Chapter 2 - The Manufactured Muse
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The pain beneath my bandages paled in comparison to the sudden, hollow crater opening inside my chest. Five years. Five years of waking up beside a man who looked at me with tender eyes and whispered promises of forever.
"And Rachel isn’t just the woman I’m marrying instead," Logan’s voice continued, dropping into a icy tone near the door. "She’s the reason Maya was ever in my life."
My breath hitched behind my clamped lips. For one terrible second, I thought the heavy dose of morphine running through my IV had distorted his words.
Ryan lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper. "Don’t tell me Maya still doesn’t know."
"She knows nothing," Logan replied with a cruel chuckle. "She actually thinks we met by accident at that animal shelter benefit in Brooklyn."
"Logan... if Victor Mercer finds out you slipped up—"
"Victor planned the whole thing, Ryan! When my third album flopped and the press labeled me an arrogant, toxic frat boy, Victor told me I needed an overhaul. A humble, sweet, working-class girl to soften my image. Maya was picked from a talent agency database because her face was symmetrical and her family background was non-existent."
"She loved you," Ryan whispered.
"She served her purpose," Logan snapped quietly. "My image recovered. I sold out three stadium tours. Now Victor's daughter wants her turn in the spotlight, and I need Victor’s label to sign my new ten-year distribution deal. Rachel gets her dream wedding, I get my hundred-million-dollar catalog control, and Maya gets a lifetime comfort package."
Their footsteps faded out into the hallway, followed by the soft, heavy click of the wooden door locking into place.
The moment the room was completely silent, I opened my left eye.
May you like
The world was a blur of fluorescent white and beige shadow. A solitary tear rolled down the left side of my face, stinging where it hit the edge of the cotton gauze wrapping my ears.
Every memory of our relationship flashed before my eyes like a film roll caught on fire. The candlelight dinners, the quiet walks in Central Park, the tearful proposal in Paris—all of it had been a calculated PR stunt produced by a music executive and performed by a sociopath.
