ELARA~
I stared at the closed door, her words replaying in my mind.
I'm not your friend, but your manager. I picked up the remote and changed the channel.
I'm not here to entertain you. I'm here to make sure you don't lose everything." I shook my head, as if that was gonna make me forget all she said. It didn't.
Care? About me?... Don't do that. Don't waste your energy.
"Don't waste my energy, huh?" I whispered to the empty room. My head tilted back against the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling. I stayed like that for a long time, trying to let the silence swallow the sting of her words.
If that feels like neglect, then you're focusing on the wrong thing.
"I do not care about her," I snapped, sitting upright as if that would make this any better. "Anyone would ask where their manager went for two days, especially after seeing them like that. It's just logic."
But logic didn't explain why my heart was hammered against my ribs. I turned toward the television, flicking through channels until a jagged red banner crawled across the bottom of the screen.
ISLA MATTHEWS ATTACKED AMID ELARA JONES SCANDAL
The volume went up before I could think. A grainy video rolled. Isla stepped out of the mall. She seemed to be in a hurry.
Flashes exploded.
"Isla! Is Elara going to address Angela's death?"
"Why is she silent?"
"Does she feel guilty?"
"Isn't it unethical to have you, a homosexual handle her at such a time" Isla who had been walking face down avoiding them finally looked at the man who asked.
"My sexuality doesn't dictate my professional competence." She answered.
"Is she hiding because she knows she's hiding something?"
"She's not hiding" Isla replied almost immediately.
"Then why hasn't she spoken?"
She was crowded now with no security to help her whatsoever. The crowd surged and a male reporter shoved a mic toward her face. "Or is she just waiting for the story to die... just like Angela did?"
The murmur of the crowd turned into a roar. Banners went up: JUSTICE FOR ANGELA. ELARA IS A KILLER.
Isla froze. I couldn't move, my eyes filled with tears as I watched her stand there, a single person against a sea of hate meant for me.
"You will not use a woman's death for shock value," Isla said, she was barely audible "Angela deserves dignity. So does Elara."
Then, a blur of motion. A glass bottle sailed from the back of the crowd and shattered against the side of Isla's head.
I let out a gasp, eyes widening. On screen, Isla flinched, her hands flying up to shield her face as she stumbled. The video then cut to an anchor.
"Isla Matthews, newly appointed manager of pop star Elara Jones, was involved in a violent altercation earlier today outside Redid Central Mall. Sources confirm she had been admitted briefly for minor injuries following what insiders describe as a targeted confrontation."
The screen split.
Left: footage of Isla getting attacked.
Right: old footage of I and Angela kissing.
Was that even necessary. I rolled my eyes.
"Authorities have not confirmed whether the attack was directly connected to the resurfaced Angela David case or the civil lawsuit filed by former manager Chris Maxwell."
I took sharp breaths as breathing suddenly became difficult. They showed another clip, a commentator this time.
"This is what happens when narratives are left unclear," the woman said. "And whether Elara Jones is guilty or not, people want someone to blame."
The anchor continued.
"Online reactions have been divided. While some fans condemn the violence, others argue that those affiliated with the singer must accept public scrutiny."
A new headline flashed across the screen.
ELARA JONES RETURNS TO REDID AS LEGAL BATTLE INTENSIFIES.
Then another.
#JusticeForAngela trending worldwide.
I hit the mute button, the silence of the room crashing back down on me. My chest felt like it was being crushed. The room began to spin.
Not now. Please, not now.
I stumbled toward the dining table, my fingers fumbling for the inhaler I'd left near the fruit bowl. I took two sharp sprays, forcing the air back into my lungs.
Just then the door opened and Isla walked in. I stayed quiet trying to regain myself. She moved towards her box quietly and took it by the handle, dragging it behind her as she headed for the guest room.
"Thank you" I let out without meaning to.
"For what?" she paused
"For standing up for me, for... not quitting"
"Do I look like someone who'd abandon their client, I promised right. I'll help clear your name" I turned toward her.
"You should have told me at least," I said, my voice trembling. "Not make me watch it" I added.
"Didn't want you to feel bad or responsible" she continued on her way "I need to rest my head, catch you later"
The moment her door shut, something inside me gave in. I collapsed into a chair. People hated me, saw me as a killer too and all because of some clips and unfortunate coincidences.
I felt like a poison. I wish I could just disappear.
I didn't want her to hate me though. And I was lowkey glad that wasn't the case. I was gonna take her word for it.
I eventually dragged myself upstairs, but sleep was a ghost.
---
Isla was gone the next morning, just as she'd said. She hadn't taken all her belongings, which meant she was coming back.
I didn't like how quiet it was when she wasn't around.
And I somehow found myself standing in the doorway of the guest room. I was about to turn away when something on the desk caught my eye.
A leather-bound book she always kept close by when she came around. It looked too welcoming and I didn't skip the invitation.
Probably they were notes on her character or plans on this case. Either way I wasn't expecting anything peculiar.
I approached the reading desk and picked it up. My gut feeling screamed at me to put it back down, my fingers trembling. I opened the first page anyway and froze.
Isla Matthews can draw?
I almost dropped it due to the shock.
At first I felt my eyes were deceiving me, but they weren't.
The book contained drawings, sketches of various things, animals, people. Capturing various emotions of joy, happiness and tragedy... They were, beautiful.
If someone had told me the cold, calculating "Fixer" spent her time with a pencil in her hand, I would have laughed in their face. But here it was.
It wasn't just a sketchbook, there were dates and small notes in the margins. A journal.
I didn't dare read the entries. I had already crossed one line. I wasn't ready to jump off the cliff. But as I flipped through the pages, admiring the sharp, confident strokes of her handwriting, a loose piece of paper slipped out and fluttered toward the floor.
I reached down to grab it, and my breath hitched.
It was a sketch, of... me.
Not of Lara J, not of the singer everyone loved. No. it was just me, with similar designs of the hoodie I wore the night I fell into the pool.
A low, growling roar cut through the silence of the morning. It was a power bike and it was approaching fast
A wave of panic hit me. Isla?.
I put her book back in place and the piece of paper too before rushing out. The engine revved as it pulled to a stop.
She rushed in and of course went to get that first. Isla drawing me was way too much of a big deal to think about now.
And I wasn't ready to decode the meaning as to why?.
I stepped out to avoid looking at her and asking why she had drawn me, and the bike caught my attention.
Isla came out soon after and I straight out asked.
"Can I ride?"