She rose from her southern church choir like a comet nobody asked for but everybody claimed once the glow hit. By twenty-one, she was Hollywood’s prized Black songbird, the kind executives hoarded and men in shiny watches treated like an accessory they could pocket. They carved pieces out of her confidence, her time, her body, her voice, and called it “career growth.” Every handshake came with strings, every promise with a trapdoor. The world adored her, but the people closest to her kept draining her dry and insisting she smile while they did it.