Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,20

I even have my own kitchenette and living area. It’s cozy, and I don’t need much.”

Given the castle we’re in, I’m expecting a harsh reaction, so I’m surprised when she says, “that sounds nice,” in a soft voice.

We reach the top of the stairs, and she leads me down another long corridor to an ornate set of French doors. She pushes through with her free hand and motions me inside.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she says, stepping aside so I can enter.

I try to temper my shock, but even with my grand expectations, I wasn’t prepared for this. A giant purple bed anchors a deep silver wall that stretches to a wall of windows. Through the expansive glass I see the pool deck below along with a distant vista of painted hills and the sparkling blue ocean. Other doors and alcoves fan off in multiple directions around the room, presumably leading to closets and bathrooms.

“You look surprised,” she says, again sounding disappointed, and I force my gaze away from the luxury to focus on her.

“Not surprised. Just…” I swallow. “Your room is beautiful, Genevieve. I grew up in a space the size of your bed that I shared with a brother. That’s all,” I say with a laugh. “Even now, my entire living area would fit in that dressing room.”

Her eyes shift, and I regret my confession. I’d been trying to put her at ease. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. Maybe too much but—”

I reach for her hand to silence her. “It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.” Like you, my gaze adds when my lips don’t.

She seems to relax again, and sets down her plate on a table near the bed. It’s then that I notice the guitar propped up beside her vanity. I place my snack beside hers and approach the guitar.

“Do you play?” I ask.

She shrugs shyly. “I used to. Not much anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. No need, I guess.”

“No need? What does that mean?”

Her expression darkens as she watches me remove the guitar from the stand.

“I’m not allowed to do my own songs, so there’s no point.”

I glance at her sharply. Sure the words were hard to hear, but not as hard as the tone in which she said them. “You’re not allowed? And what does that mean?” My voice is harsher than I intended, but the familiar anger is returning.

“My stuff is too dark. Too threatening,” she says in a mocking tone that makes it clear she’s mimicking voices she’s heard many times.

“So whose songs do you perform?”

She shrugs. “Whatever the label wants. They know what will sell.”

“But it’s not your music.”

She looks away and pretends to be interested in her sushi again. “It’s common in the industry. Lots of artists don’t perform their own songs.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that if it makes them happy,” I say gently. Her back stiffens, her fingers clenching in a fist at her side. “Play me something. One of your originals.”

Her gaze lifts to mine when I hold out the guitar, surprised, anxious. Something flickers in her eyes before she shakes her head with a nervous laugh. “No. I don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Play my own songs.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re not good.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Her expression hardens. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I am what I am.”

“And what are you?”

“You know.”

“I don’t. What are you?”

“I’m Genevieve Fox.” She spits the name with such venom it makes me shudder. Her vanity mirror isn’t covered like the ones I saw last time, but she seems to go out of her way to avoid its glare. Even now, her back is turned to the glass, which leaves her at a strange angle to converse with me. Did she only uncover it for my visit? “I have to go to the bathroom,” she mutters, and disappears through a neighboring door before I can react.

I release a sigh when I’m alone, feeling bad for pushing her, but not quite regretting it. How can she know she’s not good if she doesn’t even know who she is? Because she doesn’t. I see it now, clear as day. She’s been told her whole life how to act, how to look, what to think, do, and believe. Her entire identity was formed by committee and she has no clue who the real person is behind the mask. No wonder she can’t look in the mirror. She probably has no idea who the hell she’s looking at.

I put the guitar back on the stand and saunter to the bed to sit and wait. My