I force myself to straighten, my spine stiff despite his heavy gaze. “It won’t happen again,” I say, each word carefully measured. Why bother correcting him? He’s already judged me and apparently decided my sentence.
The corner of his mouth twitches into a bitter smirk. “Good. Wouldn’t want to distract you from… whatever this is.” He waves a hand dismissively, the sarcasm in his tone worse than any insult.
“Enough,” Jake interjects, his voice calm but firm as he steps between us. His scent finds me the moment he does, soft and steady, like it’s always been. And it pulls at the memories I’ve tried so hard to bury. Crisp sage, an herbal sharpness that reminds me of late-night conversations and truths I didn’t want to hear. Then comes the faint thread of green tea, soothing and fresh, like the quiet comfort of his touch when words failed. He might be a beta, but even with his soft musk, he draws me in.
I stand frozen, his presence pulling at something fragile inside me. His gaze flicks from me to West, his expression calm but his words cold and biting. “If we’re doing this, let’s do it. Otherwise, say the word, and we’ll walk. But this passive-aggressive bullshit? It’s not helping anyone.”
Xayden, leaning lazily against the doorframe, spins a drumstick between his fingers before tapping it against the edge of the booth. “Jake’s right. Let’s just get this over with.”
Their words should sting, should unravel me fully, but all I feel is a hollow ache. My body moves on autopilot, following as they lead me toward the meeting room where this all began.
The air inside is heavy with tension, thick enough to choke on. My boots tap against the floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence.
They take their places—Todd leaning against the far wall, arms crossed; Jake perched on the edge of a table, his gaze assessing; Xayden lounging in a chair, his drumsticks still in hand; and West, who paces near the window, his restlessness palpable.
“Well?” Todd finally says, breaking the silence. His arms are crossed, his stance rigid. “What’s the plan, Ashlyn?”
I inhale deeply, pushing aside the tension tightening my chest. “We’ll start with the basics,” I say, pulling out my notes and steadying my voice. “I’ve drafted some ideas to integrate your music into the next season—something that highlights your sound, draws in your fans, and ties it seamlessly to the show’s themes. For the first episode, we’ll focus on transformations. The models will see how subtle changes—like the makeovers we’ll give each of you—can amplify a message or redefine a presence.”
The moment the word "makeovers" leaves my lips, I feel the shift in the room.
West makes a noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a groan. Todd’s chair creaks as he leans back, arms crossing over his chest. Jake exhales sharply, shaking his head, and Xayden—of course—just stares at me, unimpressed.
“Makeovers?” Todd repeats, like the word physically pains him.
West lets out a low laugh, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, that’s gonna be a hard no.”
Jake gestures between them. “We’re a rock band, Ashlyn, not some boy band with synchronized outfits and—whatever the hell you’re planning.”
I lift a brow, unfazed. “And what exactly did you think a show about model makeovers would entail?”
West gestures toward himself. “I don’t know, maybe something that doesn’t involve us getting primped and styled like Ken dolls?”
“Oh, please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “No one’s turning you into Ken dolls. But image matters, and this is a fashion-centric show. It’s about evolution, reinvention—things you already do with your music. This just happens to involve, you know, haircuts.”
Xayden shifts, jaw tight. “Not happening.”
I take a slow breath, resisting the urge to roll my eyes again. This is going to be a long meeting.
I exhale slowly, reining in my patience. They were never going to be easy.
“Look,” I continue, keeping my tone even, determined not to let them steamroll me. “This isn’t about changing who you are. It’s about showing different sides of you—refining, not erasing. Your fans already love your music. This is a chance to expand that reach, to introduce you to a broader audience. And whether you like it or not, visuals matter. Perception matters.”
West exhales sharply but says nothing. Xayden spins his drumstick between his fingers, still watching me, but not shutting me out completely.
I press on, walking them through the concept with as much professionalism as I can muster. I outline the logistics, the creative vision, the marketing potential—how a fresh take on their image could elevate both the show and their band without compromising their identity.
The resistance doesn’t break all at once, but I feel it bend.
Todd’s skeptical glare softens slightly, his brows furrowing like he’s actually considering what I’m saying. Jake nods along, his expression measured but intrigued, tapping a rhythm against his knee. Xayden’s twirling slows, his attention lingering on me longer. Even West stops leaning against the window, standing straighter, though his eyes remain unreadable.
I let a small pause settle between us, giving them space to process. Then, with a smirk, I add, “Besides, I hate to break it to you, but I’ve seen your early band photos. This won’t be your worst look.”
Todd lets out a sharp breath—almost a laugh. Jake actually grins. West shakes his head, muttering something under his breath. Even Xayden’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk.
The tension isn’t gone, but something shifts. They’re listening now.
As I finish, Todd straightens, his lips pressing into a firm line. “We’ll think about it,” he says finally, the edge in his tone making it clear the battle isn’t over.
