Chapter 78
[Rose's POV]
The recording hall doors swung shut behind me with a hollow thud that seemed to echo through my chest. I stood for a moment in the corridor's fluorescent glare, watching through the glass panels as James's silver head disappeared into the crowd beyond the security checkpoint.
"First time here?" A production assistant with a clipboard materialized at my elbow, her smile professionally bright. "Green room's this way. You're cutting it close—rehearsal block starts in twenty."
I followed her through a maze of black-curtained corridors that smelled of industrial carpet cleaner and stale coffee. My canvas bag bumped against my hip with each step.
Now, pushing through the waiting area doors, I wondered if I should have held firm.
The space was larger than I'd expected, designed to hold perhaps sixty people comfortably. Right now it contained maybe forty contestants, their energy crackling through the air like static electricity before a storm. Girls clustered in tight groups on leather sofas, their phones held at selfie angles, voices rising and falling in practiced social rhythms. The air tasted of hairspray, expensive perfume, and barely concealed desperation.
I found an empty chair near the back corner and sat, setting my bag on the floor beside me. The white cotton dress I'd chosen—simple, knee-length, comfortable—suddenly felt painfully plain compared to the designer labels surrounding me.
Good, I told myself firmly. You're here to sing, not to model.
But then I felt eyes on me. Multiple sets, their gazes sharp with assessment.
"Is that a Garden Party?"
The voice came from my left—accented, European, curious without malice. I turned to find Lisa approaching, her blonde hair perfectly tousled in that way that costs hundreds of dollars to achieve.
She gestured to my bag, genuine interest lighting her face. "I haven't seen that colorway before. Is it from the new collection?"
Around us, conversation stuttered and died. I felt the weight of attention shift, like a spotlight swinging across a stage to illuminate an unexpected player.
"It's just a canvas bag," I said, keeping my voice level. Not dismissive, not boastful—just factual.
Lisa crouched beside my chair with the easy grace of someone comfortable in her own skin, her interest apparently undeterred by my flat response. "May I?" At my nod, she lifted the bag gently, examining the stitching with the practiced eye of someone who knew luxury goods intimately. "The craftsmanship is remarkable. And this color—it's definitely Hermès. Garden Party Élan, maybe? The canvas weight feels right." She looked up, her blue eyes sharp with curiosity. "Are you a club member? I've been trying to get on the waitlist for two years."
"No." The word came out more firmly than I'd intended. "I'm not."
Lisa set the bag down carefully, her expression thoughtful. "Interesting choice, then. Not many people carry a twenty-three thousand dollar handbag to a singing competition without—" She stopped, social awareness catching up with curiosity. "Sorry, that was rude of me."
But the damage was done. The number hung in the air like smoke, visible and toxic. I watched comprehension ripple through the nearby contestants—eyes widening, whispers starting, phones emerging from pockets as girls began frantically googling. Twenty-three thousand dollars. For a canvas bag with leather straps.
James, I thought with a mixture of exasperation and affection, what exactly did you give me?
"Oh my god," someone breathed behind me. "Is that really a Hermès Garden Party?"
"Has to be fake," another voice countered. "Look at what she's wearing. Generic white dress, drugstore shoes—"
"Maybe she spent all her money on the bag to look rich?"
The speculation built quickly, feeding on itself the way gossip always does when mixed with judgment and insecurity. I kept my expression neutral, but my hands wanted to curl into fists.
"Ladies." Rachel's voice cut through the chatter like a knife through silk—sweet-toned, carrying just enough authority to command attention. Her smile was camera-ready perfect as she approached Lisa. "We should probably give each other some face here."
The phrase sounded wrong in English, oddly formal. But the meaning was crystal clear. Don't embarrass the girl by pointing out she's carrying a fake.
Lisa straightened, her expression cooling several degrees. "I wasn't—"
"Of course not," Rachel interrupted smoothly. "You're far too classy for that. I just thought..." She gestured vaguely around the room, her meaning unmistakable. People are watching. Recording. Let's not make a scene that could go viral.
It was masterfully done. Rachel had managed to publicly defend me while simultaneously ensuring everyone present now believed my bag was counterfeit. The whispers intensified, no longer questioning but confirming. Phones tilted in my direction, capturing evidence for social media posts about the sad girl who'd tried too hard.
I met Rachel's eyes across the space between us. She held my gaze for exactly three seconds before turning away with a satisfied flip of her hair.
Clever, I acknowledged silently. Vicious, but clever.
Lisa lingered a moment longer, conflict visible in her expression. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it. With a small, apologetic shrug, she retreated to her own corner of the room, leaving me alone with my allegedly fake bag and my genuine indifference to the entire situation.
Let them think what they wanted.
But as I pulled out the acoustics textbook I'd brought I caught sight of Ava hovering near the refreshment table. The girl I'd met briefly during first-round callbacks, the one who'd been kind for no reason except that kindness seemed to be her default setting.
She was watching me with visible distress, her fingers twisted together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Our eyes met across the room, and I saw her make a decision. She started forward, determination overriding what looked like considerable anxiety—
"ATTENTION, CONTESTANTS!" The PA system crackled to life with enough volume to make several girls jump. "Please take your seats. We're about to begin the group selection process."
Ava froze mid-step, then reluctantly retreated as bodies shifted and rearranged themselves. The nervous energy that had been diffused throughout the room suddenly concentrated, sharpening into focus. This was it. The moment that would determine our fates for the next round.
A production coordinator entered, her heels clicking authoritatively against the tile floor. Behind her, two assistants wheeled in a large monitor displaying the show's logo. "Good afternoon, everyone. Congratulations again on making it through the first elimination round. You should all be very proud."
"As you know," the coordinator continued, "this round will feature group performances. Eight songs, eight teams." She gestured to the monitor, which lit up with a list:
1. American Woman
2. Lover's Meadow
3. Respect
4. Bad Romance
5. Jolene
6. Valerie
7. Dog Days Are Over
8. Bailando
"Team leaders will be determined by your first-round rankings. Leader number one chooses first, and so on." The coordinator's smile took on a sharp edge. "Leaders, please remember—you're choosing your song, not your teammates. We'll be assigning team members based on vocal range compatibility and... other factors."
Translation: they'd engineer drama by throwing incompatible personalities together. Reality television 101.
The monitor flickered again, and my stomach dropped as the rankings appeared:
#1: Rachel Evans
#2: Lisa Martinez-Kovač
#3-8: Various names I barely recognized
#73: Rose Evans
#74: Ava Miller
Dead last. Or near enough to make no difference.
Beside me—she'd somehow migrated closer during the announcement—Ava made a small, wounded sound. "Seventy-three," she whispered. "Oh god, Rose, we're at the bottom."
I reached over and squeezed her hand briefly. Her fingers were ice-cold, trembling like a frightened bird. "We're still here," I reminded her quietly. "That's what matters."
But her eyes had already fixed on the song list, scanning with the desperate intensity of someone looking for a life raft in open ocean. "Please let us get Lover's Meadow," she breathed, so quietly I almost missed it. "It's perfect for my range. Gentle, folk-style, lots of room for emotional interpretation..." Her voice cracked slightly. "The others—they all have these huge vocal moments. High belts, power notes. If I try to hit those, my voice will just shred. I'll sound like a dying cat and—"
"Ava." I kept my tone firm but gentle. "Spiraling won't help."
She nodded jerkily, but I could see panic taking root behind her eyes. This girl had probably never ranked this low in anything in her life.
"Team Leader Number One," the coordinator announced with theatrical flair, "Rachel Evans, please step forward and make your selection."
Rachel rose like she'd choreographed the movement, her smile radiant for the cameras being positioned around the room. She took her time walking to the front, milk every second of attention, before turning to face us with an expression of thoughtful consideration that I didn't believe for a second.
"I'll take..." She paused, drawing out the suspense. "Lover's Meadow."
The blood drained from Ava's face so fast I thought she might faint. Her hand, still resting near mine on the armrest between us, clenched into a fist so tight her nails dug crescents into her palm.
"No," she whispered. "No no no—"
I covered her fist with my hand, squeezing hard enough to ground her in physical sensation rather than spiraling panic. "We'll make it work," I said quietly, putting every ounce of certainty I could muster into the words.
"How?" Her voice was barely audible, thick with unshed tears. "That was my song. My one song that I could actually—" She stopped, pressing her free hand over her mouth as if physically holding back a sob.
On the monitor, I watched Rachel's selection lock in. The song title turned green beside her name, officially claimed. Lisa stepped forward next, her expression more businesslike as she chose Respect—a power anthem that suited her European rock-star aesthetic.
The process continued. American Woman went to a tall Black girl with a powerhouse voice I'd heard warming up earlier. Bad Romance to a petite blonde who'd apparently built her entire brand around being "quirky." One by one, the songs disappeared from availability.