Phoenix didn't want to do the interview. It was something Demi had arranged for him, but he couldn't understand why. He had been a huge star for years. He had performed in front of thousands, earned a fortune that he couldn't possibly spend, traveled to countless places, and experienced everything, sex, drugs, and more. He had achieved everything he ever wanted, well everything except a second song. That was the infernal hitch to his success, there would be only one. Any more would lead to the completion of his eternal bondage to the underworld. His one hit had such a cultural resonance that it rocket him to the top. Just as promised. He was a rock star. Everyone wanted that song. The licensing deals, the commercials, the social media play and his cult-like following that was willing to pay to see a slew of opening bands as long as he was the final act performing his one and only song live.
It wasn’t just his only hit, it was his only song. It was the hit that made his life what it was. There seemed to be no end to the revenue sources it provided. That’s why he couldn't understand Demi insisting on this interview. Maybe she just wanted to lure him out of his secluded retreat, away from his private island, and back into the public.
She seemed to think she was helping, thinking he was depressed after his breakup with Hannah, someone she had never approved of, but had she ever approved of any of them? Phoenix's depression wasn't because of losing Hannah. Sure, she was physically attractive and had connections, but she wasn't particularly smart, funny, or interesting.
Their relationship lacked substance, and Phoenix knew he had never been in love with her. In fact, his depression had started long before the breakup. Despite what the paparazzi printed, he wasn't happy, and nothing seemed to bring him joy.
Sitting in his darkened bedroom, staring at the flickering flames of his fireplace, Phoenix's mind tortured him with endless thoughts. He took a sip from his bottle of alcohol and considered pouring it onto the fire, hoping it might mean he wouldn't have to go to the interview—or do anything—ever again. Just as he tilted the bottle, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Demi.
He ignored the call, but she began spamming him with texts:
Demi: pick up x x
Demi: we still haven’t gone over your interview x x
Demi: It’s tomorrow morning x x
Demi: I organized the car to pick you up x x
Demi: You really should get a cat. You need company. Being so isolated from everyone, alone on that damn island can’t be good for you… x x
Demi: we are all worried about you … x x
Demi: I’m worried about you x x
Demi: Please can you at least do a thumb react so I know you got these messages? x x
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Demi: Phoenix? x x
Demi: Please? x x
Demi: Don’t make me haul ass to your island, because I will idc what time it is! I am literally the only person who looks after you, the least you can do is reply x x
Demi: Ever since Hannah broke up with you you’ve been such a prick. x x
Phoenix glowered at the last message. She knew that would get a response from him. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, ready to correct her about who broke up with whom, but then she sent another text:
Demi: hm ok, if that didn’t get you then you must be asleep x x
Demi: GOOD! Rest.
Demi: Remember, tomorrow, bright and early! The car will be there at 4:30 am! Please dress nice & respectfully. We need to rebrand. Love you lots! x x
With that, she left him alone.
Phoenix sighed, lighting a cigarette from the fireplace, nearly burning the tips of his hair in the process. Demi might have been annoying, but she was really his only friend. In the industry, he knew a lot of people, but few really knew him.
He’d had girlfriends, plenty, and all the perks that came with fame, but true friends? There were none—except for Demi. She was the only person he invited to his secluded island, the only one he truly confided in. And she was not even human, she was a demon in disguise—a succubus. She arrived the morning after he made the deal that led to all of this. Obviously she was part of the deal, but she had been there since the beginning. If he had an actual friend it would have to be Demi.
She had a knack for sensing when he wasn’t doing well. She often brought him alcohol or other substances to help ease his burdens. Phoenix knew that other than Demi, he was alone. But he wasn’t ready to give it up. He was destined to be isolated in this life and beyond.
Maybe that was why Demi set up the interview, Phoenix wondered. To get him to engage with people again? Or maybe it was just to manage the bad publicity after his breakup with Hannah, even though Demi had always said there was no such thing as bad publicity. Phoenix didn't care much about any of it, except when she suggested Hannah dumped him, which wasn't true. He had ended things, not the other way around. Despite what Hannah told the tabloids, he wasn’t heartbroken. But Hannah wasn’t wrong about the rest. Phoenix was a liar, a cheater, a snake—everything she said. And on top of all that, he had sold his soul for fame.
Phoenix thought back to his younger self, desperate to get his music out there, foolish enough to summon a demon. It had been easier than he imagined, and looking back, he regretted it. Fame and success didn't equal happiness. If he had one wish now, it would be for happiness—not money or material things. Happiness and time. Those were the real treasures, the things money couldn't buy.
Choosing his clothes for the interview, Phoenix settled on black slacks and a black button-up shirt, knowing he had to look good for the paparazzi, who always seemed to know where he was. He then tried to sober up, knowing he needed to be at least somewhat coherent for the next day's interview.
Phoenix showered, brushed his teeth, and tried to sleep, but the demon's words haunted him:
"Fame will find you, like chains to a blade, it will bind to your heart—your soul now tied to us, forever. One song will be your legacy, your only. Should you sing another word, or dare to break your sacred vow—your soul to us, it will belong, like chains to a blade, bound eternal."
It was why he struggled with insomnia, why he took uppers to stay awake, but sleep was inevitable, just like the curse that haunted him. His soul was doomed, and he no longer belonged to himself. He was their property, bound by the words of a demon that echoed in his mind, night after night.