I take a breath. “If you say that O word again, I’m going to put your name on a flyer and staple it to every telephone pole on Broadway under the headline: ‘MAN WHO RUINED MY LIFE.’”
A silence.
Then he laughs. “Sloane, you’re scary.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I work hard at it.”
That part is only half a joke.
Because I didn’t get to this point in my career by being sweet.
I got here by being sharp.
By being the woman who walks into a room full of men in expensive boots and bigger opinions, and makes them all take a step back.
I’m Sloane Carter.
Music manager.
Fixer.
Strategist.
If chaos had a clipboard, it would have my initials on it.
And I don't panic.
Not out loud.
Panic is for people without backup plans.
I live on Plan D.
Sometimes Plan F.
On particularly cursed weeks, Plan “fake your death and move to a farm.”
Right now, I’m somewhere between D and “is goat farming hard?”
“What’s Raina saying?” Trent asks.
I glance at the passenger seat where my other phone… yes, I carry two because I hate peace… rests face down like it’s ashamed.
“Raina is saying she’s fine,” I say. “Raina is also currently refreshing Spotify every seven minutes like she’s waiting for a man to text her back.”
“I can call her.”
“No,” I say immediately.
Trent pauses. “Why not?”
Because Raina doesn’t need a label rep with a motivational tone reminding her she’s a product.
Because she’s twenty-two and brilliant and just walked out of a tiny apartment in Kentucky with a guitar and a dream and way too much trust in the people who told her she could do this.
Because if anyone is going to absorb the panic, it’s going to be me.
“I’ll handle her,” I say, lighter than I feel. “That’s my job. I manage the music and the feelings.”
