Chapter Text
NYC, November 2022 - Martina's POV
It must have been Mercury.
It was in retrograde, apparently—at least, that's what she'd heard.
Not that she had the faintest idea what it actually meant.
Stars and planetary placements might have ruled the lives of others—those who had the luxury of merrily going with the flow and embracing their ever-changing whims day after day.
She used to be one of those people. Back when she was just Martina Moreschino, the person.
Now she was Martina Moreschino, the larger-than-life singer and mega-star—a powerhouse brand and money-making empire.
Over the last 10 years, the lines between the two had done nothing but fade into each other, to the point where her life no longer felt truly her own.
Every move she made was meticulously strategized, carefully curated, and sometimes even spectacularly choreographed.
More than eighty people—between her management team, her record label, PR department, tour managers, marketing, and promotions—dictated every aspect of her life.
Nothing was casual.
Her music, her schedule, her reputation, her public relationships, her looks, even her weight—she needed to be in control of every detail, and deliver exactly what was expected of her.
How could Mercury—or any other cosmic force, for that matter—possibly cause disruption in a life like hers?
That was what she thought—until a few weeks ago, before asking Trevor if he wanted to walk the red carpet together at the AMAs.
Walking red carpets alone was nothing new to her, but this time it was different.
She was set to receive the prestigious 'Artist of the Decade' award, which, according to the formal winner's letter, would honor her 'extraordinary influence and lasting impact on the music landscape and popular culture over the past decade, creating a legacy that would endure for generations.'
It was an absolute monster of an award—bigger than anything she'd ever received and, frankly, bigger than what she felt she deserved.
Just the thought of stepping on stage to deliver an acceptance speech that was worthy of it sent her imposter syndrome into overdrive and made her want to shit her pants.
That's why she thought having Trevor by her side would make it a little easier.
"I can't make it, babe—we're playing the Nets at the Garden that weekend, you know that." He had brushed it off without a second thought.
Of course she knew. How could she not?
Trevor always shared the Celtics' game schedule with her at the start of every season since joining the NBA a few years back.
She was familiar with it—familiar enough to point out that the game was on Friday, which meant he'd still have plenty of time to be in LA the next day to support her.
He had mumbled some half-baked excuse about a game review the next day that he needed to attend.
Then, he had tilted his head in an unreadable way, adding something about not wanting to rush things anyway.
"We've been dating for four years, Trevor. What exactly do you think I'm rushing?" She had yelled all her frustration right in his face.
But he hadn't even looked up from the massive 8K screen, too caught up in his Call of Duty game to care.
She had tried not to let the sheer indifference he so often showed her sink her heart—again—because she had a flight to LA to catch, a rehearsal to plan, and an acceptance speech to write.
It was just a simple miscommunication. A momentary disconnect.
There was no time or space to let it become anything more than that, if she wanted to keep it together.
So, when she thought about it, it must have been Mercury's fault that, right in the middle of her acceptance speech, TMZ had started dropping photos of Trevor—not at his game review, but partying on a yacht in the Hamptons, both hands all over some other girl's ass and his tongue halfway down her throat.
And of course, it had to be Mercury's fault that, after the show, she had walked to the press line so blissfully unaware of it all that when an interviewer had blindsided her by showing her the pictures, her dumbfounded reaction had been caught in real time, ready for the whole world to feast on.
Miscommunications, fights, cheating, public humiliation—classic signs of Mercury retrograde, right?
She'd always been much more of an astronomy girl than an astrology one. But all of this needed to be blamed on a planet's fucked up orbit.
It hurt less than admitting she had wasted four years of her life on a lukewarm man who had been lying and cheating on her for god knows how long, all while managing to embarrass her on a global scale.
It hurt less than watching how, even now, two weeks later, every major media outlet continued to completely ignore her achievement to plaster her photoshopped shocked face next to shots of Trevor having the time of his life on that damn yacht.
She stared blankly out the car window as silent tears slid down her cheek, full of frustration, exhaustion, spite, disappointment, and a pain she had been too angry to let herself feel.
"Are you okay, Miss Marti?" Nick, her driver, asked, his worried eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.
Nick had been on her team since day one. She had met him ten years ago, when she was on XFactor Italy.
He was the production driver, shuttling her and other competitors to rehearsals or the studios.
From the very beginning, he had shown a soft spot for her, breaking his impartiality to openly root for her.
She had felt an instant connection too—he reminded her so much of her grandfather, with his warm, kind eyes and his calm, seraphic demeanor, always ready to encourage her or offer advice.
So, after winning the show and scoring a multimillion-dollar record deal to kick off her music career in the U.S., she had moved to NYC and brought him along as her full-time driver.
He had to be in his sixties now. And not in a Keanu Reeves or Bradley Cooper hot kind of way.
Everything about him—from his slicked-back gray hair to his old-school style of dress and unsteady steps—made him look even older than he was.
She sniffed loudly and wiped the tears from her face, "I'm..." she stopped halfway through fabricating a useless lie, "I don't think that I am."
Her voice choked, and another stream of tears fell down her eyes. "I am very, very sorry," Nick said from the front seat. "Miss Marti doesn't deserve any of this."
Even after all this time, he still insisted on calling her "Miss Marti". Despite both being native Italian speakers, he insisted on speaking only English, even when it was just the two of them.
This often made her smile, as his English was full of little grammatical missteps and quirky phrases that came out in a funny and unique cadence everyone loved.
She gave him a grateful but somber smile in the mirror and widened her eyes when she realized he was driving out of the Financial District, where her office was, heading straight to the tunnel.
He flashed her his usual kind-eyed smile and said, "What you say we make a little detour to Cocoa Haven, yes? Get some hot chocolate to lift our spirits up, hmm?"
Classic Nick, she thought, grinning at him.
Thirty minutes later, they were seated in comfortable silence on a bench in Owl's Head Park, nestled on a gentle hill overlooking the Upper New York Bay, each holding a hot cup in their hands.
He watched her slurp her chocolate and smiled softly. "Feeling better now?"
She had been struggling to keep anything down these past few days, eating merely for survival purposes without truly tasting her food. She took a sip, savoring the sweet and earthy flavor, and nodded. "A little."
"I know you are hurting right now, Miss Marti," he said, his eyes fatherly and caring. "But you deserve much, much more than what he was giving you, ok? You deserve more than someone who takes out his phone during dinner all the time and does not even look you in the eyes. It is not right, no."
She took another sip of her chocolate, swallowing not just the hot liquid but also the bitter realization of what had apparently been under everyone's nose but her own.
"I know," she said, gazing at the tranquil bay view before her. "I'll be fine. I just wish I could grieve in peace without feeling like the whole world is watching or laughing at me."
He shook his head, as if refusing to believe she could ever be the butt of anyone's joke. "Nobody's laughing. Everybody loves Miss Marti, and they can't wait for you to be back."
"But that's also part of the problem. I'm already back, Nick. It's only been two weeks; I should be rotting in my bed all day and not talking to anyone. Yet here I am, thrown right back into it all—interviews, auditions, events, photoshoots."
She took a deep breath and looked up at the trees, almost bare now, with little sparrows hopping on the branches, ready to spread their wings to somewhere warmer. "I wish I could fly away with them, you know? Where do you think they are going?"
"I don't know," he made a guessing face, "Probably Florida?"
"Probably Florida," she agreed. "I wish I could disappear there too, or anywhere, really. Instead," she stood up from the bench and glanced at her watch "I am late to meet my new publicist, who'll have the pleasure of managing this goddamn circus that is my public life. And Sara's going to yell at us both for it."
"Miss Sara is a very demanding manager," he agreed, chuckling softly, his old eyes crinkling with amusement as he slowly rose from the bench, steadying himself before beginning his usual cautious walk, "but she's also a good, understanding sister. She will forgive us, just this time, I am sure."
"I've always admired your undying optimism, Nick," she smiled as they resumed their walk toward the car, "and your kind heart. But you know she's a bloodthirsty beast when it comes to punctuality. She'll eat us alive." She joked.
"Ehh," he shrugged, "we will find something to blame it on. Maybe we say it was the traffic?"
"I got something even better," a wry smile played across her lips as she casually shot both her and Nick's cups into the trash bin. "Haven't you heard, Nick? Mercury is all over the place these days."
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Bonus content: Perez Hilton's home page at the time of the scandal.
