands trembled in her lap. Not with fear, but exhaustion. The days blurred together now — rehearsals, interviews, stylists poking at her hair, makeup artists sculpting her face until she hardly recognized herself in the mirror. She smiled for cameras, laughed on cue, posted photos she didn't take with captions she didn't write.
This was the dream, right?
Celine's voice echoed in her mind. "They don't buy music, Rhea. They buy you. Sell the fantasy."
But the fantasy felt like a lie. She was becoming a character in a story she didn't write — and each day, the mask fit a little tighter.
The SUV rolled to a stop behind the studio. A man in a headset opened her door with a brisk, "We're ready for you." No pleasantries. No time. Just expectation.
Rhea stepped out into a tunnel of backstage chaos — lighting techs rushing by, crew members shouting, makeup being reapplied mid-step. Everyone moved with purpose. Everyone had a role. And hers was to be perfect.
Her stylist handed her a mirror. The woman in it was stunning. Smoky eyes. Crimson lips. Hair sculpted like a crown. But Rhea couldn't see herself in the reflection. Not the girl who used to busk outside coffee shops for tips. Not the woman who once wrote songs in a journal, furious and brave and raw.
"Places!" someone shouted.
She walked to the stage, heart pounding. Her feet found the tape marks, just like they taught her. The applause sign lit up. The band started playing the intro. Her face lifted into a smile she didn't feel.
Then the lights hit her.
And Rhea became Rhea, the star.
Not the human. Not the artist. The image.
She opened her mouth and sang.
But behind every note was a scream that no one could hear.
Not yet.