The shower came next after wiping off her makeup—a ritual of renewal that never quite delivered.
She turned the faucet to scalding, steam filling the marble-tiled bathroom like a fog of forgotten dreams.
Stepping under the spray, she let the water pound against her skin, loosening the knots in her shoulders that had formed from hours of tense posture. Suds from her lavender-scented body wash swirled down the drain, carrying away the glitter-speckled makeup, the sweat of anxiety, but not the weight pressing on her soul.
Memories flooded in unbidden: her debut album launch, the roar of the crowd at her first sold-out show, the thrill of hearing her song on the radio.
She would have stayed longer, letting the heat melt away the evening's residue, but there were bills waiting.
Always bills.
The water shut off with a decisive twist, and she wrapped herself in a plush towel, droplets tracing paths down her arms.
Dressed in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame and a pair of leggings, hair still dripping onto the collar, she returned to the living room.
The city lights outside seemed mocking now, a reminder of the heights she'd reached and the fall that loomed.
Her tablet sat on the coffee table beside a neat stack of envelopes, their crisp white edges a stark contrast to the chaos they contained.
A sticky note in her assistant Zari's precise handwriting was stuck to the top:
Filtered everything. These are the important ones.
Do NOT read them tonight. Get some rest.
—Z
Diana's lips twitched into a humorless smile, appreciating the futile protectiveness.
Zari had been with her since the early days, a loyal shadow in a world of fair-weather friends. But rest? That was a luxury for people who weren't teetering on the edge.
She tore open the first envelope anyway, the paper ripping with a satisfying tear that belied the dread building in her gut.
Final notice from the utility company, threatening disconnection if payment wasn't received in seven days.
A loan reminder from the bank, the interest alone enough to make her stomach churn.
An overdue invoice from her vocal coach, who she'd had to let go months ago but still owed for past sessions.
Billing from the penthouse maintenance fees.
Billing from her publicist's retainer.
Billing from the storage unit where she'd stashed unsold merch and forgotten dreams.
Each one was a punch to her gut numbers blurring through unshed tears.
She buried her face in her hands, fingers pressing hard into her temples, willing the headache to subside.
Will it ever stop? The question echoed in her mind, a desperate plea to an uncaring universe.
The last three years had been a slow, agonizing spiral into obscurity.
Her last successful release—a heartbreak album that had topped charts and earned her a Grammy nomination—felt like another lifetime, a golden era shrouded in nostalgia.
They'd called it a "strategic break" at the label, insisting she needed time to "recharge" and "evolve her sound." She'd been naive enough to believe them, signing extensions with hopeful optimism.
What kind of artist pauses their career before they've even hit their peak?
The thought gnawed at her, a constant companion in the quiet hours.
But it had never been her choice.
The label had benched her with benevolent smiles and promises of "the right moment," dangling collaborations and tours that never materialized.
Three years later, radio silence—both literal and figurative.
Someone powerful had wanted her gone, whispers of industry politics and rivalries that she couldn't prove but felt in every rejection.
Meetings turned into dead ends, executives suddenly "unavailable."
Negotiations turned into ghosting, emails left unread.
Leaving the label meant triggering a penalty fee so astronomical it would bankrupt her outright, and she'd be banned from recording or performing under non-compete clauses—a noose disguised as a contract, tightening with every passing month.
Even the side business she'd poured her savings into—a line of eco-friendly beauty products inspired by her own routines—was hemorrhaging money.
Suppliers delayed shipments, influencers backed out of promotions, and sales trickled to a halt amid a saturated market.
It was supposed to be her safety net, but now it was just another anchor dragging her down.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating insistently against the granite. She didn't need to look to know who it was—the custom ringtone, a snippet of an old lullaby their mother used to sing, gave it away.
Ryan.
She exhaled, long and slow, steeling herself against the familiar wave of guilt and resentment.
Her brother, the one she'd always supported, even when it meant sacrificing her own peace.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"Diana," her brother's voice came through, low and shaky, laced with that telltale desperation she'd come to recognize all too well.
She braced herself, leaning against the counter for support. "What is it this time?"
A pause stretched between them, heavy with unspoken history. A sigh followed, ragged and defeated. "I messed up. I… I need your help."
Her grip tightened on the phone, knuckles whitening.
Same script, different night.
Ryan's gambling addiction had started small—a few bets on sports games, a poker night here and there—but it had snowballed into a monster that devoured everything in its path.
"How much?"
"Just this once, I swear— I've got a plan to turn things around. I just need to clear this debt and—"
"How. Much."
Silence, thick and suffocating, then a whisper that barely carried over the line. "eight thousand."
"I can't keep doing this, Ryan." Her voice cracked, betraying the exhaustion she tried to hide.
"I don't have anyone else." His plea was raw, laced with the pain of their shared losses, the isolation that bound them tighter than blood.
The words twisted the knife deeper.
She wanted to scream that she didn't have anyone either—that she was drowning right alongside him, her career in tatters, her finances a house of cards on the verge of collapse.
That every bailout she provided for him meant skipping her own payments, delaying her own dreams.
He was supposed to be protecting her not the other way around.
Instead, she closed her eyes against the sting of tears and said the only thing she ever said, the words that kept the fragile thread between them intact.
"I'll see what I can do."
She ended the call before he could respond, the screen going dark in her hand.
Setting the phone down gently, as if it might shatter like her resolve, she turned back to the window and stared at her reflection superimposed over the city's indifferent glow.