Wicked Ambition

Prologue

Palisades Grand Arena, Los Angeles

Summer 2013

IF NOT VICTORY, REVENGE!

It was printed in hot-pink marker on the back of the cubicle door, the lettering neat and precise. Ivy Sewell reached to touch it, her fingertips tentative, tender almost across its surface, as she might in another life have caressed a lover’s cheek.

Her hard blue stare locked on to the affirmation. Ivy’s was a malice years in the making, a shoot green in youth that had turned black through adolescence, insidious and strangling as a weed, so that tonight, here, at last, the instant of her retribution had arrived. In the wings, the truth gasped its final throttled breaths; the old order shrugged off a wilted coil. She was deadly. Lethal. Toxic. Poison. And the world prepared to feel her wrath.

There would be before tonight, and after tonight, and nothing would ever be the same again. In the eleventh-floor washroom of LA’s Palisades Grand Arena, on the most televised event in the entertainment world calendar, vengeance was their apocalypse.

Ivy carved a painted fingernail, danger red, into the print, gouging a nub of plaster.

IF NOT VICTORY, REVENGE!

Victory had never been hers. But revenge? Revenge was in her blood.

From inside the stadium she could hear the muted thrum of beats and the united roar of the fans. Ivy imagined the cries were for her, urging her on, baying for the carnage she was about to unleash. She released her breath, tasting salt and iron, her tongue flicking across the split in her lip where she had bitten too hard in anticipation.

Three women.

Each was here to claim the spotlight. Each was an international superstar, a glittering icon with the world at her feet. Robin Ryder, UK talent-show sensation, the rags-to-riches sweetheart rescued from oblivion. Kristin White, global pop phenomenon with the voice of an angel, who had ditched the princess act after tragedy struck. And Turquoise da Luca, America’s number one female vocal artist and now tantalising toast of Tinseltown.

One of them was going to perish.

At the mega-event better known as the ETV Platinum Awards, Ivy Sewell was concerned with one target and one alone: her twin. The hated sister, born identical and torn towards an opposite fate, who had claimed everything Ivy herself should have been, who had snatched it all from her grasp, who had turned her back and slipped so seamlessly into a life of opulence and glamour, forgetting where she had come from or what had gone before.

Ivy shoved the bag into the trashcan, forcing it down with her fists. Later, when it was discovered, they would know how clever she had been. In it lurked the disguise she’d worn, the orange T-shirt with its Burger Delite! logo emblazoned across the front…a whole person, just like that, folded away in a sack. She stared indifferently at the hands that would carry out this great execution. Wrists pale and brittle, like branches in winter; the fingers thin.

Only when the bullet entered would it be over. Only when that flawless skin was ruptured, that smile erased, that heartbeat frozen, one and the same as hers and yet a universe apart, would it be finished: one life in exchange for another.

A rapturous cry exploded. The show was beginning, the stage lit up to welcome the players, the kings and queens of twenty-first-century music, the alphas and the studs and the bitches and the beauties with their diamonds and their hundred-thousand-dollar gowns.

Ivy closed her eyes. The letters were emblazoned on her lids, bright as fire.

IF NOT VICTORY, REVENGE!

The curtain was up. And now it was show time.

PART 1

One year earlier

1

Robin Ryder was seeing stars, weightless and electrified as she flew towards the raging sun of her orgasm. Fuck the wardrobe her stylist had spent hours perfecting; fuck the producer’s countdown mere minutes away; fuck everything except this glorious, glittering fuck.

‘Does that feel good?’ the man breathed, gripping her waist and pulling in deeper. Robin, on top, ground against him; the slippery, yielding leather of the seat was soft and sticky beneath her knees, and she threw her head back to moan her reply.

Backstage in the VIP suite, ahead of a live Saturday night broadcast of The Launch, she was riding this guy like it was the last ride of her life. What she was doing was reckless, it was sinful, but Robin had never been able to play by the rules. She was a judge and he a contestant; it was all kinds of wrong and yet all kinds of right. RnB tunes filtered through the music system, and at the bar an empty magnum of Krug nestled on a bed of ice. As Robin held tight she decided she would definitely, oh definitely, be putting him through this week.

‘I’m there,’ she cried, ‘don’t stop, I’m there!’

‘Me too,’ the guy choked, driving in hard. ‘My God, you’re so fucking hot.’

The throne-like chair was a prop, used in the early audition stages: when a judge liked what they saw they hit a lever, prompting the seat to rush forward on a pair of rails. Thankfully for Robin the gimmick had been relegated backstage once the live nights began—she’d proved a hit during those first weeks where her inclination to back everybody had her getting motion sickness every ad break. After all, The Launch was where she herself had begun: now she was the nation’s darling, drawn from obscurity, a rough diamond polished through song. Robin had risen to fame through the very show she was tonight judging.

The public loved Robin’s voice, raw and sensuous, somewhere between pain and deliverance. They loved how she wore her heart on her sleeve. They loved her guts, and her honesty. They loved her story—loved that she’d been hurt and wanted to seize her dues. Over twelve months Robin had soared to a dizzying stratosphere, invited to every party, on to every red carpet, booked for every event. Her gift was undeniable and her smile lit up a room.

‘Do you want it?’ the contestant was panting, his sweat-slicked six-pack glistening in the half-glow. ‘Right there, do you want it?’ He was this year’s favourite, tough guy with the voice of an angel—and a heavenly body to match.

She came in a crash, a bursting galaxy of dazzling confetti as she writhed on the brink of paradise. Sex was Robin’s release. It enabled her to feel that warmth, that closeness, without risk of being wounded. You got what you came for and you left. She didn’t get why people wanted to stick around afterwards anyway; she had never understood this sleeping-in-each-other’s-arms thing. She’d got this far alone and she didn’t need anyone else.

‘That was amazing,’ he groaned, cradling her, kissing her over and over as she gasped through the aftermath of her climax.

She had barely had time to fling a shirt over her nakedness when the door opened. Robin didn’t know which happened first: the contestant’s face dropping as fast as his pants had ten minutes earlier; or her attempt to dismount disastrously striking the switch that jolted the chair meteorquick towards their visitor like some sort of warped sacrificial offering.

‘Oh,’ said their caller, as Robin scrambled to conceal herself. Instead of a mortified exit (which would have been the polite thing), he stood there, an infuriating grin on his face.

Light flooded the room. ‘Shit, man,’ gabbled the contestant helpfully. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

‘Do you mind?’ she raged, so mortified she couldn’t bear to turn round.

‘Sure.’ She could hear the smirk in his voice. ‘Guess I’ll come back later.’

It was a miracle she made it through the show without punching him.

Leon Sway, Olympic sprinter, was guesting on tonight’s panel. Since the summer Games had decreed him a World Personality, the athlete was hotly in demand for every broadcast going. Leon was mixed race, with close-cut black hair, strong cheekbones and an all-over movie-star look: it was little wonder he had been gracing billboards across the globe with a ream of sponsorships and modelling contracts; and now here he was making a star appearance on the adjudicating Launch line-up—what the hell did he know about music?

‘I’ve been a fan of yours from the start,’ Robin told a quivering choirgirl after an impressive rendition of Adele. ‘That was a brilliant performance; I really felt it. Well done.’

‘Sure that’s not all you felt?’ came the murmur from her neighbour, just loud enough for her to hear. She tried not to scowl—either that or turn to Leon and chuck her glass of water in his face. It wasn’t in Robin’s nature to wish for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, but tonight had to be the exception. As the acts ran through their numbers and the board delivered their verdicts, she tried not to dwell on what parts of her anatomy might have been unveiled before they’d even been introduced—not easy with Leon’s supercilious bulk to her left, interspersed with a hot flash of shame every time she recalled his untimely intrusion.

‘Do you think she can win?’ asked a producer mogul who had been tagged as her rival on the show. ‘With those nerves I can’t see her pulling off any live gigs.’

‘This is a live gig, isn’t it?’ Robin snapped. She could sense Leon watching her. Why did he have to be such a smug, full-of-himself…? Ugh, she couldn’t even think of the word.

‘Well, yes…’

‘I absolutely believe in her,’ commented Robin, battling through her disgrace. ‘This is where I got my break and it took me time to grow, of course it did. If she were cutthroat at this point you’d be tearing her apart for being difficult to work with. Which is it going to be?’

The arena shouted its approval. Robin’s image filled the screens on either side of the stage, the people’s champion: she was petite, her hair chopped short but with a trademark sweep still long enough to obscure her eyes, which were cat-like and aglow with dramatic make-up. Hers was a cautious demeanour that belied the tough, attitude-fuelled work that had made her name: Robin’s music spoke of more years lived and more experiences earned, and had consequently secured her the first ever talent-show-spawned album to be nominated for—and win—a Brit Select Award. The victory had made Robin Ryder, at just nineteen, the hottest thing on the UK scene. She believed in putting everything into her art, the offering up of her heart and her soul, because for a long time she had imagined that both those things were damaged beyond being any use to anyone.

When the time came for that contestant to take the spotlight, she grimaced. Leon couldn’t resist fixing her with a stare throughout the entire introductory VT.

‘It wasn’t for me,’ he judged afterwards. ‘It kinda felt like you were distracted.’

‘I disagree,’ put in Robin. ‘For me it was a very focused, determined performance.’

Leon turned to her. ‘Are you complimenting his performance?’

The blush threatened to engulf her. ‘Sure,’ she managed, the double entendre squatting resolutely between them. ‘I am.’

‘Focused and determined—that’s how you like it, then?’

She returned his glare. ‘Who doesn’t?’

The host, confused, went to ask another panellist their view.

‘It seemed like he had something else on his mind,’ Leon steamed on before he could, ‘something more interesting than being up on that stage. Don’t you feel that’s an issue?’

‘Whatever drives him is fine by me,’ she replied stiffly, knowing that every word she uttered was laced in innuendo. ‘After all, what would a sprinter know about vocals?’

It was a cheap shot, she ought to know better, but humiliation had forced her into a corner. A blood-hungry cheer erupted and she could all but hear the producers salivating.

‘Well, he is the bookies’ favourite,’ supplied the mogul.

‘Not just the bookies’…right, Robin?’ Leon joked, a crescent-moon dimple appearing on one side of his all too slappable face. His insinuation was obvious. There was a horrible silence. Robin’s cheeks flamed. She tried to think of something to say and nothing came. She was so angry she could scream. This was live TV!

‘Excuse me?’ she spluttered.

But the presenter moved on, instructed to sever it at the point of maximum speculation.

Afterwards, everyone assured her that it hadn’t sounded that bad. Robin wasn’t stupid. It would be all over the papers tomorrow thanks to that insufferable bastard Leon Sway! The contestant looked hopefully at her as she fled: that was the end of him.

Her car took her straight to Soho’s Hideaway Club, where she found scant solace in ordering the strongest concoction she could find. Her band met her there.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said, before Polly, her bassist, had a chance.

Polly was American with a peroxide-blonde beehive. ‘All right,’ she said as they settled in a booth. ‘But just to say—’

‘Don’t say anything.’

‘It could have been worse.’

‘Could it?’

‘Did you screw him?’

Robin was aghast. ‘Who, Leon?’ she demanded, outraged at the thought.

‘No!’ Polly named the contestant. ‘Although Mr Sway, well, you have to admit—’

‘I’m warning you: don’t even go there.’ She downed the drink. ‘Anyway, what difference does it make? Everyone thinks I did, so I did. Isn’t that how it goes?’

Within minutes a tower of frosted glasses was deposited in front of them, together with several giant bottles of part-frozen vodka. An accompanying note read:

Want a winner on your team?

Her manager Barney signalled across the space. ‘Hey, Robin, check out your secret admirers.’ Close to the neon-bulb-strewn bar, just decipherable through the low-lit shadows that gave way to pockets of absolute dark, Olympian Jax Jackson, officially the fastest man in the world, was partying with a harem of lovelies. Two Olympians in one day? Some luck that was. Jax raised a glass and Robin prayed he wouldn’t come over: thanks to Leon he probably thought it was a free-for-all.

‘If we accept these you don’t have to do anything in return, right?’ Matt, her drummer, was already pouring. He winked at Robin when she raised her middle finger. ‘What? Girls never buy me drinks; it’s not like I know the rules!’

Robin tossed back a syrupy shot, then a second, then a third. Polly threw her a glance and she matched it. What was wrong with having fun? She was young and free and famous, and didn’t need anyone to tell her she deserved a break.

‘What?’ she countered. ‘Aren’t we partying?’ Matt grabbed the second bottle and filled the glasses and everyone went in for a sticky collision before the liquid vanished.

‘Sure,’ said Polly, not sure at all. What Robin had gone through didn’t go away; you had to deal with it before you could move on, not get trashed till you forgot. ‘You earned it.’

‘Nah, we earned it,’ corrected Robin, putting one arm round Polly and one round her manager and pulling them close. ‘We’re family, aren’t we?’

Family.

Even as she said the word she could hear how hollow it sounded.

2

Five thousand miles away and several hundred feet above a Hollywood theatre, Kristin White and her boyfriend were making a surprise landing at the premiere of Lovestruck.

‘Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?’ Scotty panicked, clinging to the door of the chopper as it began its shaky descent. Kristin giggled and put a comforting hand on his knee. Out of the window they could see the red carpet splashed beneath them like a river of fire, the upturned faces of fans and paps dozens-deep, gazing awe-struck at the approaching marvel.

Scotty gripped her fingers, white-knuckled, and gulped.

‘Relax,’ she soothed, leaning over to kiss him.

‘I am relaxed,’ he warbled.

‘You’re James Bond,’ she calmed him, ‘remember?’

‘Yeah.’ Scotty closed his eyes, holding tighter. ‘I’m Bond. I’m James fucking Bond.’

When the helicopter touched ground, Scotty was so relieved he grabbed Kristin and embraced her passionately. ‘Wow,’ he raved, ‘that was totally wild!’

It wasn’t like Scotty to initiate a PDA and Kristin trembled with joy, filled with the brilliance of the moment. Here they were at the peak of their careers, crazy famous and crazy in love. Her tummy lurched at his kiss more than it had at any point over the last half an hour.

‘Check out the reception,’ Scotty rhapsodised. ‘This is sick!’ He took her hand with a reassuring squeeze and said, ‘You look really beautiful tonight…you know that?’

She glowed.

By the time the door opened Kristin could scarcely hear what her boyfriend was saying because the screams were so loud. Thunder rushed at them, crashing in waves, a wall of sound so solid and suffocating that the whole impression was one of being underwater.

‘Scotty, I love you! Scotty, marry me! Scotty, over here!’

Kristin took Scotty’s hand in hers and held firm as they posed and turned for the circus of cameras. The paparazzi lining the passage shouted their names, encouraging them to stand separately, together, to kiss, the latter of which sent the fans demented, crying out for Scotty once more and snapping him frenetically with their camera phones.

Dating the subject of a gazillion teenage fantasies was never going to be easy. Kristin tried not to get jealous. You’re my only girl, Scotty would promise. She trusted him.

A stylist was on hand to rearrange her dress, a pretty lilac fishtail with capped lace sleeves, offsetting to a T her tumbling flaxen waves and creamy porcelain skin.

‘Kristin, hi, this is some arrival!’ Entertainment Now! caught her for an interview. ‘Would you answer some questions for our viewers?’ Scotty was happily dragged off to sign autographs. A girl fainted and had to be removed from the throng.

‘You’ve written the soundtrack for this movie,’ the reporter enthused. ‘How has it been collaborating with the film industry? Are there any more projects in the pipeline?’

Kristin delivered the quarter-smile. One of the first things her mother had coached her in was that there was a complex spectrum of smiles and each one meant a different thing, and the quarter was coy, a little bashful, promising more than she was prepared to say. Her mom had worked hard to get Kristin to where she was today: pop princess, the angel every little girl dreamed she would one day grow up to become, strumming on a guitar or gliding across a piano and singing gentle songs about true love and knights in shining armour who whisked their beloveds from towers in the sky. Scotty Valentine as her steady completed the picture.

‘The movie’s fantastic,’ Kristin gushed. ‘It’s been a magical experience.’

‘You and Scotty look blissful. Has he been supportive through the process?’

Kristin stole a glance in her boyfriend’s direction. Scotty was talking into someone’s cell, now in his comfort zone and a pro at pleasing his crowd of devotees. She had to remind herself that he was her guest tonight, not the other way around. Kristin had her own following—her last four consecutive singles had shot straight to number one; her trio of albums had gone platinum, selling in excess of sixty million records; and she had claimed more than eighty awards—but Scotty Valentine, with his mop of blond hair and huge, puppy-like blue eyes, was that thing to which, when done right, there was and never would be an equivalent: lead vocalist in the most outrageously popular boy band in US history, a five-guy line-up with the slick tunes and the heartthrob status to take it all the way.

People had thought the boy band was dead…and then along came Fraternity.

‘He’s been great.’ Kristin expanded the smile, unable to help how elated the truth made her. ‘He’s absolutely, amazingly perfect.’

Scotty was her muse, her inspiration and her reason for everything. Everyone said they made a bankable duo as if in some way that took away from the genuine feeling they had for each other, but Kristin knew it was special. She had never been in love before. Scotty was her first. Being one of millions worldwide who felt the exact same way was just something she’d have to get used to. Couples in the fame game appeared and vanished quicker than a fast-food order, but what made their relationship different was that they had ridden the wave together—they had known each other since they were seven years old, novice entertainers on The Happy Hippo Club. Best friends first; it had made sense that once the innocence of childhood affection wore off they would upgrade to the next level. Kristin had liked Scotty for ages before it became official, admiring him from behind a line she could not cross, until a nudge from their management had finally sealed the deal. It was a true romance, like something from a fairy tale—and Scotty her treasured Prince Charming.

The golden couple was ushered off the carpet. Away from the cameras Scotty’s smile wavered. He still looked peaky from the helicopter.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, concerned.

‘Yeah. Feel a bit sick, that’s all, all the adrenalin…’

‘You poor thing.’

Scotty allowed himself to be comforted.

‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she whispered, inhaling his scent.

He took her arm. ‘Do we have to stay for the whole thing?’

‘Why?’ Kristin asked, disappointed. ‘Do you have someplace else to be?’

‘Of course not!’ It came out a touch sharply, before he corrected himself. ‘I mean, forget it, baby; it’s fine. It’s just that whole act out there, it’s kinda exhausting.’ He consulted his reflection in a gilded drinks font. ‘Do I look OK? Not too pale?’

‘We’re sitting in a theatre,’ Kristin teased, ‘in the dark. Does it matter?’

In the event Scotty fidgeted all the way through the boy-meets-girl romance to which Kristin had arranged the score: he never had possessed a long attention span. The movie starred two of Hollywood’s most coveted teen actors; the pretty-faced guy was plastered across every bedroom in Young America. Maybe that was why Scotty got jittery whenever the shot lingered on the actor’s face. He didn’t like it when a challenger arrived on the scene.

It didn’t matter. Kristin would never notice another guy while he was around.

The arrangement sounded good and she was pleased with how they had fed it into the final take. At the reception she was congratulated by a mob of industry players.

‘Talk about making an entrance!’ they flattered. The retelling of the helicopter story, from which he omitted the finer points of his anxiety, cheered Scotty. Kristin loved seeing him in his element, smiling and charming, her favourite boy in the world.

She was chatting with the director when Cosmo Angel, A-list action hero whose wife had taken the part of the young mom in the movie, collared her with an alligator smile.

‘You really write all those songs yourself?’ he leered.

‘I sure did.’

Cosmo was ridiculously hot but there was also something dangerous, almost unpleasant, about him. Some women liked that, but Kristin wasn’t so sure. Cosmo was of Greek descent, hairy like a wolf, with a full mouth, and thick, bristling eyebrows that met in the middle. His presence was massive, oppressive, looming. He looked as if he could hook an arm around your waist and crush you to death like a snake.

‘Well—’ Cosmo stepped closer and she noticed how musky and exotic he smelled, an aroma that matched his brooding looks, sort of smoky, not like Scotty, who was vanilla-clean like freshly washed laundry ‘—you know how I like to see young talent emerge…’

‘Thank you,’ she said carefully, ‘I appreciate that.’ She wasn’t about to tell him that twenty-two years felt like longer when every waking hour as far back as she could remember was spent in preparation for How To Be a Star. Hence learning to play three instruments by the time she was eight and taking her Grade 9 piano before any of the other kids in her class had learned their times table. No wonder The Happy Hippo Club had snapped her up.

Scotty joined them. He and Cosmo shook hands and Kristin watched them talk, for a second feeling dislocated from everything and everyone around her, as if she were a stranger to her own life and looking in through a window. Some days she felt fortunate. Others she didn’t know how she had ended up here or even if it had been her choice at all.

It was crazy, but this was her world. She had never known anything else.

Thank God for Scotty. So long as he was around she’d be just fine.

3

‘Baby, you know what I am; I’m a wild girl, wild girl…’

Turquoise da Luca, undisputed queen of the US charts and in possession of the goddess-like status that meant she was known only by her first name, ground to the pulse of her latest single. They were shooting the video for ‘Wild Girl’ in a downtown Los Angeles warehouse, an army of hot male dancers mirroring Turquoise’s every move.

‘Honey, you can’t tame me, I’m a wild girl, wild girl…’

The wind machine picked up and Turquoise’s silky mane of ebony hair blew about her face, relinquishing flashes of the pale emerald eyes that had inspired her name. She could feel the energy of the troupe at her back, the force coming off each choreographed routine as the guys relied on her lead, surrendering to the next arrangement and powerless to stop the rush. Every movement was executed with the slickest measure, every twist and step in sync, and as Turquoise sang to the recorded track she counted the metre in her head like a dual heartbeat. When she fell into the final position she knew it was nailed.

‘That’s the one!’ The director incited a celebratory round of applause and Turquoise joined in, congratulating her team. Performing was her ultimate. When she was up onstage, in front of a camera, giving it her all, she was liberated. She was somebody else.

Shrugging on a robe, she disappeared into her dressing room. Several of the company gazed longingly after her, bathing in the residual mist of intoxicating perfume. Not only was Turquoise one of the most renowned chart-toppers in the world, she was also one of its most staggeringly gorgeous women: a vision of never-ending honey-tanned legs and a waterfall of liquid jet hair that descended to the impeccable swell of her ass. She attracted stares wherever she went. Of supermodel-height but with the curves of an exotic Amazonian princess, Turquoise wasn’t just beautiful; she was astonishing. Lithe and graceful, supple as a panther, she was that rare thing: more radiant in real life than she was on film.

She’d just had time to kick off her stilettos when there was a knock at the door.

‘Hey.’ Her visitor rested one arm against the frame. ‘I had to see you.’

It was Bronx, her principal dancer. Originally trained in ballet and tap, Bronx had a soaring frame that combined polish and poise with sheer brute strength. They had met on her first video, before she’d hit the big league, and after every encounter, even now, she berated herself. Turquoise knew she couldn’t give him anything more. If Bronx found out about her, if he knew what she’d done and who she really was, he would never want to see her again.

‘Aren’t you gonna invite me in?’

‘My schedule’s off the wall,’ she replied. It wasn’t a lie: she had a fashion gala still to make and an industry party in New York tonight; there was a flight to catch.

Bronx was undeterred. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but all that sweat and grease back there left me feeling kinda hot…’

‘We’ve talked about this,’ she told him. ‘It’s not going to—’

Bronx kissed her, finding her tongue with his and flattening his body against hers. His dick was rock-hard. For an instant she responded, unable to resist the promise of his body.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ he whispered, trailing his hands across her contours, from her shoulders to her breasts to the dip of her hips, ‘so damn gorgeous. I can’t help it, being with you all day like that and wanting you every second—’

‘Don’t.’ Turquoise pulled away.

‘When’re you gonna see you and me are made for each other,’ he murmured, ‘that it’s meant to be?’ She pushed against him but he didn’t stop.

‘I said, don’t!’ Turquoise bit down hard, tasting blood. It had been a dumb idea to fall into bed with one of her performers, indiscreet and unprofessional and not at all what she was about. Bronx was a good man, true and noble and sincere, and those were the precise reasons why there could never be a future between them. Everything he was, she wasn’t.

Secrets. They would be the death of her.

‘Jeez!’ Bronx pulled back, putting a hand to his mouth. Pain made him angry before he checked himself. He couldn’t understand it, had tried and failed and tried again and would never quit trying because he adored this woman, plain and simple. Fame and riches didn’t matter. If anything, he preferred it when they forgot all about Turquoise’s celebrity, just the two of them in bed, she in his arms, fast asleep, breathing gently. He loved the way her eyelashes rested on her cheeks, the softness of her skin, the bead of perspiration that gathered in her philtrum when they made love. Those nights when she would moan in her sleep, in the throes of a private torture, and would wake in the small hours and stand alone by the window, arms folded, head tilted against the wall, pale and silent and closed off in the moonlight.

Why wouldn’t she let him in? What was she hiding?

‘What’s up with you?’ he asked gently.

Turquoise was shaking. She hated how that happened, the trembling, but it did, every time she wasn’t in control. ‘Leave,’ she managed.

‘Can’t we talk about this—? When can I see you?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She closed the door on his objections, collapsing against it and sinking to the floor, her head in her hands and the thick threat of tears in her throat.

It was minutes until the shivering subsided. Dragging herself together, Turquoise began to remove her clothes and make-up, gesturing robotically, stripping herself bare.

Why couldn’t she let go? Why couldn’t she move on? Bronx had never hurt her; she knew he never would. Yet every time she wasn’t the instigator she felt pinioned, backed into a corner against her will, the rising panic, the gathering dread, and worst of all the dead certainty that she couldn’t get away…

It was over. It was done with. Nobody had to know.

Turquoise da Luca was a superstar now. What did she have to be frightened of?

After the commotion of the shoot, the quiet of her personal space was both necessary and frightening. When she was busy, her mind didn’t wander: she was Turquoise, A-list diva, shatterproof, a twenty-six-year-old woman grown out of that past. When she was by herself, she remembered. The last thing she wanted was to remember.

She steadied herself against the dresser, her knuckles white. And yet…

She saw too much of the devil responsible. Charming his fans on TV, amiably chatting in gossip columns, inciting adulation on a string of blog posts and starring in a catalogue of acclaimed movies, his pristine white grin gleaming like an infinite taunt…

Cosmo Angel.

Hollywood royalty. Twenty-first-century idol. Bastard. An actor so spectacularly handsome it seemed impossible he was made of flesh and bone.

She knew what he was made of. She knew what lay beneath.

Cosmo had ruined her. He was evil. As long as he was breathing she knew there was no escape. She could play pretend but it would always be there, prowling beneath the surface, a swamp-like creature scourging the depths, choking her, suffocating her, making her pay.

Turquoise confronted the mirror, its frame spotlit with glowing pearls, the array of war paint scattered at its base: the tools of her disguise.

She stared at her reflection for a long time, not moving, until she began to see someone familiar looking back. A young girl, fear in her eyes, too afraid to object and too timid to speak out, beseeching, Why didn’t you save me sooner?

I couldn’t. I didn’t. And I’m sorry.

There was a brief, sharp knock and her assistant came in, chattering about the car that had arrived for the gala. The spell was broken. Just like that, Turquoise was rescued.

4

A monumental cheer went up as Robin departed the couch on a weekend talk show. Since the wrap of The Launch, and in particular the hysterical rumours she had endured about a certain male contestant, she was frontline on every major TV channel.

‘How about that—Robin Ryder, ladies and gentlemen!’

She turned at the green room and waved. The slot had gone great, the funnyman host’s wisecracks matched evenly by her quick humour and steady banter. As usual she’d been asked about her unorthodox childhood, and was able by now to rely on the stock phrases settled upon by her management. At first it had been painful dredging all that up, it wasn’t as if she wanted to be reminded every day, but in surrendering those facts to the public, in sharing them, the shame had lessened and the impact was gradually relinquishing its hold.

In her dressing room she changed out of the gown her stylist had picked and swopped it for a bold-print playsuit and leggings, which she teamed with lace-up boots and a pink bolero. A slick of lipstick and she was set. It was eleven p.m. and the night was young. She was meeting her girlfriends at London nightspot Kiss-Kiss, and rumour had it that supergroup LA hip-hop crew Puff City would be there. Robin was a disciple of their work; it was brave and righteous and took no prisoners, everything she aspired to in her own music, and their main man Slink Bullion was a legendary producer and collaborator. She wanted to sound him out about a joint project. Her people had said they would speak to his, but nothing could convince Robin that there was a better way than talking face to face.

When she arrived, the club was hammering a dirty, sexy stream of beats, and was packed with grinding bodies. Robin was taken through a concealed entrance towards an alcove. Kiss-Kiss had been built on the relics of an old church. From vaulted ceilings dripped bruised candelabra, huge colour-stained windows depicted rock gods old and new, while a glittering altar boasted a fearsome set of decks from which bled the new religion: music.

Robin spotted Polly’s beehive right away and her friends Sammy and Belle. It had been difficult to form bonds with people in her old life, moved as she was from place to place, and it was only when she’d quit the system and gone it alone that she had been able to make her own choices. That had brought with it a whole heap of struggle but at least it had been a struggle she’d had a say in—and through it she’d met Sammy and Belle, people who knew her before all this took off. Sammy had been the one who had encouraged her to audition for The Launch in the first place.

‘Check out the bar,’ said Belle as she sat down. They already had a rainbow of free drinks on the go and Robin helped herself. ‘We’re in for a treat.’

‘What is it?’

‘Jax Jackson and Leon Sway.’

She couldn’t believe it. ‘You have to be kidding me.’

The last thing she wanted was to encounter that self-righteous idiot, and enduring the attentions of Jax Jackson wasn’t far behind. Jax might be an Olympian but he didn’t do it for her: he was a notorious womaniser and by all accounts a chauvinist. The fact he had the Hugh Hefner bunny tattooed on his bicep along with the strapline Come and Play said it all, really.

‘I thought those guys were sworn enemies,’ Robin observed. Leon was silver to Jax’s gold: the men were archrivals, on the track and off. Word was they couldn’t stand each other.

‘Maybe they called a truce,’ suggested Sammy.

Polly scoffed. ‘Gimme a break: you should see how much coverage they get in the States. It’s insane. They’re, like, hotter than Hollywood. For the first time Jax has got some stiff competition. Testosterone, girls: he’s freaking about the guy on his tail—’

‘Stiff competition? A guy on his tail?’ Robin prompted the others to giggle. ‘Now there’s a story I’d be interested in.’

‘Jax’d sooner die,’ commented Belle wryly. ‘Talk about macho alpha bollocks.’

The same went for Leon, evidently. Robin was filled with fury remembering his indiscretion. She tried to see through the wall of people. A cluster parted just long enough to award her a view of Leon on the periphery of the group. He was wearing a grey T-shirt beneath which she could detect the lines of his muscle, the hard strength of his stomach and the clean, swift strokes of his arms. His green eyes caught the light.

‘Pretty, isn’t he?’ said Belle.

‘If you like egotistical, tactless dickheads.’

Sammy grabbed her. ‘Let’s go say hello.’

‘Uh-uh, no way.’ Robin kicked back. It was tempting to stride over and explain to Leon exactly what she thought of him, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.

Jax Jackson came into view, making a chump of himself as a Nicki Minaj track came on and drunkenly he toasted the air. Jax was a couple of inches shorter than Leon and more hulking. Not that she was making the comparison.

‘Why not?’ Polly teased. ‘Jax has already made it clear he’s a fan…’

‘He bought us a drink,’ she said, recalling his come-on at the Hideaway. ‘Big deal.’

‘Bet you’ll go over when you see who they’re with.’

‘Who?’

‘Puff City.’

Robin baulked. ‘No way.’

‘Yes way. Go ahead, check it out.’

Sure enough, at the bar with Jax was the inimitable Slink Bullion. He was wearing a baggy white sweater and reams of gold jewellery. The Puff City crew skulked behind. Robin recognised Principal 7, the esteemed white rapper filling Eminem’s shoes, and G-Money, who was cool in a preppy way and whose real name was Gordon or something.

Downing another shot, she stood and closed the gap between them.

‘Hi.’ She interrupted the exchange. Jax was momentarily irritated by the disruption before succumbing to a smile. Annoyingly Slink was dragged off by his girlfriend.

‘Hey, lady, it’s you.’

‘Yeah, it’s me. And it’s not lady, it’s Robin.’

‘Kinda thought you blew me off the other night, Robin.’

Jax towered over her. His frame was extraordinary, huge and light and built for speed. He was smirking in the way of a man who imagined every female to want to fall in a faint at his feet. She scouted for the rest of Puff City but they’d melted away.

‘I didn’t know the drinks came on condition,’ Robin retaliated.

‘They didn’t. But here’s another chance to give me your number.’

‘Thanks, that’s sweet.’

‘We’ve been hearin’ a lot about you.’ Jax grinned. ‘Seems like you’re the place to be right now, a hot little hotel in paradise. I wouldn’t mind a trip there myself.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

He held his hands up. ‘Just sayin’. And you should know I don’t mind a challenge. Hell, I like it. It don’t happen often but when it does, I’m there like a bitch in heat.’

‘I’m feeling better by the second.’

‘Back off, Jax, she’s not interested.’

Robin turned to find herself face to face with Leon Sway. The surprise of him at such close range tied her tongue in a knot. Before she could slam her brain into gear, Jax said:

‘What’s it t’do with you?’

‘You’re drunk. Step away.’

‘Nah, you step away.’ Jax pushed him. His fists on Leon’s chest elicited a thump, rock on rock. Leon squared up to him, spoiling for a fight.

So now he was playing the hero? If she weren’t so livid she’d have laughed.

‘Get used to it, man,’ taunted Jax. ‘You’re a second-rate citizen around here.’

‘Funny, I thought I almost beat you.’

‘In your dreams, punk—that ain’t never gonna happen. You hear me? Never.’

‘You keep telling yourself that.’

‘Don’t need to. Facts speak for themselves.’ Jax shoved him again. Leon returned it, harder. Jax lost his footing and flailed embarrassingly against the bar. Disgraced, he took a wild swing at his rival, swiping at air as Leon evaded the impact and delivered in return a clean punch on the jaw. Jax fell backwards into his assistant’s arms.

The assistant stooped to gather his ward, securing Jax under the armpits. Jax staggered upright and shrugged himself free, mouth curled, jabbing a finger in Leon’s direction. ‘I’ve got your number, asshole,’ he hissed, trembling with fury. ‘I’m comin’ for you. Know your place. The man Jackson don’t forget, you got that?’

Leon looked blank. ‘I’m terrified.’

‘You should be.’

‘Good of you to