Stars Collide

OTHER TITLES BY RACHEL LACEY Ms. Right Series Read Between the Lines No Rings Attached This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2023 by Rachel Bates All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Montlake, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781662509117 (paperback) ISBN-13: 9781662509124 (digital) Cover design by Faceout Studio, Jeff Miller Cover illustration by Carolina Melis Cover image: © Polina Tomtosova / Shutterstock CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX EPILOGUE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER ONE Eden Sands was not “good.” Over the course of her career, she’d been called many things. Beautiful. Arrogant. Talented. Rude. Generous. Cold. Hot. Difficult. Iconic. So many polarizing adjectives, but never “good.” Good meant mediocre, and that was something she’d never be. Eden stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall before her, imagining the arena full of her peers that she’d be performing for on Sunday. She wrapped her fingers around the microphone stand as the opening notes of “Alone” began to play. Onstage, she was invincible. Offstage, well . . . the past year had been a humbling experience in a multitude of ways. “I didn’t know,” she sang, “how lonely it could be. A room full of people, yet no one sees me.” The Grammy Awards were just days away. Eden closed her eyes and imagined the heat of the spotlight, the roar of the crowd, the electricity that raced down her spine every time she took the stage. God, she hoped she’d be going home with one of those gold gramophones. After the year she’d had, she deserved a win. That yearning in the pit of her stomach said she needed it. This performance had to make a statement. It had to show the world she was back . . . not that she’d gone anywhere, at least not intentionally. She was stronger than ever, and this performance had to prove it. Her manager, Stella Pascual, sat in the corner, observing Eden’s rehearsal. Hopefully, Eden was about to wow her. Eden opened her eyes, meeting her reflection unflinchingly. “I’m alone, but I’m not,” she sang. As the music swelled around her, she slid the microphone from its stand and stepped back, careful to hit the orange-taped mark on the stage with her boot. She turned and stalked toward the rear of the room, which had been marked to the exact specifications of the Grammy stage. A felt-covered contraption awaited her, decorated to look like a flower-laden hilltop. Eden spun with the music. She performed a few well-choreographed moves, swaying her hips in a way that would flare the skirt she’d be wearing on Sunday. Then she turned and climbed carefully to the top of the hill. Multicolored lights shone overhead, transforming the stage into a lush field. Eden brought the microphone to her lips for the pivotal line that was her personal favorite. “I’m never truly alone, because I have myself to keep me company.” The music changed, and the field disappeared, replaced with glittering stones. She stepped forward onto her mark, allowing the felt beneath her feet to be snatched away, completing the transformation of the stage. The hard, pounding beat of her most recent single, “Never Too Late,” filled the room. She lifted the microphone and began to sing, moving in time with the beat. She sang an abbreviated version of the song to fit the Grammys’ time requirements, ending with one hand punched toward the sky. Sweat trickled down her back, and a blister throbbed under the ball of her left foot. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, and a wide smile stretched her lips. She slid her thumb over the base of the microphone, flipping the power button. Her manager stood from the folding chair where she’d been watching Eden rehearse. Stella was a petite Filipino American woman, her long black hair pulled back today in a sleek ponytail. She crossed the room to stand in front of Eden. “What did you think?” Eden asked. “It was good,” Stella said. Eden ground her teeth. Not that word! Her Grammy performance couldn’t be “good.” She had to be exceptional. She needed to deliver a performance that everyone would be talking about the next day. Reviewers had used phrases like “good but uninspired” to describe her most recent album. One had commented that she sounded “as if she were boring even herself.” Another had called her “tired.” Truthfully, she was exhausted. She’d poured her heart and soul into her music for twenty years, and yet here she was. Album sales were down. Her upcoming tour hadn’t sold out. Her star was beginning to fade, which was infuriating. She might be tired to her bones, but music was what got her out of bed every morning. It fueled her, and she was desperate to polish herself off and reclaim her place at the top. “It was better than good,” she protested. Stella leveled her with a look that said, “You don’t really believe that.” And deep down, Eden knew she was right. Eden huffed. “What do you suggest, then?” Because Stella never would have started this conversation if she didn’t have an idea in mind. And as much as Eden didn’t want to hear it, Stella’s advice was usually spot on. Stella’s brown eyes gleamed.