Chapter 1

Chapter One

Rae

W ell, I had really done it this time. I'd finally gone too far.

As the heavy metal door slid closed with a resounding clang, the iron bars breaking up the view from the other side of the jail cell I was standing in, I knew without a shadow of a doubt I'd screwed up big time .

"Oh my God," I whispered, slapping my hands over my face as the enormity of my situation finally crashed down on me. "My parents are going to kill me !" I cried, the words muffled by my palms.

"First time in lockup, sweetie?"

I turned to the only other person in the cell with me. When I was first escorted in—my hands cuffed behind my back after having the world's most unflattering mugshot taken of me—she'd been stretched out along the bench on the left side of the concrete and cinderblock room. At the time, I thought she'd been asleep and couldn't fathom how that was even possible. I had so much adrenaline pumping through my system that I wasn't sure I'd be able to sleep for a week. Even if I had my king-sized pillow-top mattress and expensive-as-hell luxury bamboo sheets beneath me.

"Um." I pulled my lips between my teeth and bit down hard, hoping to stop the quiver in my chin. It was bad enough I'd been arrested. I was not going to be that socialite who bawled like a freaking baby in the middle of her jail cell. I was made of tougher stuff than that, damn it.

Okay, I wasn't. But fake it 'til you make it and all that jazz, right?

"Is it that obvious?" I asked once I managed to fight the tears back.

The woman sat up and spun around, resting her back against the cold gray wall and crossing one leg over the other. If I had to guess, I would have put her somewhere in her late thirties, maybe older, but it was hard to tell with all the makeup she had caked on her face and the thick black eyeliner and mascara. She'd obviously been in here for a while and looked content to stay until, well, I wasn't sure how the hell we got out of a place like this. I'd never been arrested before!

"Oh yeah," she said with the raspy laugh of someone who smoked at least two packs a day. "Obvious as hell you just got your cherry busted tonight, girly." Eww . "If I were you, I'd wipe that deer in the headlights look off your pretty face real damn quick. It's bad enough you're in here sporting a dress that probably cost more than my rent, you don't want to draw more attention to the fact that you're a spoiled princess. Once this place starts filling up, they'll eat your ass alive."

I worked hard to do as she suggested, despite the fact that being called a spoiled princess caused that burn in the backs of my eyes to start up all over again. I wanted to argue, to tell this woman she didn't know the first thing about me. But the truth was, she'd hit the nail on the head with painful accuracy.

I was a spoiled princess. The dress I was wearing was one I'd purchased straight from the designer after I saw it on the runway model during Paris Fashion Week. I hadn't even bothered to ask the price before passing over my credit card. Well... my dad's credit card. However, I did know how much the red-bottom heels on my feet cost, and my new cellie wasn't too far off the mark. Rent in L.A. was astronomical, and so was the cost of these shoes .

Honestly, I felt like an asshole standing in the middle of the holding cell in designer duds, the hair I'd paid an ungodly amount of money to have professionally blown out earlier in the day now lying flat against my head, and the makeup that had been artfully applied by the makeup artist I used every morning smudged from crying. I was a fraud and the chick on the bench across from me knew that with just one look.

My expensive heels click-clacked against the hard concrete floor as I moved to the metal bench along the back wall and sat down, tugging at the hem of my minidress and crossing my legs tightly so I didn't accidentally flash anyone that might walk by. This dress wasn't exactly made to be sat in. It was more for showing off than anything. It had been designed to be seen in. Comfort and modesty hadn't come into consideration at all.

I gripped the edge of the bench tight enough that the metal dug into my skin, trying to ignore the fact that there was a toilet... out in the open... less than five feet from where I was sitting. I made the mistake of looking at it and gagged before quickly facing forward once again.

"You look familiar." My spine went stiff at my new roommate's declaration. I had been hoping to get through this whole ordeal without being recognized, but it looked like that hope was in vain. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

I lowered my face and stared at my lap, trying to hide behind the curtain of my hair. "I don't think so," I mumbled.

"No, I do. I totally know you from somewhere. Where do I—?" I knew she'd placed me when she sucked in a gasp and snapped her fingers. "You're one of those people who's famous for no reason, right? Because you got a rich mommy and daddy. You were on that reality show where all those spoiled-ass rich kids had to live a week in the jungle or something."

God, I hated that I'd agreed to do that show. It made us look like fools. I was just thankful the viewers didn't know it was all bullshit, and that we spent each night in a private villa belonging to the tropical resort we were filming around while trying to trick the world into believing that we were roughing it the whole seven days.

"So what did you do to get yourself thrown in here, sweet cheeks?"

Shame flooded me, staining my cheeks an angry red I couldn't possibly hide. "It's, um, kind of a long story."

She lifted her arms at her side and looked around sarcastically. "I think we both have time."

"What are you in for?" I threw back, trying to take the attention off me.

She waved a hand down the front of herself like the answer was obvious. "What's it look like? You think I'd wear something like this because it suits my complexion?"

Well, I hadn't wanted to assume. Fashion was ever-changing, evolving. The torn fishnet stockings, pleather miniskirt, and neon pink tube top could have been her way of making a statement.

"I'm in for solicitation. I got busted hookin'." She lifted her shoulders in a shrug like it was nothing. "Wasn't the first time, probably won't be the last."

"Hey, you have to make a living somehow, right?"

She didn't hide her surprise at my response. If she expected me to judge her, she was going to be waiting a long time. I had a lot of opinions on prostitution, and most of them centered around the fact that our laws in regards to the oldest profession known to man were in serious need of an overhaul. Instead of punishing these women for doing what they felt they needed to do, whatever their reasons may be, it would have been better if laws were set in place to ensure their safety as they did it.

"What about you, princess? I shared, now it's your turn."

"Well, I guess I'm in for breaking and entering. And... maybe a little bit of arson. "

My cellmate's eyes flared as she leaned forward, the picture of curiosity. "How does someone get popped for a little bit of arson, exactly?"

"It was a small fire," I defended. "A baby fire, really. It didn't even burn half the room down, and I got it mostly put out before the police arrived."

Her mouth dropped open on a laugh of bewilderment. "You're kidding me. You're telling me you broke into a place and set it on fire? You ? The little princess?" Her ridiculing bark of laughter bounced off the walls and rattled around my skull, making the headache that had been pulsing in my brain and behind my eyeballs that much worse. "No way. I don't believe it."

I folded my arms over my chest, holding myself protectively. "It wasn't like that. It was an accident."

A huge, incredibly stupid accident that could have been prevented if I could just start making better decisions. But that wasn't exactly something I was known for doing, and it had finally come back to bite me in the ass. Big time.

If I made smarter choices I would have told my best friend Kendall no when she suggested I throw a party to cheer myself up after not getting picked for that new reality TV dating show I'd auditioned for. I wouldn't have trusted her when she assured me she had the perfect place to host a rager or that I should post about it all across social media.

I should have listened to my gut when it started screaming at me that something wasn't right. That Kendall had been lying when she insisted the only reason she had to pick the lock on the front door of the mansion in the hills was because she'd lost the key the homeowner had given her, and that they were totally okay with us inviting over a hundred of our closest friends to swim in their luxurious pool and grotto and help ourselves to the expensive wines in their wine cellar.

But I didn't do that. I'd shut off that voice of reason and went with the flow just like I always did. Because that was how you stayed on top in the social circles I ran in. Not rocking the boat and being known as the girl who was always up for a good time was the only way to keep from being a social outcast. It was all about who could throw the best party. Who had the most expensive car or penthouse apartment or wardrobe. Who was dating the hottest actor or athlete at any given moment.

Tonight had been one hell of a wakeup call. There wasn't a single thing of substance to me or any of the people I'd considered my friends. All those so-called friendships had shriveled up and died as soon as we heard the sirens and they all bailed, leaving me holding the bag—and the fire extinguisher—as I tried to snuff out the flames one of those geniuses had started in the kitchen when they wanted to prove they could pull off a fire breathing trick with a mouthful of vodka and a culinary butane torch.

As it turned out, the house belonged to the parents of the guy Kendall had been hooking up with until very recently, when he traded her in for a Brazilian swimsuit model. The B&E and the party that trashed their house was her way of getting revenge. On him for dumping her, and on his folks for convincing their son he could do so much better than a twenty-two-year-old Instagram influencer whose singing career ended before it could begin when someone leaked a version of her single without the autotune.

I'd tried my best to be supportive in her endeavor, lying through my teeth when I assured her the song was going to be a banger in all the clubs across Los Angeles. Not that it would have mattered if I told her the truth. Her gift for fooling herself into believing she excelled at all things was her only real talent.

My cellmate whistled. "Girly, when you do something, you do it big, don't you?"

She wasn't wrong about that. But it wasn't something I was particularly proud of. The truth was, I didn't really have a reason for all the stupid shit I tended to get myself into. My parents hadn't mistreated me growing up. They didn't throw money at me to keep me out of their hair like so many people I knew. They weren't mean or neglectful or abusive. My parents loved me like crazy, and I had grown up feeling that love every single day.

The problem occurred when I was old enough to realize I had two parents with incredible gifts that the world adored them for. My father was a famous country singer who had managed to cross over into mainstream and become a world-wide icon in the music industry. My mother had started her career as a crazy-talented burlesque dancer at a club in Virginia. She'd grown so popular that she traveled to places like New York and Chicago, Paris and Rome, where she headlined these huge reviews that sold out every single night.

Because Roan and Alma Blackwell were who they were, the world just assumed I would be some sort of a wunderkind, that the talents of my parents would pass down to me, and I'd be the next big thing. The expectations from as far back as I could remember had always rested heavily on my shoulders. My parents never made me feel like they expected greatness—unachievable or otherwise. They never seemed disappointed I hadn't followed in either of their footsteps, but that didn't mean I hadn't felt the pressure from everyone else. I didn't have my father's vocal talents. Far from it, in fact. My singing voice sounded like a thousand cats being thrown into a woodchipper. And unlike my mother, I had two left feet. Any time I tried to dance, I would end up tripping over my own feet and seriously hurting myself.

As I grew older, I eventually let that pressure get to me. The bitterness at not being as amazing as they were ate at me until I finally decided to do what a lot of kids and young adults in my situation did. I leaned hard into that whole nepo-baby stigma, surrounding myself with other people who would never live up to the fame or success of their parents.

Take Kendall, for example. Her hotelier father had always hoped she'd go into the family business, but she had been more set on partying and posting all over Instagram and TikTok. Problem was, Daddy tended to have to use his money and connections to dig her out of the holes she dug for herself constantly when she said something insensitive or offensive—which was way more often than should have been acceptable. There was one political rant in particular that was so bad, it nearly got her cancelled. But her family's money was able to hire the best spin team around and get her out of it. However, it was only a matter of time before she pulled another stunt that set the internet ablaze. It was as if she got off on pushing to see just how much she could get away with without burning her whole world to the ground.

If I'd really stopped to think about it, I would have realized I didn't even like my best friend. In fact, I couldn't stand her, but that was the thing, I didn't stop to think. Because in the groups I ran in, liking the people I called friends didn't matter just as long as I was photographed with them regularly. Jealousy ran rampant through our circle, constant rumors of this person talking behind that person's back. So-and-so sleeping with what's-her-name's boyfriend to get back at her for some petty slight. There was always some sort of drama, and most days it was exhausting. But it was the life I had chosen, and I had been determined to stick it out.

Thus began the long line of shitty choices that kept getting me into all kinds of trouble. And this was where I ended up: behind bars, a slew of paparazzi outside the police station waiting for a chance to snap a photo of me looking like a hot mess, while I waited for my parents to swoop in and save the day.