Starred and Claimed

The penthouse door clicked shut behind Diana, and the illusion of the evening shattered like a dropped chandelier.

The air inside was cool, sterile, a stark contrast to the heady mix of perfume, champagne, and ambition that still clung to her silver-sequined gown. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light of the foyer, catching the glow of the city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

But the weight on her chest-suffocating, relentless-pressed harder than the corset boning of her designer dress ever could.

She stood motionless for a moment, her manicured fingers still curled around the door handle, as if anchoring herself to the last shred of the glamorous facade she'd worn all night. The awards show had been a glittering whirlwind-crimson carpets unfurling like rivers of blood, camera flashes popping like gunfire, and the low hum of industry chatter weaving through the crowd. She'd navigated it all with practiced grace: her smile a polished crescent, her laughter a carefully timed melody. To the world, she was Diana, pop music's rising star, a name whispered with reverence and envy. To herself, standing alone in the hollow quiet of her barely furnished penthouse, she was a fraud teetering on the edge of collapse.

With a slow exhale, she released the handle and toed off her stilettos, wincing as her feet met the cold marble floor. The ache radiated up her arches, a reminder of the hours spent balancing on those glittering torture devices. She padded across the living room, the city lights sprawling below her like a sea of fallen stars. Los Angeles glittered mercilessly, its beauty indifferent to her unraveling. The awards she hadn't won tonight-Best New Artist, Song of the Year-felt like another layer of sediment piling onto her already sinking career.

The television hummed softly in the corner, its screen casting a bluish glow across the sparse room. leather couches, a glass coffee table, and a potted fiddle-leaf fig she kept forgetting to water were the only signs of life and minimal accessories.

The highlights reel from the awards show flickered on, and there she was: Diana, mid-laugh, her head tilted back, diamonds sparkling at her ears.

The camera loved her-always had. It captured the curve of her cheekbones, the deep amber of her eyes, the effortless elegance of her movements. But it couldn't see the exhaustion etched into her bones, the way her ribs felt like they were caging a scream.

She scoffed, a sharp, bitter sound that cut through the silence. "Some star," she muttered, turning away from the screen.

In the kitchen, she opened the fridge, the soft hum of its motor the only sound besides her own breathing. Rows of sparkling water bottles lined the shelves, their labels crisp and uniform. No food, no leftovers-nothing to suggest this was a home and not a stage set. She grabbed a bottle, the glass cool against her palm, and twisted off the cap. The first sip was a balm to her parched throat, raw from hours of small talk and forced laughter. No matter how expensive the champagne at those events, it never quenched her thirst. They never served the basics-water, honesty, loyalty.

Her gown rustled as she moved toward the bedroom, the train dragging slightly across the floor. She unzipped it with care, the metallic rasp of the zipper echoing in the quiet. The dress slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet like liquid silver, and she draped it over the bed, its delicate fabric catching the moonlight. Underneath, she was just Diana-bare-skinned, vulnerable, her body no longer a prop for the industry's gaze. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror: dark hair still pinned in tight waves, mascara smudged slightly at the corners of her eyes, a faint flush lingering on her cheeks. She looked like the woman they wanted her to be, but the eyes staring back were hers alone-haunted, tired, defiant.

The agency's words echoed in her mind, as sharp and cutting as ever. *Priority artists.* That's what they'd called the others, the ones they were betting on now. Not her. Not anymore. Her latest single, the one she'd poured her soul into, had been shelved without so much as a press release. "Strategic planning," they'd said, their voices dripping with corporate sympathy. But Diana knew better. She'd heard the whispers at the label, seen the sidelong glances at meetings. Someone was pulling strings, orchestrating her slow erasure from the industry she'd fought so hard to break into.

In the bathroom, she turned on the shower, letting the room fill with steam. The hot water cascaded over her, loosening the knots in her shoulders, washing away the glitter and the grime of the evening. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, and for a moment, she could pretend the world didn't exist. No cameras, no executives, no contracts chaining her to a sinking ship. Just water, warmth, and the steady rhythm of her own breath.

But reality was a relentless intruder. Wrapped in an oversized hoodie, the sleeves fraying at the cuffs, she returned to the living room. Her tablet sat on the coffee table, its screen dark but taunting, beside a neat stack of envelopes. A sticky note in her assistant's precise handwriting was perched on top: *Filtered through all the mail. These are the important ones. Don't read them tonight. Get some rest.*

Diana's lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. Rest. As if she could afford it. Ignoring the note, she tore open the first envelope. The paper crinkled under her fingers, the words blurring together: *Final Notice. Overdue Invoice. Payment Due Immediately.* She opened another, then another. Billing. Billing. Billing. Each one a brick added to the wall closing in around her.

She buried her head in her hands, fingers pressing into her temples until they ached. "Will it ever stop?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the low hum of the television.

Three years. That's how long it had been since her last successful release, since the world had sung her name with adoration. The label had called it a break, a chance to "restrategize." She'd scoffed then, just as she did now. What kind of artist in their right mind pauses their career before they've even peaked? But it hadn't been her choice. The agency had benched her, their promises of new opportunities dangling like bait on a hook. Meetings led to dead ends, negotiations to empty assurances. She'd fought-God, had she fought-demanding answers, pushing for releases, but every effort had been met with a smile and a redirect. Someone, somewhere, wanted her out of the game, and they were winning.

Leaving the label wasn't an option either. The contract was a gilded cage-breaking it meant a penalty fee so astronomical it would bankrupt her. Worse, it would bar her from recording music until every cent was paid. A noose, tightening with every passing month.

Even her side business, the clothing line she'd launched with such hope, was crumbling. She unfolded another notice, her eyes scanning the numbers. Another loss, another failure. Regret clawed at her chest. Maybe she should have played their game-smiled wider, flirted harder, bowed to the executives who held her career in their manicured hands.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, the sound sharp and jarring. She didn't need to look to know who it was. Ryan. Her brother's name alone was enough to tighten the knot in her stomach.

She exhaled deeply, squeezing her eyes shut. Her fingers hovered over the phone, hesitating, before she finally picked it up.

"Diana," Ryan's voice came through, low and laced with the familiar edge of desperation.

She swallowed, bracing herself. "What is it this time?"

A pause, heavy with guilt. Then a sigh. "I messed up. I- I need your help."

Her grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles whitening. The words were a refrain she'd heard too many times, each one a needle in her already fraying patience. "How much?" she asked, her voice flat, resigned.

"Just this once. I swear. I just need-"

"How. Much."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, before he muttered, "$15,000."

Diana pressed a hand to her forehead, frustration curling like smoke in her chest. Higher than last time. Higher than she could afford. Her bank account was already a graveyard of overdraft fees and unpaid bills.

"I can't keep doing this, Ryan," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't have anyone else," he said, his words soft but piercing. Somehow, that made it worse.

She wanted to scream, to tell him she was drowning too, that her own life was collapsing under the weight of a career she couldn't save. But instead, she let out a slow breath, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'll see what I can do."

The call ended, and the silence rushed back, heavier than before. She set the phone down, catching her reflection in the darkened glass of the window. Her hair was damp, curling loosely around her shoulders, her face stripped of makeup. She looked younger, softer, but no less broken.

A star, they called her.

If only they knew how close she was to burning out.