When I finish, he applauds. “Well done,” he says, smiling. “Your voice is just amazing!”
“Good.” I remain on the stage, gripping the microphone stand. “Are you interested in signing me to your label?”
“Well, Bix, I might be. Why don’t you come sit here by me?”
“If you’re not sure, maybe I should sing another song to help you decide.”
“No need. I’ve heard enough.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my tone sharp. “You say you can’t decide, but you’ve heard enough?”
“It means I find you very attractive. And when I sign an artist, it’s kind of like a marriage. Each of us must do our part.”
“My role is to sing,” I say, my voice flat.
“That’s only one of your roles. I must be sure you’re mine. Mycreation. When I present you to my colleagues, they need to know you’ve been hand-picked. The chosen one.”
My stomach turns. This was never about my talent. “That doesn’t sound like a contract,” I say softly. “That sounds like a proposition.”
He shrugs. “It’s the way my father did business. And the way I’ve done business for twenty years.”
“You know Slayer is my boyfriend,” I say, panic rising.
He laughs. “I know it’s fake. Everyone knows it. Come off your high horse and sit down here by me.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Go ahead,” he says, with a thin laugh that barely hides the threat.
I grab my jacket and bolt for the door, heart pounding.Twenty years of doing business this way? How many women before me?
The front door is locked.
I tug the handle.
Nothing. No movement. I try again, slower this time. But the door won't open. There's no way to unlock it.
My pulse spikes. I snatch off my shoes—one less thing to slow me down.
I glance toward the driveway. The limousine is gone. Not just moved—completely vanished from sight. No tire marks, no brake lights. Just a vacant stretch of gravel winding out of view. I press my palm against the glass near the entry, half expecting it to fog under my skin. It doesn’t.
No motion sensors. No latches. The windows are for show—Carlos said as much during the tour. “They’re sealed, better for temperature control.” It seemed like a point of pride.
My stomach tightens—not from panic exactly, not yet—but from a kind of focused dread. I should’ve told someone where I was going. Milo, Slayer—anyone.
But I hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of an audition and I let my hurt and frustration get the best of me.
Right now, that seems absurd.
I turn slowly, scanning the house with new eyes.Oh God.
The air shifts slightly, faint pressure from the upper floor. Then footsteps. Slow. Thoughtful.
Hard soles over polished wood.
I move toward the far end of the hallway, edging past a tall ceramic vase that suddenly feels like it’s watching me.
Every sound carries. There's no carpet or soft surface to swallow the noise—just echoing walls, muted light, and open space that now feels like a trap.
