Say It Meant Nothing

Chapter 1

Lyric

The first thing I notice is the light.

Not the obnoxious glare of paparazzi flashbulbs or stage lighting so hot it cooks your pores—but soft, warm morning sun pouring in through my sheer white curtains. It spills across my king-size bed like melted honey, catching the gold flecks in my comforter and the faint shimmer of the dress I kicked off at 2 a.m. It’s quiet. Still.

My throat hurts. My feet ache. My cheeks are stiff from smiling too much.

But it was worth it. Last night was perfect.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my heels touch the cool floor. There’s a pair of nude stilettos half-crushed under a Vogue, and a lone falsie stuck to the corner of my nightstand. Cute.

I pad into the kitchen—oversized hoodie, sleep shorts, no makeup—and open the fridge. Right on the top shelf is a neon yellow turmeric shot and a sticky note in Kiki’s handwriting:
Don’t spiral, superstar. Sip slow. Call me. 

I roll my eyes and pop the cap.

The afterglow from the listening party still lingers—champagne toasts, choreographed candids, my vocals echoing over rooftop speakers. Cassandra even said the label exec from Tokyo called it “global gold.” My crossover is happening. Finally.

But there’s this weird tightness behind my eyes. Not a headache. Not exactly. Just a pressure. Like my body’s bracing for something I can’t name.

Back in the living room, I collapse onto the velvet chaise in front of the wall of windows. Atlanta is already buzzing below—cars honking, coffee shops humming, another day spinning too fast.

I grab my phone and swipe through my schedule—color-coded by Cassandra, of course.

• 10:00 a.m. – Media Recap Call
  
  
• 12:30 p.m. – Label Touchpoint
  
  
• 1:15 p.m. – Vocal Rest (DO NOT BOOK OVER)
  
  
• 4:00 p.m. – Light Pap Stroll Option (if weather holds)
  
  
• 7:00 p.m. – IG Live Tease (Outfit TBD)
  
  

I toss the phone aside and exhale. It’s exhausting, living a life that looks effortless.

On the marble kitchen island sits a garment bag with today’s “soft street” styling options. Cream knit sets, blush leather joggers, off-white shades. Subtle. Polished. Boring as hell.

I pick up the tablet beside it and open a private notes app—password protected, not linked to the cloud. This is where the real lyrics live. Not the ones Cassandra approves, but the ones I write when I can’t sleep. When the image I’m selling starts to feel like a cage.

The newest note blinks at me:

“Even halos cast shadows in the dark.”

I stare at it for a long time. No hook. No beat. Just that one line.

One truth I’m not allowed to sing.

The group chat is blowing up before I even hear it.

My phone’s been face-down since breakfast, but when I flip it over, the screen lights up like a slot machine on fire. Seventeen unread messages, two missed calls from Kiki, and a notification from my Google Alerts that makes my stomach flip.

Lyric Saint James spotted partying post-listening event with “mystery cocktail” in hand?
#SaintNoMore trending.

I open the group chat.

KIKI:
Girl. Tell me this is AI.
CASSANDRA:
Call me. NOW.
BEN (my tour media manager):
We’re already on cleanup. Statement being drafted. Hang tight.
KIKI:
WHY IS TMZ SAYING YOU TOOK A SHOT WITH A STRIPPER NAMED SKEETER???

I blink.

What?

I click the link. A blurry clip loads. It's me—no doubt. I’m in that metallic silver jumpsuit, laughing near the DJ booth. The angle is terrible—makes me look like I’m two seconds from passing out, which I most definitely was not. A hand enters the frame, holding out a red Solo cup. I take it. Raise it. Smile. I don’t drink it.

But in the freeze-frame TMZ chose, it looks like I’m in mid-toast with Satan himself.

The caption reads:
“Gospel girl gone wild? Lyric Saint James steps out of the light and into the liquor.”

And just like that, years of curated perfection crack open like a dropped mirror.

Cassandra’s voice is cold when I finally answer her call.

“I need you to take your phone off Wi-Fi and stay off socials. The clip’s everywhere, and it’s not just gossip blogs. We’ve already had inquiries from People and BuzzFeed. The team’s meeting now.”

“I didn’t drink anything,” I say, already pacing. “I don’t even like tequila. You know that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she snaps. “It’s not about what happened. It’s about what people think happened.”

A deep breath on her end. She switches into PR mode, calm and soulless.

“We’re preparing a soft denial with a photo of you holding that green juice from earlier. Maybe include a faith-based quote. Keep it clean, but deflective.”

I glance at the turmeric shot bottle. It’s empty on the counter now, evidence of a woman who maybe needed a detox.

“What about the fact that it’s total bullshit?” I ask.

Cassandra doesn’t even flinch. “Welcome to the algorithm. We play it, or we lose.”

I stare out the window, fingers clenched tight around my phone. My voice comes out low. Controlled. “We’re twenty-four hours out from the biggest moment of my career. And people want to cancel me over a damn Solo cup?”

Cassandra softens—barely. “The narrative’s fragile, Lyric. You’re not Beyoncé yet. One bad storyline and they’ll box you back into gospel and gospel only. You know that.”

I do. God help me, I do. My screen lights up again.

#SaintNoMore
#FallenHalo
#LyricLostHerWay

The captions sting worse than the clip.

I hang up and toss my phone onto the couch. It bounces once, then slides into the corner cushion like it’s hiding from the internet, too.

I don’t cry. I just stand there, staring out at the Atlanta skyline, trying to remember why I ever thought I could outrun the shadows in my past.

Kiki bursts through the door ten minutes later, swinging a takeout bag like a sword.

“Do not,” she says, “let the trolls get you twisted. I brought you vegan pancakes and passive aggression.”

I let out a half-laugh, half-sigh and collapse onto the couch. She kicks off her sneakers and flops down beside me, offering the bag like a peace treaty.

“I didn’t even drink it,” I murmur, voice flat.

“Girl, you could’ve taken a shot of communion wine and they’d still say it was gin.” Kiki unwraps the pancakes with one hand and pulls her braids into a bun with the other. “They want to crucify you so bad, they’re recycling Easter stories.”

That earns a soft laugh from me. But it fades quickly.

My fingers toy with the hem of my sweatshirt. “It’s like... the more perfect I try to be, the faster people line up to see me fall.”

Kiki leans forward, brows knitting. “You’re not perfect. You’re real. They don’t know your story.”

I shift uncomfortably. “They don’t need to. They just need the music.”

She looks at me hard, the way only someone who’s seen you cry with lashes glued on can.

“Are you thinking about him?”

I don’t answer right away. I don’t have to.

Kiki knows.

The truth is, it’s always there—just beneath the surface. Isaiah. His voice. His betrayal. The whispered threats that nearly destroyed me when the label found out. The secret songs he stole. The rumors. The shame.

“I thought I buried that chapter,” I say softly.

Kiki rests a hand on my knee. “You did. But people love digging up what they don’t understand.”

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Cassandra. Call me. Royce is on the line. We have a proposal.

I shoot Kiki a look. “Now what?”

I take the call, flipping it to speaker so Kiki can hear—and be appropriately horrified with me.

“Lyric,” Cassandra says crisply. “You’re on with me and Royce Cutter.”

Royce Cutter—the infamous wrangler of chaos and, more specifically, Jaxon Maddox’s manager. I already don’t like where this is going.

Royce’s voice comes through, low and amused. “Morning, Saint James. Sorry about the firestorm. You alright?”

“Peachy,” I deadpan. “Just got crucified before coffee.”

He chuckles. “Well. Then this might help.”

Cassandra jumps in. “This scandal could actually work in our favor—if we pivot. We’re proposing a new strategy to redirect the narrative.”

“Here it comes,” Kiki mutters beside me.

Cassandra doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re recommending a dual PR rebrand—a staged romance. You and Jaxon Maddox. Joint interviews. Appearances. Possibly... a quick Vegas elopement.”

I blink. “You’re joking.”

Royce chimes in. “Think of it like a duet—two image disasters, one mutually beneficial fairytale. Audiences love opposites attract.”

I stand up, pacing. “He’s a walking arrest record. A human vape cloud. I wear gloves to church and you want me to marry him?”

“Fake marry,” Cassandra corrects. “Contractual. Temporary. Strategic.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lyric—”

“I’m not faking a relationship with some tattooed TMZ mascot because I looked at a damn Solo cup.”

Royce sighs. “He doesn’t like the idea either, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

Kiki snorts. “Maybe we can just drop the album in space. Mars is quiet.”

After I hang up, I toss the phone on the couch again like it’s contagious.

Kiki watches me from across the room, one brow arched like she’s just waiting for the meltdown.

I grab her coffee instead.

“I don’t even like tattoos on men,” I mutter, taking a sip.

“Lies,” she sings back without looking up from her phone. “You had a thing for that drummer with the sleeve and the lazy eye in college.”

“Regrettable,” I say, ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks.

But I can’t help myself. I pick the phone back up and tap open the search bar.

Jaxon Maddox.

His name autofills before I even finish typing.

The first video is from last week—he’s leaving some LA club, shirt half-buttoned, jaw clenched, shouting at paparazzi while some girl clings to his arm. He turns and shoves the camera just hard enough to make it look like an accident. TMZ labeled it a “micro altercation.” The comments are chaos.

“Still hot tho.”
“Jail me, king.”
“He needs therapy and maybe...me?”

I roll my eyes.

The second clip is older. He’s on stage, mic in hand, shirt soaked through with sweat. Hair wild. Eyes closed. And he’s rapping—but not the flex-heavy club bangers he’s known for. This one’s slower. Gritty. Raw.

His voice cracks near the end, and it’s...honest. Almost too much.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the video ends.

I exit the app. Set the phone down. And then pick it up again. Just one more clip.

Just to confirm that this is a terrible idea.

He’s a mess. An absolute mess. And a little bit hotter than I want him to be right now.

And maybe I’m losing my mind, but—God help me—I can’t look away.