Definitely not.
“Not really.”
He smiles like he doesn’t believe me. “I’ll get right to it. Apex wants to offer you a solo deal. Three albums, complete creativecontrol, distribution that Bishop Entertainment can’t match. We’re talking real money, real promotion, real comeback.”
“I’m already working with Bishop.”
“No contracts signed though, right? Just informal studio time?” He opens his briefcase, pulls out a folder thick with papers. “We’ve done our homework. You’re recording demos, playing local venues, collaborating with that bar owner. All very quaint, but it’s not a career strategy.”
“It’s working for me.”
“Is it? Because from where I sit, you’re wasting your talent on Nashville’s bar circuit when you should be headlining festivals.”
I lean back in my chair. “What do you actually want, Mitchell?”
“You. Solo. We’ve heard the tracks you’ve been working on with Bishop. Strong material, but it needs professional polish. Our writers could elevate those songs.”
“I have a writing partner.”
“Rye Hayes.” He says her name like it tastes bitter. “Manages The Songbird, writes on the side. We know all about her.”
“Then you know she’s talented.”
“She’s a distraction. Look, I’ll be frank - Apex has no interest in unknown songwriters from failing venues. We want Darian Mercer, former Reverend Sister guitarist, not some package deal with a nobody who got lucky enough to catch your attention.”
The word ‘nobody’ hits different when it’s aimed at someone specific. Someone whose melodies have been keeping me up at night for all the right reasons. Someone who was treated like their voice didn’t matter before. I promised I wouldn’t be that person.
“She’s not a nobody.”
“In this industry? She absolutely is. No publishing deals, no cuts, no presence beyond one tiny venue. You’re letting sentiment cloud your judgment.”
“I’m being selective about who I work with.”
Mitchell leans forward. “Here’s what I think. You’re in Nashville licking wounds from the band breakup. You meet a pretty face who writes decent hooks, and suddenly you think you’ve found artistic integrity. But what happens in six months when the novelty wears off? When you remember what real success feels like?”
“This is real success.”
“Playing to fifty people a night? Recording in Bishop’s B-room? That’s not success, that’s hiding.”
“It’s building something authentic.”
“Authentic doesn’t sell records. You know what does? Professional songs written by people who understand the market. Not heartfelt ballads about daddy issues from someone who couldn’t make it past bar management.”
I stand up. “We’re done here.”
“Sit down. You haven’t heard the number yet.”
I laugh. They’re all the same, only carrying about how much they offer. Thinking it's the six or seven figures they can throw around to entice artists.“I don’t care about the number.”
Mitchell pulls out a single sheet of paper, slides it across the coffee table. The figure at the bottom has more zeros than I’ve seen in years. “That’s just the signing bonus. First album budget is triple that.”
“Not interested.”
“Because of her? You’re turning down generational wealth for someone who’ll be managing that same bar in ten years?”
“Because I’ve already done the major label thing. I know what those contracts really mean. You’ll own everything I create, tell me who to write with, what to record, how to sound. I’ll end up making music that means nothing to anyone, including me.”
Mitchell starts packing his briefcase. “Bishop can’t offer you what we can. He’s indie, with limited resources, regional distribution at best.”
