My Publicist Mother Called My 8-Year-Old Daughter Useless At My Sister's $400,000 Malibu Wedding — Until Lily Stole The DJ Mic And Broadcasted The Studio Audio
Eleanor’s voice, mid-sentence, abruptly cut out. The sound system went completely silent for a single, jarring beat. The guests, champagne glasses still raised, froze. A ripple of confusion spread through the tables.
Then, a new sound erupted from the venue’s towering speakers. Not music, not Eleanor’s voice, but the unmistakable, raw, unedited audio of a recording studio. There was a low hum of equipment, then a frustrated sigh.
“Ugh, Maya, come on,” a slurred female voice complained, filling the Malibu air. It was Chloe’s voice. Young, intoxicated.
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Eleanor’s face, moments ago radiant, tightened into a mask of disbelief.
The recording continued, clear as day. “I just… I can’t hit that note. My head is spinning. This is ridiculous. I should be at the club.”
Then, my own voice, calmer, more patient, spoke from the speakers. “Chloe, we just need one more take. Just try to hit the melody. I’ll layer the harmonies. Just get the lead down.”
“No, no, no,” Chloe whined. “I already told you. I need you to do it. You always do it. Just sing the damn thing. I’ll… I’ll pretend.”
The sound engineer Marcus, standing near the main speakers, dropped a cable he was holding. His mouth fell open. Julian Wright, beside Chloe, looked like he’d been struck.
The audio then shifted slightly, the background noise becoming a little crisper, indicating a new track being laid down. Then, my voice soared, pure and strong, singing the opening lines of Chloe’s breakout hit, “Ocean Eyes.” Every note, every nuanced inflection, every powerful belt—it was all mine.
The 14-minute recording continued, laying bare the truth. It was a series of clips: Chloe’s drunken ramblings, her refusals to sing, followed by my ghost-recorded vocals seamlessly inserted into the tracks. There were timestamps, studio notes, and my own frustrated sighs after 3 AM.
“And then you just… you just mouth it, okay?” my voice instructed Chloe at one point. “Or act like you’re doing a take. No one will know. It’s fine.”
Chloe’s voice, now laughing drunkenly, responded, “Yeah, Maya. You’re the best. No one will ever know. Publicists are amazing, right, Mom? You can make anyone a star.”
The phrase hung in the air. “Publicists are amazing.” Eleanor, standing rigid on the stage, her champagne glass still raised, looked utterly ravaged. Her face was ashen. Her eyes darted wildly, searching for something, someone.
Chloe, beside Julian, swayed slightly. Her perfectly made-up face drained of color. She looked terrified, not just exposed, but utterly humiliated. She tried to grab Julian’s arm, but he pulled away, his eyes fixed on the speakers, then on her, a cold, hard glare.
The entire wedding party was silent. Only the ghost of my voice, raw and true, filled the Malibu night.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours