“When everything was smooth sailing, Manifest supported the Saints’ new sound,” says the anonymous source. “But at the first sign of pushback, the label lost its backbone. We can only hope that Braverman and the executive team at Manifest see reason and release the Saints’ album like the public wants.”
Interestingly, Manifest’s decision to pull the album comes right on the heels of the label’s latest disappointing earnings statement, which we reported last week. Industry gossip has it that Manifest’s board is souring on Braverman, once considered a heavyweight but increasingly viewed as the head of a waning empire. Could it be the threat of an activist board that really has this CEO spooked?
As for the fate of the Saints’ album, as our source says: “The ball is in Roger Braverman’s court.”
Chapter 47
Theo
Saturday, October 26, 2024
Heavy pounding nearly takes my hotel door off the hinges.
“Anonymous source, my ass,” Roger says, the instant I open it. He stands in the openair hallway in another impeccable white suit, though this time I think of the Angel of Death.
“I had no choice.” My voice is matter-of-fact. I considered the leak from every angle. I have no regrets.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Theodore.” Roger pushes past me into my suite. I stand for a moment, taking in the cool October breeze shaking the palm trees in the parking lot. For the briefest moment, I close my eyes, trying to soak in the moment. Then I grit my teeth, shut the door, and steel myself.
Roger whirls around the miniature living room. I can feel his disdain at being forced to have this conversation in an Extended Stay suite.
“What the fuck were you thinking? We have fans blowing up our phone lines, going crazy on social media. It’s insanity.”
“I told you.” I fold my arms over my chest. “The album deserves to be released. I understand it hurt when your friend at theTimesquestioned your judgment—”
“Hurt?” Roger booms. “I’m not a fucking teenage girl. This is business.”
“If you say so.”
He shakes his head and starts pacing again, this time in front of the chipped coffee table. “And the shit you said. What was my favorite quote? Oh yeah. We shouldn’t bow to the ‘misogynistic, retrograde gatekeepers.’ What kind of flowery BS is that?”
“I was making a point.”
Roger pushes up the sleeves of his suit jacket as he paces, so his tanned forearms, those ropy veins from too much tennis, are exposed. “You said I lost my backbone.”
He waits for me to backtrack, or apologize, but I say nothing. Roger looks at me—really looks, one man to another. And I see that this is the crux of his hurt—that I’ve gone from an acolyte, a true Roger Braverman believer, to someone capable of seeing his flaws.
“After everything I did for you?”
I’d asked myself the same question. Could I be disloyal to the man who’d given me so much? But the more I searched my memory for examples of what exactly Roger had given me, the less I found. He’d singled me out and mentored me as a junior manager—that was true— but only after I’d made a name for myself taking the worst jobs at the label. He’d supported me with the Saints, but only after the band kept going viral. He’d promoted me, or promised to, when he thought I was a yes-man. Worst of all, he’d treated Hannah, Kenny, and Ripper like they were chess pieces rather than people. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered whether Roger had ever been the man I built him up to be. Was I so desperate for a mentor, some paternal proxy, that I’d conjured my version of Roger out of thin air?
“I was standing up for people I believe in,” I say calmly. “I’m sorry that put us at odds.”
“You betrayed me. For them.” There’s a strange quality to Roger’s voice—almost as if he’s asking a question. Like he needs me to confirm my choice out loud.
I give him what he needs. “Yes.”
For a second, the word hangs in the air—and then Roger detonates, whipping out his arm and striking the lamp next to the couch. It hits the floor with such force the ceramic cracks. “Well, fuck you, Theodore.”
I go completely still.
“We’re releasing your goddamn album,” he pants. Fury radiates from him. “Are you happy? Your stunt worked.” It actuallyworked? “Roger, thank you—” “But your promotion’s gone.” I flinch. I can’t help it. I thought I’d made peace with it—God
knows I expected this—but still, it was a goal I’d worked toward for years. The thing that was supposed to make me finally happy. The loss of it stings.
“Everyone at the label expects me to fire you,” he spits.
My heart leaps into my throat. Here it is. My date with the guillotine.
