Chapter 2

She moved to a small two-bedroom house in Stamford. She took whatever work she could find, and for the past three years, that work had been cleaning houses for wealthy families.She finished her coffee, ironed her uniform, and grabbed her keys. The Honda started on the third try. Gospel music crackled through the old speakers. She hummed along the way she always did; the only stage she had left was this car.Thirty minutes later, she pulled into the staff lot behind the Ellsworth estate: 12,000 square feet of marble and glass, a fountain in the driveway that cost more than Lorraine's house. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and money.She walked past the garden and nodded to Tomas, the old groundskeeper."Morning, Tomas.""Morning, Miss Lorraine. Singing already?"She smiled. "Can't help it.""Don't ever stop," he said quietly.Inside, Victoria Ellsworth was on the phone in the West Wing parlor: silk robe, untouched orange juice, a croissant with one bite missing. She was planning her annual charity gala, a black-tie event that raised money for underprivileged youth. The irony of that would become clear soon enough.Victoria heard Lorraine come through the service entrance and didn't look up."The bathroom still smells. Fix it. And don't touch anything in the hallway. I just had new art installed."No hello. No eye contact. Lorraine was furniture."Yes, ma'am."Victoria's husband, Gregory Ellsworth, was the executive vice president of Pinnacle Artists Management, the most powerful talent management company in the country. Every major artist, every sold-out tour, every billion-dollar deal ran through Pinnacle. And Gregory ran the day-to-day operations. On paper, he was brilliant. In reality, he was cooking the books, skimming artist royalties, burying complaints from Black employees, building his empire on the backs of people he considered beneath him.Above Gregory sat one man: the chairman of the board, Raymond Carter. Raymond was a legend in his own right—a singer, a producer, a mogul. His voice had defined a generation. And decades ago, before either of them had a dollar to their name, he and Lorraine Harris had been best friends: two kids from nothing, singing on street corners, dreaming about stages they'd never seen. They rose together. And when Lorraine fell, Raymond tried to catch her. He spoke out. He fought. But back then, his voice wasn't loud enough. The industry crushed her anyway. Raymond never forgot. He watched from a distance, sent money when she needed it, made sure she was never completely alone.

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