The moment Diana stepped into her penthouse, the illusion shattered.
The heavy door clicked shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the vast, echoing space.
The air inside was cool and sterile, a stark contrast to the humid buzz of the red carpet she'd just escaped.
The lingering scent of her signature perfume and the faint, bubbly residue of champagne still clung to her designer gown, but now it felt suffocating, like a second skin she couldn't shed fast enough.
The fabric suddenly weighed on her like chains.
She toed off her stilettos one by one, the sharp clack of heels on marble giving way to the soft thud of bare feet.
Pain shot through her arches as blood rushed back.
Her toes curled against the cold floor, seeking some semblance of grounding in this high-rise prison.
The penthouse was a testament to her fleeting success: floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the glittering metropolis, minimalist furniture in shades of white and chrome that screamed "modern luxury," and walls adorned with framed platinum records that now felt like mocking trophies.
But it was barely furnished—a sleek sectional sofa here, a glass coffee table there—because who had time or money to make it a home when every dollar went toward maintaining the facade?
Down below, the city lights twinkled like distant stars, mimicking the awards she hadn't won tonight.
The skyline stretched out endlessly, a sea of neon and ambition where dreams were forged and just as quickly extinguished.
She could almost hear the hum of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the pulse of a city that never slept—but up here, in her ivory tower, the silence was deafening, swallowing her whole.
She reached up and pulled the diamond clips from her hair, one by one, the cool metal biting into her fingers as she released the tight waves that cascaded over her shoulders like a dark waterfall.
Catching her reflection in the dark window, she barely recognized the woman staring back: sharp cheekbones accentuated by professional contouring, full lips with gloss that now smeared slightly at the edges, and eyes—those wide, expressive hazel eyes—that held a depth of exhaustion no amount of concealer could hide.
She was drowning beneath layers of couture and pretense, a puppet strung up for the entertainment industry's insatiable appetite.
Because Diana wasn't the rising star they all toasted to tonight.
She wasn't the next big thing in pop music, the one with the voice that could shatter glass and hearts alike.
No, she was a contracted prisoner—shelved by her label like yesterday's trend, abandoned by sponsors who once clamored for her endorsement, and bleeding money she no longer had coming in.
Her bank account was a ticking time bomb, each extravagant event like tonight a necessary evil to keep up appearances, even as it drained her dry.
The television hummed in the background, a low drone that she hadn't bothered to turn off before leaving for the gala.
It was replaying highlights from the ceremony on some entertainment news channel, the kind that dissected every outfit, every speech, every faux pas with gleeful malice.
Her own face flashed across the screen—mid-laugh, head thrown back in what looked like genuine joy; mid-glamorous pose, one hand on her hip, the other waving to an adoring crowd—as if she truly belonged in that world of velvet ropes and velvet voices. The commentator's voice-over praised her "effortless elegance" and "undeniable charisma," speculating on her "upcoming projects" that didn't exist.
She scoffed, a bitter sound that cut through the quiet, and padded to the kitchen. The fridge door whooshed open.
She grabbed a bottle of water, twisting off the cap with more force than necessary, and drank deeply.
In the bedroom, she unzipped the gown with careful fingers, the metallic rasp of the zipper echoing her unraveling composure. She laid it across the bed like a corpse, smoothing out the wrinkles with a tenderness born of habit.
This dress alone had cost more than most people's monthly rent, loaned by a designer who'd once seen her as a walking billboard.
Now, even those opportunities were slipping away.
The agency had refused to push her latest single, a track she'd poured her soul into during sleepless nights."We have priority artists," they'd said in that polished, corporate tone.
Translation: they were done betting on her.
Her streams were stagnant, her social media engagement manipulated by bots she'd paid for out of pocket.
Sponsorships had dried up like a desert stream—beauty brands, fashion lines, even that energy drink company that had once plastered her face on billboards.