All Chapters of The Bodyguard’s Siren: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The bass from the stage is still in my bones.I swear it’s in my bloodstream too, thump, thump, thump, like my heart synced itself to the beat and forgot how to come back down. Sweat sticks to my skin in glittery patches, my makeup feels like it’s melting into the curve of my jaw, and the lights backstage are too bright—way, way too bright.Everything is warm and floaty and soft, like the whole world has been dipped in honey and someone tilted it sideways. My vision smears a little when I blink. God, I love this feeling. The crowd is still screaming my name on the other side of the curtain—CARA! CARA! CARA!—and it sounds like worship. My favorite drug.I’m high on it.And also just high-high.I stumble a little in my boots as I make my way offstage, tugging at the hem of my sequined bodysuit. My manager, Dave, appears beside me like some anxious dad at Disney World who lost his kid for five minutes.“There she is,” he breathes. “You were incredible.”I grin. Or I think I do. My lips f

My skull feels cracked open. Not figuratively. I mean, it genuinely feels like someone pried the top half of my head off, rattled my brain in a blender, and then glued it back on crooked. The sunlight stabbing across my face is a personal attack.The sheets smell like sweat, perfume, and regret. I groan and roll onto my back, one eye squinting against the bright morning slicing through the curtains. My mouth tastes like cotton and bad decisions. My tongue is dry. My pulse beats in my temples like a war drum.Flashes come in disjointed bursts of light, sound, and color that don’t belong to morning. Backstage lights are throwing halos around everything. My manager is pushing some tall, tattooed stranger toward me. I stumble, smiling too wide. I wanted to climb, said the stranger, as if he were my personal headboard. The stranger’s voice, low and patient: “No.” I'm doubling down because rejecting rejection is practically a religion for me. My stomach twists.“Oh God.”I bury my face in m

I hate morning interviews. They always try to make them look relaxed—plants in the background, too-white sofas, a mug with the show’s logo—but nothing about it feels casual. It feels like stepping into an operating room where I’m the one being dissected. I smooth my dress. It’s black silk, plunging neckline, sleeves that drape off the shoulder. It’s bold, severe, confident. Exactly what I need to be today. My PR manager, Tessa, stands behind the cameras, giving me a look that says don’t screw this up.As if I ever mean to.The host, Savannah Clarke, turns toward me with a sparkling smile that never reaches her eyes. I’ve seen that smile a million times. It always means the same thing:You’re about to bleed for my ratings.“Cara Sinclair!” she beams. “Thank you so much for joining us today. The world is absolutely obsessed with your new album.”I smile back because that part, at least, is true.“Thank you. I worked really hard on it, so it’s amazing to see people connect to the songs.”

My shift was supposed to end at ten in the morning.Instead, it’s edging past noon when Hal meets me in the mansion’s foyer. Sunlight pours in through the tall windows bright enough to sting my eyes. He looks tired, but not the same kind of tired I am. Hal’s the kind of man who runs on coffee and muscle memory. Me? I’m running on fumes and the last scraps of patience I have left.“Your shift was over two hours ago,” Hal says, squinting at me like I might be a hallucination.“I’m aware,” I mutter.“You didn’t have to stay for the interview,” he adds. “Could’ve passed the shift early.”“I tried. Didn’t happen.”He nods in understanding, it’s the kind of nod only a man who’s lived through Cara’s chaos can give. I hand him the notes from last night. “How’d she do?”I let out a humorless laugh. “She survived.”He winces. “That bad?”“She walked off set with her hands shaking.”Hal’s jaw tightens. “Her manager should’ve stopped it.”He should’ve but didn’t. We swap radios, update codes, a

Dinner with Giovanni has become comfortable. A week ago, I couldn’t look at him without feeling cornered, exposed, and seen in ways that made me want to claw my skin off. Now we share late-night meals like people who coexist, not like a high-strung celebrity and the man hired to keep her alive.The overhead lights are low, casting everything in a warm, buttery glow. Outside the windows, Los Angeles is dark and quiet, something that feels almost impossible. My mansion sits high enough in the hills that sound drains away like water.Across from me, Giovanni eats slowly, methodically. He’s still half in work mode, shoulders braced, posture alert, but there’s a looseness now when he looks at me. Not warmth. He doesn’t do warmth. But something gentler than the walls he usually keeps around his voice. I take a sip of water to distract myself from staring at him too long. The truce between us has made things easier.I haven’t taken any pills in days. Haven’t touched a bottle. My head feels c