out this great execution. Wrists pale and brittle, like branches in winter; the fingers thin. She could feel the weight of her armoury concealed against her body: the solid, smooth contours as cold and steely as her purpose.
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. Ivy had waited to claim the recognition she had been denied; at last she would be important, she would be headlines, she would be coveted, she would be talked about. Oh, she would be talked about.
She had suffered and her twin had survived. Tonight, their roles would be reversed.
A rapturous cry erupted in the arena. 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 in their hundred-thousand-dollar gowns, diamonds glinting, cameras flashing, beats throbbing: the countdown to Ivy’s resurgence.
Why? they would cry, grieving the wreckage as TV crews and news anchors and the horrified leer of the world’s media turned slavering to the scene. She didn’t seem the type …
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 ONE
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 as if it were 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 stages of the show: when a judge liked what they saw they hit a lever, prompting the seat to rush forward on a pair of rails. Robin had proved a hit during auditions, 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 - 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, an exploding 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