Celeste walked the dim hallway of her apartment, the faint hum of a leaky fridge and the occasional muffled shouts from her neighbors the soundtrack to her evenings. She glanced at her phone—another text from Tanya about tomorrow's promo shoot. No missed calls. No new offers.
Dropping onto the worn couch, she let her head fall back, closing her eyes. Fame always seemed so simple when she was younger. You sang, you performed, and if you were good enough, the world took notice. But that wasn't how it worked. Not really.
Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room where Rollie sat cross-legged on the floor, earbuds in, humming softly. Celeste could hear the melody even through the tinny sound of Rollie's earbuds. Her little sister's voice was a rare, raw gem—clear and effortless.
"You're going flat on the bridge," Celeste called out, a teasing lilt to her voice.
Rollie yanked the earbuds out, grinning. "You're just jealous because I sound better at sixteen than you did."
"First of all, rude," Celeste said, smirking. "Second of all, you've got nothing on me." She leaned forward, studying her sister. "You really want this life, huh?"
Rollie shrugged. "I mean… yeah. Why wouldn't I? You're doing it, and you're, like, a hundred."
"Twenty-four is not a hundred, thank you very much," Celeste shot back. But the weight of Rollie's answer hung in the air. She didn't know. Rollie didn't see the long nights, the canceled shows, the endless rejections, the politics of an industry that treated artists like products.
Celeste's jaw tightened. "It's not as glamorous as it looks, Rollie."
"I'm not scared of hard work."
"You shouldn't be scared of hard work," Celeste said, her voice lowering. "But you should be scared of what it costs."
Rollie frowned, her usual bubbly demeanor dimming. "You're being weird. Mom says you've been stressed lately. Is it money?"
Celeste shook her head. "It's not money." At least, not exactly.
But Rollie mentioning their mom made her stomach clench. It had been years since that day. Celeste had thought she'd buried the memory, but every so often, it clawed its way back to the surface.
Celeste was sixteen when she first visited her mom's work. She'd begged and pleaded for weeks, wanting to see the glamorous "housekeeping" job her mom talked about so vaguely. Her mom resisted, but finally, she relented.
That day, Celeste stepped out of the rickety family car and into a sprawling Beverly Hills estate. The sun gleamed off the marble driveway, and fountains whispered in the distance.
"I can't believe you work here," Celeste had said, wide-eyed.
Her mom gave her a tight smile. "I told you, it's just a job. Now don't touch anything, don't say anything unless I tell you, and please stay out of sight."
Celeste had agreed—she always agreed with her mom. But curiosity won out. As her mom bustled about the kitchen, Celeste wandered down a hallway lined with photographs of J Lo herself: red carpet moments, magazine covers, and framed records.
Then she heard it.
"Maria, are you deaf? I told you no starch on my sheets!"
Celeste froze, her heart pounding. She peeked around the corner and saw her mother standing stiffly, head bowed, while Jennifer Lopez—the Jennifer Lopez—waved a hand dismissively. Her mom murmured something in apology, but J Lo cut her off with a scoff.
"I swear, if I have to tell you one more time, I'll find someone who actually listens. Now go fix it!"
Celeste had never felt so powerless. Her mom—a woman who had worked tirelessly her entire life, who kept their family afloat while her dad hopped from one odd job to the next—was being humiliated by someone Celeste idolized.
She didn't say anything to her mom on the way home. But that night, Celeste made a vow. She'd never let anyone treat her like that. She'd become famous, rich, powerful. She'd lift her family out of this life, no matter what it took.
Celeste rubbed her temples, pulling herself back to the present.
Her dad hadn't lived to see her rise even this far. The bladder infection that took him was preventable, but they'd had no health insurance, no money for proper treatment. And her mom… well, she still cleaned other people's homes.
"Celeste?" Rollie's voice pulled her back.
She opened her eyes, meeting her sister's concerned gaze. "Yeah?"
"You okay?"
Celeste forced a smile. "I'm fine."
But she wasn't fine. The black envelope from earlier burned in her purse like a secret. Her rise had been slow, her resources limited, her sacrifices enormous. She couldn't fail now—not when her family was still depending on her. Not when Rollie's dreams were following so close behind her own.
She got up, kissed Rollie on the forehead, and retreated to her room. Once inside, she pulled the envelope out and stared at it again.
The Circle Awaits.
Her mom had sacrificed her dignity. Her dad had given his life.
And Celeste? What would she sacrifice for everything she'd ever wanted?