The Price of Fame
In a smoky backstage room, dimly lit by flickering neon and the ghosts of forgotten dreams, two men sat in silence, eyes locked on a phone screen. The same song played for the tenth time.
“Ameni… She’s everywhere.”
“Every radio station. Every trending list.”
“People used to talk about us.”
“If this keeps up, we’ll be nothing but memories.”
A heavy silence fell between them. The air grew colder. Something dark and unspoken passed between their glances.
“There’s only one solution… We take her out—and frame her husband.”
The other hesitated, brows furrowed.
“And if he finds out?”
“Who cares? We’ll take care of him too.”
In a quiet home, far from the flashing lights and roaring crowds, a simple dinner was served.
Three plates. Three people. But only two willing to share a table.
Ameni sat apart, arms crossed, untouched food in front of her.
Her husband’s voice was gentle, careful.
“Honey, why aren’t you eating with us?”
She didn’t even glance at the woman sitting beside him—his mother, who offered nothing but a warm, humble smile.
Then, in a voice dripping with cold arrogance, Ameni spoke.
“I just can’t eat when she’s here.”
The room froze.
Her husband frowned, confused.
“Excuse me?”
She rose slowly, lifting her chin, her eyes sharp with disdain.
“I’m a celebrity. A star. I live differently. I don’t have time to play ‘perfect family’ with old-fashioned women who still cook with firewood.”
His mother didn’t say a word. Her hands trembled slightly, but her gaze remained lowered, composed.
Ameni turned to her husband, her expression unshaken, her words sharp as a blade.
“So choose.”
“Kick her out… or I’ll walk away and never come back.”
His heart clenched. The woman who raised him, who shaped him into the man he was, sat before him—silent, dignified, yet undeniably wounded.
And across from her, the woman he loved, the woman he had helped rise from nothing, now stood with the same fire in her eyes—but this time, it burned with something cruel.
He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in the weight of the moment.
Then, he stood tall.
“You want me to throw away the woman who gave me life?”
“The one who sacrificed everything for me?”
His voice was steady, unwavering.
“Fame has blinded you, Ameni. And if I had to choose between the whole world and my mother…”
“I’d choose her. Every single time.”
Ameni smirked, arms crossed.
“Then go. I don’t need you anymore.”
“Your help? Your support? You think I owe you my success?” She scoffed. “I was always meant to shine. With or without you.”
She leaned in, whispering her final dagger.
“The truth is, you didn’t make me. I made myself.”
Silence.
His chest ached, not from heartbreak—but from the weight of realizing he had been nothing more than a stepping stone.
He exhaled sharply, pushing his chair back. Then, without another word, he turned to his mother.
“Let’s go.”
His mother hesitated, glancing at Ameni one last time. But there was nothing left to say.
As they walked out the door, the cold night air hit them like reality itself.
And in the shadows, someone was watching.
The jealous singers had been waiting for this moment.
And now, their plan was in motion.