Zurianne never imagined that saving her mother's life would cost her own freedom. Forced into an arranged marriage with Christopher Whyte the infamous Jamaican Don feared by many,she braces herself for a life of cold stares and ruthless commands. Bu...
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I used to dream about this. Crowds roaring my name. Lights flashing so bright they blurred my vision. Phones raised, girls screaming, my lyrics echoing back at me like a prophecy fulfilled.
And yet, as I stood backstage at Reggae Sumfest, soaked in sweat and adrenaline, all I felt was... empty.
"Big up Sinna!" the MC called out as I exited the stage.
Cheers erupted. I threw a fist in the air. Smiled. Did the whole superstar routine. But deep down, mi spirit did heavy.
Chris would've usually be there, watching from side stage, ready to dap me up and make sure I got back to the hotel safe. But not this time. Chris been gone—mentally, emotionally, physically. Tied up in his own madness. And I couldn't blame him.
That's why I had to sign with somebody new.
My new manager, Rickon, was good with numbers but had zero understanding of me. He didn't ask how I was doing. Only asked which radio interview I wanted to do next, which city to fly out to in the morning. He wore suits even when we were in the heat, and everything felt like business. Cold. Transactional.
Fame buss mi head, but it also buss mi chest wide open. It exposed how lonely this road could get.
⸻
Later that night, back at the hotel in New Kingston, I finally had a moment to breathe. The suite was too clean, too white, too still. I dropped my duffel on the couch, peeled off my sweat-drenched shirt, and tossed it aside.
I walked over to the balcony, city lights blinking at me from every corner. Music still echoing from some nearby party. Jamaica never slept—not really.
"Mi nuh even eat today," I muttered, running my hand over my face.
I turned back toward the living room—and paused.
Spida was there.
Sitting cross-legged on the plush couch in a skin-tight bodycon dress, lips glossy, eyes too wide like she already had a plan.
"Yow," I said, voice caught somewhere between surprised and cautious. "How yuh get in here?"
She smiled slow. "Yuh manager let me in. Said mi was on di guest list."
Of course he did.
I didn't answer. I grabbed a bottle of water from the bar and took a sip, waiting to see what she really wanted.
"You mash up di stage tonight," she said, rising to her feet with that smooth, snake-like sway in her hips. "You really gone clear now, superstar."
I offered a half-nod. "Respect."
She stepped closer. "You celebrating or not?"
From her purse, she pulled a spliff—perfectly rolled, dipped in a little oil sheen that shimmered under the chandelier light. She held it out to me like an offering.
