Chapter one
Sloane
“If you say the wordorganicone more time, I’m firing you.”
“Okay,” Trent says, like he’s humoring a toddler holding scissors. “Hear me out. We need the album togrow organically. Didn't say organ**.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and stare at the Nashville skyline through the windshield of my parked car, as if the city itself might offer a refund on my patience.
I’m sitting in the back lot behind a coffee shop that prides itself on being “quiet” and “minimalist,” which is code forone outlet, weak Wi-Fi, and a barista who hates joy.My latte is lukewarm. My phone is hot. And my artist’s debut album is currently performing like it was released exclusively to my mother and a handful of bots in Latvia.
“Trent,” I say, keeping my voice smooth because I am a professional and professionals do not scream into Bluetooth. “If the album is going to groworganically, it needs sunlight, water, and perhaps a small miracle from a benevolent deity. Do you have one of those? Because I left mine in my other purse.”
On the other end of the line, I can practically hear him smiling. Trent is the label rep they assigned to us because he wears expensive sneakers and knows how to say “brand synergy” without choking.
“Look,” he says. “It’s notbad. It’s just… not hitting the way we hoped. The numbers are… soft.”
Soft.
That’s a cute way to describe something that makes me want to pull into oncoming traffic.
“Soft,” I repeat. “Yes. Like an undercooked pancake. Like a motivational speaker’s handshake. Like my will to live every time someone says ‘TikTok challenge.’”
“Can we not be dramatic?”
“Trent, I’m a music manager in Nashville,” I say. “Drama is my cardio.”
I tap the screen and pull up the streaming dashboard again, as if staring at it harder will make the numbers feel shameful.
They don’t.
The debut album,Good Girl Gone Loud, has been out for ten days.
Ten.
Days.
Which is long enough for the internet to decide whether you’re the next big thing or a quaint little blip they’ll forget by the weekend.
And right now, the internet is giving us the kind of silence usually reserved for awkward wedding speeches.
“We’re trending in exactly zero categories,” I say. “Our engagement is flat. Our pre-save campaign did fine, but now everyone’s acting like the album dropped and took their dog with it.”
“It’s early.”
“It’s early for a pregnancy test,” I snapped. “It’s not early for a debut album in the streaming era.”
He sighs. “We need a push. Something that feels authentic.”
I close my eyes.
“Don’t say it,” I warn.
“What?”
“The word.”
“What word?”
