Chapter 2: Born This Way, Broken Anyway

Ever since I was a kid, my voice was ridiculously sweet, and I hit puberty early.

Back in elementary school, I’d get called up to read aloud and the whole class would snicker. My voice never cracked like the other girls’; it just stayed high and soft, syrupy enough to pour on pancakes. By middle school, I was taller than most boys and already had curves. It was a weird combo—like my body and my voice belonged to two different people.

Because of that, Dad would just shake his head at the breakfast table, muttering about needing to buy a shotgun. Mom just rolled her eyes and said, “Maddie, you’re trouble, but at least you’ll always get free lattes.”

Later, a talent scout from a big entertainment company found me for my looks and figure.

She spotted me at the mall while I was waiting in line for a cinnamon pretzel, called me out of the blue, and before I knew it, I was posing for glossy headshots and practicing my smile in the mirror. My voice? That was always the wild card.

When I debuted, my agent thumped her chest and promised with total confidence,

“With that body and face? Strike a random pose and you’ll be trending in minutes!”

She said it like it was gospel, her Texas accent thick as molasses. I could practically see her already counting my future sponsorships.

She laughed out loud, convinced I’d be a superstar.

Her confidence was infectious. She’d call me “my golden ticket” and joke about finally upgrading her ancient Honda Civic.

But everyone underestimated the destructive power of my little syrupy voice.

They thought it was a quirk, maybe even an asset. They didn’t know how fast it could tank a career in the court of public opinion.

A whole year went by, and my public image hit rock bottom.

I watched my follower count drop every time I did a livestream. Trolls practically set up camp on my socials. It was like death by a thousand retweets. My notifications never stopped pinging, each one another tiny paper cut.

People would roll their eyes the second I spoke.

“Madison Blake is such a damn faker. If she just acted like a real queen, I’d actually pay attention. Why force this sweet-girl act?”

The comments always stung more than I cared to admit. Sometimes I’d practice talking lower in the bathroom mirror, trying to sound less like a cartoon chipmunk.

“Honestly, at first I thought she was kinda cute, but the fake act is just too much now. It’s annoying.”

Some of the DMs went from just snarky to outright mean. My phone was a minefield—one wrong swipe and boom, day ruined.

“Can she just shut up? If she wants to seduce men, go to a club. Don’t come online and gross everyone out, okay?”

As if I hadn’t heard that line a hundred times before. The internet is nothing if not repetitive.

The nasty comments never stopped.

I’d try to tell myself they were just bored kids, but deep down, I was constantly on edge, flinching whenever my notifications blew up.

But I’m a total coward, so all I could do was bite my pillow and swallow my tears.

I’d muffle my sobs, praying the neighbors couldn’t hear. My pillow had seen more heartbreak than any diary.

My agent tried to comfort me.

“Bad publicity is still publicity, trust me. With your unique vibe, just focus on your work—you’ll be rolling in cash soon, got it?”

She’d pop open a Dr Pepper, boots kicked up on my coffee table, promising things would turn around. Sometimes I almost believed her.

I broke down crying.

“Is this what they call revenge by the internet?”

My voice cracked in a way that would’ve gotten me roasted even harder if anyone else had heard.

Lisa, my agent, is a fiery girl from Texas. After managing me for a year, she figured her patience was good enough to teach kindergarten.

She’d say, “Maddie, after you, I could herd a classroom of five-year-olds hopped up on Mountain Dew.”

I snorted, picturing Lisa wrangling a bunch of sugar-crazed kids. At least they’d be easier than the internet.

But she never quit on me.

With this kind of voice, women scream, men get weak in the knees.

Lisa used to joke I could sell ice to penguins. But now, all that sugar had turned sour.

But the contrast between my voice and my looks was just too much—no one believed it was real.

It was like seeing a linebacker with a puppy’s bark; people just couldn’t buy it. I was the punchline in my own story.

Those damn netizens even accused Lisa of having no eye for talent, saying she turned a proper queen into a cheap flirt.

Lisa took it personally, scrolling through Twitter with a vengeance. She’d talk back at the screen, even though she knew no one was listening.

Who’d stick up for her?

Only me, and even then, I barely had the guts to do it in public.

Lisa was furious:

“I begged every connection I had to get you on a big reality show. This time, I’m taking back everything that’s ours!”

She made that promise while stress-eating a whole bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, the red dust staining her fingers, and she wiped them on her jeans like war paint.

She believed that as long as people met me in person—man or woman—I’d win them over for sure.

She had faith I could turn things around just by being myself, face to face.

Lisa was already giggling to herself, lost in her daydreams.

She started sketching out plans on a diner napkin, already picturing my name on a Times Square billboard.