6 months later, thick blackout curtains were drawn shut across every window of the penthouse.
The air reeked of scotch and stale antacids.
Edmund was slumped on the sofa, a sharp, throbbing pain in his stomach pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
6 months of drinking himself numb and working twenty-hour days had eaten his stomach alive.
A projector on the wall hummed on repeat, playing old footage of my performances—every show, every tour, every clip he'd ever saved.
The doorbell rang. His assistant walked in with a sealed black envelope, stopping a few feet away like he was afraid to get too close.
"Mr. Carter, we just got word."
He put it on the coffee table. "It's about Ms. Rogers."
Edmund's eyes snapped open. He reached for the envelope, his fingers shaking slightly.
The card i
