I don’t mention anyone. No names. No timeline. No bait. I swap in a quiet photo from the suite—a corner of my sketchbook on the table, a coffee cup in frame, the window light soft on the page. No face. No ring light. No fonts trying to be brave.
“Do I post this?” I ask.
“Do you want to?” Houston cocks his head to the side.
“Yes.” I pause, thinking. “I also want to delete the internet.”
“Post,” Knox says. “Then close the app.”
“Post, post, post,” Salem chants.
I read it one more time, looking for land mines. It still feels like me. It doesn’t feel like bait. “Okay.” I hit post.
I set the phone face down and breathe. It feels right. I’m moving on. If the threats come, they come.
14
KNOX
Quincy calls the meeting himself.No assistant. No buffer. The text saysfive minutes, green room. When he writes like that, he means now.
I get there first. A small couch, stale coffee, and a laminated schedule on the wall with our name on it too many times. He’s already in the chair by the table, tall and lean. Phone face down. Eyes up.
“If we don’t have a single by week two, I might not be able to extend the residency.”
I sit. My jaw tightens on its own. “We’re not rushing a single to save a contract.”
He taps the table twice. “I know what a rush sounds like. I’m not asking for junk. I’m telling you the hotel wants a single to debut on a marquee. A new song this week plays better thantrust us, art is happening.”
“Artishappening. On schedule. It’s not our fault they’re getting twitchy.”
Salem slouches into the doorway, then takes the far end of the couch. Houston leans against the wall and crosses his arms.
Quincy clocks all our faces, then shrugs. “I’m just pointing to the clock. The deal here hinges on a single debut at The Gold Bar. You made commitments. There’s a contract.”
I breathe for four counts. “We will deliver a song when the song is ready.”
He looks pleased and annoyed at the same time. “Good. Keep that spine. But get me something the radio can spin without a memo. Verse, chorus, hook, out. Two minutes fifty-seven, three eight if you must. Clean version ready. That’s the game we’re still playing.”
“We’re working a chorus,” I say. “It’s close.”
“Closer by Friday,” he says, then flips the phone, checks a message, and flips it back. “Second thing. Document Troy’s harassment.”
The wordharassmentlands like a small explosion. Houston’s eyes sharpen. Salem’s mouth goes tight. My pulse jumps then steadies.
“What have you got?” Quincy asks. “Texts, DMs, calls to the hotel? Save screenshots. Save voicemails. Time stamps, locations. If we have to pull counsel in, I want a file that looks organized, not emotional.”
“We are not lawyering Troy,” I blurt.
“We’re not starting there,” he says, calm. “We are preparing. So if he escalates, I don’t have to ask you three to remember which Tuesday he sent a drunk threat.”
I look at the wall calendar and hate that he’s right. “Noted.” My chest doesn’t like the word. It feels wrong to narc on Troy. Even if no one sees it.
“Last thing,” he goes on. “Lou. Keep it boring in public. If trolls crawl out, you block and keep working. If anyone threatens her, you bring it to me. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good. We don’t want a repeat of Birmingham Betty.”
