The Siren, KATHERINE JOHN [positive books to read .txt] 📗

and hard work. I needed another anxiety pill just thinking about it. And now here I was working with one of them. All Madison wanted was to be famous. She wanted it so badly it was written all over her lineless, vapid face.

Wondering how much work she’d had done to perfect that face, I watched as she snapped a selfie with Cole, then checked the camera and snapped another one, repeating the process ad nauseum until Cole finally put a stop to it. I was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by how she eagerly invited her fans into every nook and cranny of her life, shamelessly sharing every mundane detail of her day. She was so desperate for attention that she’d do anything for views, and it was obviously working for her. She was a walking, talking advertisement for herself. We were yet to shoot a scene together, and already I was sick of her. But more than that, I hated how much she got under my skin.

“What’s wrong?” Felicity interrupted my reverie. “You’re frowning. Or trying to.” She laughed.

“Nothing,” I said, watching Madison toss her wavy black hair in response to something Cole said. She’d be banging him by the end of the week for sure. And I wished to hell it didn’t bother me so much.

Felicity followed my gaze. “Mmm-hmm. You don’t still have feelings for him, do you?”

I grimaced. “And here I was, thinking how lovely you were for not prying.”

She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Immediately I regretted jumping on her, especially after earlier. “It’s okay. That was mean of me.”

“All good.” She forced a smile. “Do you want an A-pill?”

Of course I wanted one, but would I be able to remember my lines? I was feeling mighty clear now that the S-pill had worn off completely. And mighty sensitive, obviously. Some might even say irritable. Also, I was going to have to do a romantic scene with my ex-husband-turned-employer in five minutes. Screw it. Kara would be there to feed me lines if I needed them. “Yeah,” I said, slowing the swing. She extracted the little blue leather bag she kept my medicine in from her purse and dumped the pill in my hand. I knocked it back dry. “And no, I don’t still have feelings for Cole.”

“Too bad.” She smiled. “A rumored romance would certainly bring you back into the spotlight.”

I gripped the ropes of the swing, suddenly dizzy. “You know how much I loathe the spotlight.”

She laughed. “You know you love it.”

I wished more than anything she was wrong, that I could simply walk away from fame without a backward glance. But the maddening truth is that once you’ve bathed in the warmth of the limelight, you find you’re damn cold when it no longer shines on you, no matter how you despised its glare.

Family Ties

,

Most people don’t know that my mother’s name is also Stella. That’s right, she named me after herself, which tells you just about everything you need to know about her. No memoir is complete without a chapter on the mother though, so here goes:

Stella Rodriguez was born into a wealthy family in Venezuela that lost all their money when they fled to New Jersey when she was a teenager, for reasons I never learned. She was very beautiful though, and quickly married my dad, a successful American businessman fifteen years her senior, when she was twenty, and had me the following year. I remember how grand our gaudy mansion seemed when I was little—white columns, gold lion statues guarding the door, the Aphrodite fountain in the foyer. My mother never worked, but she spent money like it was water—which was fine until my dad got thrown in jail for embezzlement when I was nine.

They took the house. I remember my mom would be sitting on the overstuffed paisley printed couch that was far too big for our rented apartment, drinking a screwdriver while watching a talk show when I got home from school at three in the afternoon. She was always dressed and made up like she’d gone to lunch somewhere fancy, but I knew she hadn’t. All her old friends had dropped her, the same way mine would years later after my breakdown.

She said she didn’t speak English well enough to hold a job and told me in no uncertain terms that I had to make money to support us. I had worked as an actress when I was younger, doing commercials and that kind of thing, but had stopped when she no longer wanted to drive me around to auditions all the time. Now we were back on. I can’t say I wasn’t glad. I’d always loved acting, and now I had the chance to do it full-time.

I booked Meg & Co when I was ten, and we moved to Los Angeles, where she bought a house for us with my money. She was my manager and guardian, so I trusted her to make all the business decisions while I worked hard on the show. Little did I know that right under my nose she was spending every last dime of it on clothes, bags, and cosmetic surgery, not to mention a staff that included a maid, a gardener, a tutor, and a cook.

When I turned eighteen and learned there was nothing left, I had to start over at ground zero. Well, not exactly ground zero, as I first had to climb out of the hole she’d dug by neglecting to pay my taxes for a couple of years running. My father, who’d been released from jail by this point, tried to talk me into forgiving her, but I suspected all he really cared about was that I continued to support them. So I gave them a choice: I would forgive them and remain in their lives but never give them another dime, or continue to pay for them but never speak to them again.

I kept my word. I paid for them until my bank