Roxy Sloane had never been one for showing up on time, even on the day she was born she arrived twelve days late, filling the room with stomach curdling cries as the bright lights of the delivery suite filled her eyes. She ran on her own clock, it was the one thing she still had control of after her soul was sold to the devil.

She knew better than anyone that her time was gold, and there were people around the world that would do unspeakable things for just a slither of it. Those people considered the need to know her as love, she thought of it as nothing more than a transactional exchange, her music for their loyalty.

Her bottle green convertible was one of many cars that filled the parking lot as she spun into the first available parking space, a cigarette balanced haphazardly between her fingers as she tapped against the steering wheel to the tune of 'You're No Good' by Linda Ronstaldt that poured from her car stereo.

She flicked off the car's engine, glancing at her reflection in the mirror, licking the pad of her thumb before she wiped away the remaining residue of her eye makeup from the night before. Her body ached, and she knew that she'd much rather be in bed, but duty called. She opened the car's glove compartment, retrieving a hip flask and a small makeup bag, unscrewing the flask's cap, tipping it back against her lips, met with a severe lack of alcohol.

"Asshole," She hissed, retrieving a nude lipstick and a small perfume bottle from the makeup bag, applying a light layer of lipstick to her lips and spritzing some of her most favourite perfume before she abandoned her bag, climbing out of the car.

Her presence never went unnoticed, boys turned their heads, women gawped, she simply sauntered through the parking lot, the warm Los Angeles sun dancing across her bare shoulders as she wore little more than a white crochet vest and blue bell bottom jeans, complete with a pair of ruby red heeled boots.

As she made her way through the building, she stopped to sign albums for fans who happened to work at the label, she offered hazy smiles as several young women told her how they'd been at her show at The Forum the night before, she nodded courteously and thanked them for their time, because their time would never be valued as highly as hers. 

The lights in that office were brighter than Roxy ever remembered them being, maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was the comedown or perhaps it was the sold out show she'd performed at The Forum in Inglewood, California the night before where the lights had remained a soft golden tone for the duration of her show, as per the request of her tour manager. She was convinced that she could conjure up a list of places she'd rather be than that office on a hot summer's morning in Los Angeles.

"Oh, he's not here yet," Macey, her manager's assistant's voice wavered as Roxy headed for his office.

"I'm well aware," Roxy nodded, pushing the door open with ease before kicking it shut and taking a seat opposite the vast dark oak desk.

"Miss Sloane, so sorry to have kept you," Trevor entered the office almost twenty minutes later, accompanied by Macey who carried a stack of files under her arm, "Let's get down to business shall we?"

"Let's," Roxy huffed, leaning back in the leather armchair positioned opposite his desk, her aviator sunglasses concealing the dark shadows under her bloodshot eyes.

"So, you've just finished your second American arena tour," Trevor exhaled, crossing his arms on the edge of his desk, "Everyone in this country seems to know your name."

"My music speaks for itself, Trevor, you know that," Roxy reminded him, pulling a cigarette packet from her pocket before placing one between her lips and lighting it.

"You've done well over this last year, some might say too well," Trevor hesitated, tapping his fingers against the edge of his desk.

"Too well?" Roxy frowned, "You wanna tell me what 'too well' looks like?"

"You've done fifty shows in eighty days, most artists would be burned out by now, but you, Roxy," Trevor paused, glancing at Macey who offered little reassurance, "You're a livewire."

"A livewire?" Roxy's eyebrows rose in intrigue, "Trevor, you say that like it a bad thing, I give the fans the sort of performance they want to see, I'm not dosed up to my fucking eyeballs on xanax."

"No, you're just doing lines of cocaine and fuck knows what else before every show," Trevor retorted, seemingly tired of biting his tongue.

"Like I said, I give crowds what they want to see," Roxy quipped, as though it was something she was proud of, "Everybody needs a little bump in the right direction from time to time."

"It's a lot more than a little bump, Roxy," Trevor sighed regretfully, "We think you need to slow down."

"You think I need to slow down when I released your label's highest selling album of the fucking year?" Roxy remarked in shock.

"If you want to continue making music for us then yes," Trevor told her.

"You see that platinum disc hanging on the wall just there?" Roxy pointed to the framed disc mounted on the burgundy red panelled wall, "It's mine, remember?"

"Of course," Trevor nodded, "But as your manager, I propose that maybe you might benefit from relocating to your fiancé's family home in England for a few months before you start your European tour."

"Jack's not been home in years," Roxy informed him, having never met her fiancé's family, nevermind visiting the country he'd grown up in, "I'm not convinced that his family would welcome us with open arms."

"Macey did some research, your future husband grew up in a quaint town in the Cotswolds... Rutshire, I believe?" Trevor remarked, stumbling over the pronunciation of the British town, "It's less than three hours from London's Abbey Road Studios, so play your cards right and you could be recording your next album there too."

"What's in it for me?" Roxy raised her eyebrows, "If I'm going to be living with my future in-laws, there better be something in it for me."

"Well, aside from the chance to clean up your act, I've secured you a spot on an up and coming British talk show that's already secured a loyal audience, which could be the next step in growing your European fan base," Trevor explained.

"I'll do the show as long as I get to perform one of my songs," Roxy told him, because she frankly too exhausted to fight him on the matter, and a soul as free as hers could get easily bored of getting tied down in one place, "And I'm assuming you'll be providing my band with adequate accommodation."

"So you're in?" Trevor smiled.

"I suppose that all depends on what my future husband thinks."

"England? You want to move to England?" Jack removed his sunglasses with a frown as he lay on one of the sun loungers beside their pool that overlooked Malibu beach, "Where's this come from?"

"Trevor thinks it'd be good for me to get away from the chaos of California for a while," Roxy explained as she sat on the lounger beside his, "He suggested that we stay at your family's home, mentioned an appearance on this new TV chat show, said it could be good for expanding my European audience before the tour."

"Yeah, I mean I suppose it'd be good to spend some time at home before we're traveling the rest of the world on your tour," Jack remarked, the assumption that he'd be joining her on tour wasn't something she had expected.

"I suppose it would," Roxy nodded hesitantly, because when her European tour dates were confirmed she'd been under the assumption that she'd have the chance to spread her wings and fly, "Do you think you'll be able to stand living with your brother again?"

"He inherited the entire estate when our parents died so it would seem we don't have a choice," Jack sighed regretfully, even though the idea of finding somewhere alternative to live would provide far less stress.

His brother was seven years older than him, and those seven years that stood between them had in many ways acted as a barrier that prevented the pair from bonding in their earliest years. Jack was still at school when Rupert was claiming titles across the globe for his show jumping success. Rupert was more concerned about the animals that lived in their family's stables, while Jack cared more for the running of the estate.

It wasn't until Jack had reached his late teens that the pair truly began to bond, Rupert saw a golden opportunity to introduce his younger brother to booze, women and substances that he couldn't afford to indulge in so greatly in fear of losing his career.

But when the will was read, and the entire estate was left to the eldest of the Campbell-Black boys, it tore a hole through the bond that had been cemented between the pair. Jack couldn't stand it for much time at all, and after a trip across the states with some old chums from boarding school, he settled on California. It was only when he met the charming starlet, Roxy Sloane at an exclusive Beverly Hills party that he decided to stay.

"So," Roxy sighed with a smile as she moved towards her fiancé, sitting herself on his lap, "Does this make me your lady of the manor? Will I have to wear fucking hats and drink tea with all your British friends?"

"You drinking tea in nothing but a fucking hat?" Jack smirked as he pulled her body closer to his, "Now that's an image I don't intend on replacing anytime soon."

"Mmhmm," Roxy hummed against his lips as she straddled his lap, resting her hands on his shoulders as they kissed with such hunger, "Trevor said he'd sort flights and accommodation for the rest of my band to come too."

Jack pulled back, looking up at Roxy with a darkened gaze, "Your whole band? So Tyler's coming too?"

"I mean I don't know why that's a problem," Roxy remarked, folding her arms across her chest defensively, "I can't perform on TV without a band, my band."

"You know exactly why it's a fucking problem, Roxy," He shrugged her off his lap as he stood up from the sun lounger, lighting himself a cigarette as he stood beside the pool, overlooking the Malibu coastline.

"You can't be talking about New York," Roxy remarked as she joined him beside the pool, realising why exactly Jack seemed so set on joining her on the European tour, "I told you and I will keep fucking telling you until my voice wears thin, nothing fucking happened."

"I saw the fucking photos, Roxy!" He exclaimed, "The whole world saw them! How'd you think it makes me look?"

"You and the world saw my guitarist walking me back to the hotel after the after party, that's all," She repeated the same point that she'd made since the day it happened.

The photos were harmless, Tyler had his arm around Roxy's shoulder as they walked along the streets of Manhattan following a sold out concert at Radio City Music Hall, him leaving her hotel room after dropping her off. But it was the words that the entertainment journalists used to skew the photos to suit their desired narrative. They quoted 'reliable sources' and insisted that the photo of Tyler leaving her hotel room had been taken the morning after.

By the time she and her band had arrived in Philadelphia, Jack was there ready to greet her with dozens of questions. He had questions for Tyler too, questions that relied less on words and more on grazed knuckles and bloody noses. Tyler had never liked Jack, so maybe he did take the opportunity to stir the proverbial pot with words he knew would only infuriate Jack.

"Jack, nothing happened," Roxy insisted as she gazed up at him with intent in her eyes, "And nothing will happen, it's you and me, you know that."

"Get a new guitarist, Roxy," Jack told her bluntly as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"I'm not gonna do that, you know I'm not gonna do that," Roxy reminded him, "They'll know, everyone will know there's a problem if I get rid of him."

Jack cupped her jaw, but not in the tender way a lover should, his grip remained firm as he stared down at her, "They'll know there's a fucking problem if he waltzes back on stage with a bruised face again."

"Tyler stays," Roxy insisted as she freed herself from his grip, "And I'll be going to England with or without you."

Roxy was a rising star when she met Jack at that Beverly Hills party. They'd hit it off almost instantly, rumours of the young star's early relationship with the wealthy Brit circulated Hollywood within days. A year after they'd met they were engaged and Roxy was performing sold out shows in some of America's most iconic venues.

But as she stood before him it remained as obvious as it had been since her star had become too big for him to handle that his feelings on the matter were never going to change. She had often wondered if that was her worth to him, her name and the places it took him, as opposed to the woman she was when she wasn't on stage or selling thousands of records.

"Now you best cool off and check yourself unless you wanna be the subject of my next album," Roxy warned, her fiery temper bubbling under the surface, "Am I clear?"

"Roxy-"

"Am I clear?" She repeated herself.

"Yes," He clenched his jaw, because if it weren't for her fame and talent then their power imbalance would be consistently skewed in his favour, and yet if anything it remained a complete pendulum, both of them clawing to maintain power.

Roxy spent the rest of the day alone in her home studio, scribbling various lyrics in her red leather bound notebook; she often did that when she and Jack had one of their 'disagreements.' None of those songs had been released yet, and she was unsure if they ever would, it was just the most productive method of releasing such energy that she could find.

"Hey," She looked up to see Jack leaning against the doorway, two glasses of whiskey in his hands as she sat at the piano, "You ready to talk?"

"As long as you're not trying to change my mind," Roxy sighed, as he pushed the door shut with his foot.

"Who could ever change your mind, Roxy Sloane?" Jack smirked as he sat beside her on the piano stool, handing her one of the glasses.

It was exactly what they always did, they'd fight, they'd argue, but they'd never talk through what had triggered it as adults should.

"I'm glad you're aware of the type of woman you'll be marrying," Roxy hummed, taking a sip of the whiskey, the taste remaining familiar on her tongue.

"Darling, you had me from the moment you stood on the lid of Tom's piano and sang Rebel Rebel with a bottle of champagne in your hand," Jack chuckled to himself, "God, Rupert's bound to love you."

"Your brother?"

"Indeed," Jack exhaled, "He always has been a fan of a woman like you."

"A woman like me?" Roxy remarked.

"Fiery, hot to touch," Jack muttered as he placed a kiss to Roxy's shoulder.

That's what Roxy was to Jack, he saw her as a ball of fire, a livewire, he put her ability to hold her own down to her fiery temperament rather than acknowledging that perhaps her fire was a consequence of how he treated her. The trouble was, Roxy knew that, and yet she chose to stay.

"And what's this brother of yours like then?"

"He always gets what he wants," Jack sighed, "When we were boys he was frustratingly good at everything."

"You're good at everything," Roxy assured him, hoping it might provide him with some comfort.

"Rupert's different," Jack muttered, "You'll see."

"Well, I guess we better start packing."

"Not a chance," Declan scoffed as he followed Tony Baddingham into his office, "Interviewing Johnny Friedlander was taking a chance, Mick Jagger...well he's Mick fucking Jagger, but an American popstar?"

"They call her a rockstar in the States," Tony remarked, handing him the latest copy of Rolling Stone magazine, the copper haired musician plastered across the cover, "And rumour has it she's moving to Rutshire with her soon to be husband."

"That's not a story for me," Declan huffed, running a hand through his hair, "I want grit, I want something real and hard hitting."

"Doesn't get much more hard hitting than the Grammy nominated singer with a coke habit," Tony sighed, knowing just how much a name as big as Roxy Sloane's name could do for Corinium, given her meteoric success across America, "Besides, It's not up for discussion, Cameron's already spoken to her manager, Roxy Sloane will be on the show next week, and she'll be charming our audience with her newest song."

"This isn't Top of the fucking Pops, I don't care how good she is, we're not having her perform a song," Declan didn't know her name, but he assumed maybe his daughters Taggie or Caitlin might, glancing at the photo of Roxy printed on the cover of the magazine on Tony's desk, she seemed the sort of woman his son would obsess over and his wife would envy.

"Her label said she won't do the interview unless she gets to sing," Tony replied, folding his arms across his chest, "They've assured me she won't disappoint."

"If you say so," Declan huffed.

"Now, do what you do best and find anything you can on her," Tony told him, resting a hand on his shoulder, "America's young dream sat in your armchair might just send us global."

chapter one done! here we go!
let me know your thoughts and predictions for this story!!