𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑫𝑰E ᴅevante ꜱᴡɪɴɢ

𓈈▮ Woman in the mirror ▮

No gif at the moment

NYC, New York
: Uptown records
August 3, 1992
NOT EDITED
Warning this chapter is lot
Sorry if I haven't been updating

The heat from the stage lights was the first thing I noticed. They hung high above us, white beams slicing through the darkness, making the floor look like polished glass. Every time I stepped forward, my heels clicked against the stage, sharp and loud in my head even though the music drowned them out. I'd begged for a pair of flats, but my mother shut that down before I even finished the sentence. Vanity and Charity could slide across the stage with ease in their shoes, but me—I was fighting to keep my balance while still trying to look like I owned it.

Vanity stood a little ahead, her guitar strapped tight across her body. She looked untouchable, dressed in that black crop top and those silky tight jeans that hugged her frame. Her bangs fell perfectly over her eyes, Raven-style, and every movement she made had weight. When she strummed, she did it with her whole arm, like she wanted the sound to break through the walls.

Charity was the opposite. She moved softer, but there was a sharpness in her face, the kind that came from confidence. Her white dress fluttered when she spun, and her thighs caught the light just enough to make people's heads turn. Her pigtails bounced as she dipped low into the choreography, her piercing flashing each time she tilted her chin toward the cameras. She was playful and cool at the same time, like she knew the whole world was watching her and she didn't mind giving them a little tease.

I was caught in between the two of them, both literally and figuratively. My hair was freshly bleached blonde, streaks of black running through it like brush strokes, my eyeliner drawn thick and sharp to match the edge of the track. I could feel sweat at my temples, but I kept moving, hips swaying, arm slicing through the air, trying to hit every mark the choreographer drilled into us.

The song blasted from the speakers—"Free Your Mind." It wasn't like anything we'd recorded before. It was rawer, heavier, a mix of R\&B harmonies and rock edge. A risk. A risk that felt damn good when the bass hit and the guitar ripped through the chorus. For a moment, I forgot the lights, the heels, even the cameras. I just let myself go, my voice blending with Vanity's deep, smoky tone and Charity's sharp, sweet edge. Together, we filled the space until it didn't feel like a set anymore—it felt like a stage.

"YESSS GIRLS." Screamed my mother.

The crew moved around us like ghosts. Camera operators crouched low, circling us, their lenses catching every sway of our hips, every flip of our hair. Extras pushed against the barricade at the front, their arms stretching out, playing the role of fans desperate to touch us. Their voices blurred into one steady hum, like background noise. Hype Williams called out directions from behind the biggest camera, his voice cutting clear over everything else:

"Serenity, head back—hold it, hold it—good! Vanity, lean into that strum—beautiful! Charity, spin into her—yes, right there!"

Every command turned into movement, every movement into something bigger than the three of us.

I caught a glimpse of my mother in the shadows, standing just beyond the lights. She didn't move, didn't smile, didn't clap. Her arms were folded across her chest, but I could see it in her eyes—the satisfaction, the calculation. She wasn't just proud. She was planning. This was business to her as much as it was music to us. And with the kind of budget Uptown was finally throwing behind us, she had reason to stand tall.