Chapter One

Angel

The lights dimmed, and the opening chords of the song reverberated across the outdoor arena, a powerful surge of sound that hit me like a wave. The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices blending into a deafening roar that reverberated through my chest. My pulse quickened, and the familiar rush of adrenaline surged through me, momentarily eclipsing the exhaustion that clung to my bones. My stage persona— Angel —came to life under the spotlight, her aura eclipsing my fatigue, and the demands of the night melted away as the music swelled around me.

The black wig on my head felt heavier than usual in the heat of the California summer evening, and the mask that covered the right half of my face—an ornate piece reminiscent of the Phantom of the Opera—pressed uncomfortably against my skin. Sweat trickled down my temples, making the mask slip slightly, but I didn't dare adjust it. Instead, I focused on the sea of faces before me, their collective energy pulling me forward like a magnet.

This was my third straight performance in as many days, and my body was on the verge of giving out. My throat was raw from singing, my limbs heavy from dancing, and each breath I took felt like it was being drawn through a straw. But none of that mattered when I was on stage when I was Angel. Then I was doing what I had been born to do, and the joy of the music coming from around and within me carried me, lifting me up like a wave. The arena pulsed with the rhythm of the crowd's excitement, and I gave them everything I had.

As the final note of the song echoed through the air, concertgoers surged forward, their screams filling the space between us. "We love you, Angel!" someone cried out, their voice rising above the din. The words struck me like a bolt of lightning, sending a shiver down my spine. Other voices joined in, the chant growing louder, more fervent.

"I love you, Angel!" another voice screamed, and soon it was an entire chorus of declarations, a cacophony of adoration that filled every corner of the massive arena.

"I love you too!" I shouted into the microphone, my voice cracking slightly, but the crowd didn't seem to care. They roared their approval, the sound washing over me like a tsunami. I flashed them a wide ruby-lipped smile, the one Angel was known for, and waved, giving them one last glimpse of the star they adored before I turned and hurried off the stage, the cheers still ringing in my ears.

The moment I was out of the spotlight, the weight of my exhaustion returned tenfold. My legs felt like they might give out beneath me as I walked down the long corridor leading to my dressing room. Even though my heart was still pounding from the performance, I felt a wave of relief now it was over.

Fans lined the path, their hands reaching out, eager for autographs, photos, anything to take home…a piece of Angel. I paused, forcing my hand to remain steady as I signed a few items.

"You were amazing, Angel!" one of them gushed, their eyes wide with awe.

"Thank you," I replied, my voice hardly audible above the myriad shouts and screams for attention. I smiled for a few pictures, but the fatigue was pulling at me, making it hard to maintain the facade.

"I love you, Angel!" a young girl cried out, her face beaming with pure joy as she held out a poster for me to sign. Her excitement was palpable, her eyes sparkling with admiration. It reminded me why I did this, why I pushed myself beyond my limits night after night.

"I love you too," I said softly, signing the poster with a flourish before handing it back to her. The way her face lit up was worth every ounce of effort.

Finally, I reached the door to my dressing room and slipped inside, closing the door behind me. The muffled sounds of the crowd outside were a distant echo now, and I allowed myself a moment to lean against the door, eyes closed, taking deep breaths to steady myself. The cool air of the room was a welcome relief against my sweat-slicked skin.

"You did well tonight," came a familiar voice, and I opened my eyes to see Miles DiMarco standing near the mirror, arms crossed, his expression one of approval.

"Thanks, Miles," I murmured, making my way to the vanity. The reflection staring back at me in the mirror was a strange one—wig slightly askew, mask gleaming under the bright lights, makeup smudged but still vibrant. It was Angel, but at the same time, it wasn't.

"You need to rest, Angie," Miles said, his voice firm. He was always the voice of reason, the one who reminded me when it was time to step back. "Go to the hotel, get some sleep. I'll send in your decoy to handle the rest."

I nodded, knowing he was right. Miles had been with me since the beginning, the man who had seen something in me six years ago when I was just a maid with a mop and a dream that I thought never stood a chance of coming true. He had taken that broken girl and turned her into Angel, guiding me through the transformation with a steady hand, like Geppetto carving his Pinocchio from nothing but a block of wood. The mysterious beautiful woman with the voice from heaven he had created was now a pop star phenomenon, topping the music charts and singing to sold-out arenas all over the world. Miles was still the one keeping everything together, making sure that the world only saw what we wanted them to see.

"Alright," I agreed, already beginning the process of shedding my stage persona. The wig came off first, and I ran my fingers through my damp blonde hair, feeling the relief of letting my scalp breathe again. Next, I carefully removed the mask, wincing slightly as it pulled away from my skin, leaving the scar beneath red and irritated.

Miles watched me for a moment longer before nodding. "Good. Get out of here, and we'll keep the mystery alive."

I slipped into a pair of sweats, the soft fabric a welcome change from the elaborate costume I had worn on stage. My entourage was waiting outside the door, ready to cover me in a dark coat and hat, the usual disguise to keep my identity hidden. Security flanked me as we made our way through the back corridors of the venue, out into the cool night air where a car was waiting.

The driver didn't speak as we left the venue behind, the streets of Orange County quiet this late at night. I leaned my head against the window, watching the city blur past, the adrenaline that had fueled me through the performance beginning to fade. All I wanted now was the solitude of my hotel room, a place where I could be just me, without the weight of Angel pressing down on my shoulders.

The hotel was a towering structure, its lights glowing softly in the night. When we arrived, I stepped out of the car, the cool breeze brushing against my skin, bringing with it the distant salty scent of the ocean. As I walked through the entrance, I overheard a group of people talking excitedly on the sidewalk.

"They say Angel's staying here while she's in town. Do you think we'll see her?" one of them whispered, their tone full of anticipation.

I smiled to myself, knowing that they might catch a glimpse of Angel if they stuck around long enough. Miles had already arranged for my decoy to be seen, making sure that the real me remained hidden. It was a delicate balance, one we had perfected over the years.

Once inside the penthouse suite, I finally allowed myself to relax. The room was luxurious, with an enormous bed, plush furnishings, and a view of the city that was nothing short of breathtaking. As always, it felt too big, too empty, and imposter syndrome began to settle over me. I made my way to the bathroom, eager to shed the last remnants of my famous alter-ago.

The shower was a blessing, the hot water cascading over me, washing away the sweat and makeup that had clung to my skin. I stood there for a long time, letting the water soothe my aching muscles, the steam rising around me like a comforting blanket.

When I finally stepped out, I felt refreshed and lighter, like a different person. My blonde hair fell softly around my shoulders, and my skin was clean and free of the heavy stage makeup. The scar on my cheek, however, was red and angry, a reminder of the mask I had worn for so long. I carefully rubbed oil into my skin, wincing slightly as I touched the scar. It was a part of me, something I couldn't hide without the mask, no matter how much makeup I applied.

The penthouse was silent, the only sound—the distant hum of the city below. It felt suffocating, the emptiness pressing in on me, so I decided to go out. Somewhere I could sit, have a glass of wine, and just be me for a while until the last vestiges of adrenaline seeped from my system. Maybe then I'd be able to get a good night's sleep for a change. Sleep hadn't been a thing I'd been able to take for granted since high school, since before my parents died and everything changed.

I slipped into a simple sundress, something light and comfortable, and slid on a pair of wedge sandals. Makeup was minimal—a touch of mascara, a hint of lip balm—there was no point in trying to cover the scar.

When I exited the hotel, my driver, Joe, was waiting as always.

"Where to, Miss?" he asked, his tone polite and professional as he ushered me quickly into the dark sedan.

"A wine bar," I replied, not caring which one. "Any bar, just somewhere quiet."

He nodded and slid into the driver's seat, hitting the locks as soon as his door had closed. I leaned back as we pulled away from the curb, watching as we wound through the hills of Southern California. The ocean was a dark expanse in the distance, illuminated by the glow of the moon and stars overhead. It was peaceful, and I felt myself beginning to unwind, just a little.

After a short drive, the car stopped in front of a quaint red brick building with the entrance draped in ivy. The sign above read Sunset Vines. The driver turned to me. "This place is supposed to be the best in Orange County. Will this do?"

I glanced up at the charming entrance and nodded. "Yes. I'll be about an hour."

Inside, the bar was cozy and intimate, with warm lighting and a rustic charm that immediately put me at ease. I took a seat at the bar, letting the atmosphere wash over me. It was a far cry from the noisy arena, and I welcomed the change.

The bartender approached, and I couldn't help but notice how attractive he was. Tall, with a lean, muscular build, he looked to be around my age, maybe a little older. His dark brown hair was neatly styled, and his eyes were the same shade, warm and inviting. Tattoos snaked up his forearms, visible where he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

"What can I get for you?" he asked, his voice deep and smooth.

"Just a glass of your best red," I replied, offering a small smile.

He nodded, pouring the wine with practiced ease. "Rough night?"

"You could say that."

He handed me the glass, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment. I felt certain he'd noticed the scar since I was used to people's stares, but if he did, he didn't mention it. "Well, you're in the right place. Sunset Vines has a way of making everything better."

I took a sip, the wine rich and smooth on my tongue. "I hope you're right."

He turned to take the request of another patron who had just walked up, and I swirled the dark liquid in my glass, letting my thoughts drift as I relaxed into the moment.

After serving the customer, the bartender returned to me.

"So, what's a beautiful woman like you doing here alone?" he asked, casually leaning over the counter. "I would have thought someone would be joining you."

I took another sip of wine, savoring the rich flavors for a moment before responding. "Why does a woman need to have a man or a group of friends to enjoy a night out?" I asked, fatigue and alcohol making me bold. "Can't a person just want a glass of wine by themselves every now and then?"

His eyes twinkled with amusement. "Touché. You remind me of my sister—she's always saying stuff like that."

"Oh really?" I leaned in, intrigued. "What else does your sister say?"

He grinned, meeting my gaze. "Oh, you know, stuff like ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself' or ‘Don't wait around for someone to make your life better.' She's quite the character."

I laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Sounds like she's got a strong personality."

"She definitely does," he agreed, his smile widening. "She's got a way with words that makes me look like a novice in comparison."

I tilted my head, playfully teasing him. "So, you're saying you can't argue with her and win?"

"Exactly," he replied with a chuckle. "She's got this knack for making me either agree with her or concede defeat. I've learned it's easier just to go with the flow."

I laughed, enjoying the easy rapport between us. "I'd love to meet her sometime. She sounds like someone I'd get along with."

The bartender's grin grew wider. "Well, if you ever do meet her, just be prepared for a debate. She's a force to be reckoned with."

I raised my glass in a mock toast. "I'll keep that in mind. And if you ever want to practice your debating skills, I'm always up for a challenge."

He laughed. "Deal. I'll make sure to brush up on my arguments. Name's Bowie by the way."

"I'm Angie," I said.

"Good to meet you, Angie," Bowie nodded. "Glad you stopped in tonight."

Suddenly I heard the faint buzz of a phone.

"Sorry," Bowie said. "One sec." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and glanced at the display.

"Her ears must have been burning," he continued. "My sister, Lila. She sent me the link to some video."

Clicking on it, I watched as his smile quickly turned to a frown.

"What is it?" I asked, curiously.

He turned the phone towards me, where the familiar sight of Angel filled the tiny screen.

I froze, my heart skipping a beat as I watched footage of my decoy stepping out of the hotel and into a waiting limo. The crowd outside was cheering, and the cameras were flashing rapidly, capturing every moment of my public persona's departure.

"The one and only Angel ," he answered with disgust.