Zaza asking if I could sing on stage.
Sterling’s call...
I could brush it off as the fruit of Zaza’s connections or birthday luck.
But what are the odds?
As I step outside, the limo driver emerges, bows, and opens the door as if it’s a velvet invitation.
I slide in. The leather cushions sigh beneath me. The scent inside? Clean, industrial luxury.
Just like Sam’s place.
No. I won’t go there.
“Water, Ms. Bismark?” the driver asks.
“No, thank you.”
Outside, Manhattan thrums. A couple laughs, spreading cream cheese over bagels at an outdoor café. Normal people doing normal things.
And me?
I’m in a chauffeured car heading to a dream audition I didn’t plan for.
My fingers fiddle with Keesha's cross at my neck as I think of Sam again. His voice, his arms drawing me close when he realized how new I was to all of it.
How gently he held me after.
How easily he ghosted me.
I close my eyes.
Bad idea.
The bed flashes in my memory.
His sheets.
My breath against his wrist. The ache in my chest.
The limo turns onto 42nd Street, and Sterling Records rises like a monument ahead.
Time to focus.
Last night is the past. This is now.
“Ms. Bismark. Welcome,” says the receptionist as I enter and give her my name. “Please have a seat while I notify Mr. Sterling.”
Instead of sitting, I walk around the lobby, examining the historic photographs. The walls tell stories in black and white—faded images of women in beaded flapper dresses, men in top hats. All of them frozen in time.
When I turn to examine the wall with images of more modern artists, I gasp. There's Slayer looking at me from a frame, magnetic dark eyes boring into mine.
“Remarkable photos, aren’t they?” the receptionist says with pride, coming over to where I stand.
“We’ve collected images from vaudeville to today. Mr. Sterling’s great-grandfather started with theater acts before moving into jazz, popular music, then rock.”
I nod and gesture toward the photo of Slayer, eager to ask for more details, but her phone rings.
