I sat rigid in the makeup chair, hands locked together in my lap, knuckles stiff from how hard I was clenching. The pale green fabric of my skirt rippled from the blast of the overhead vent, its frayed edges brushing against my skin like a ghost of comfort I couldn't feel. Nothing about this moment felt calm. Not with the weight pressing into my chest. Not with Camilla pacing behind me like she was preparing for war in her red louboutin.
"I said no," I snapped, twisting halfway in the chair, my eyes locking onto her, never wavering.
She stopped, arms crossed, her olive green nails digging into the fabric of her black off the shoulder dress. "And I said this is happening, Mylah."
The door opened.
A man stepped in, tall, broad shoulders, black shirt tucked neatly into black combat pants, boots silent against the floor. He looked like he belonged more in the military or army than backstage at The Tonight Show. He said nothing, just stood next to me, arms folded, expression unreadable.
