"You've never spent much, have you?" he observed, looking at my financials with surprised approval.
"No. It all felt..." I searched for the word. "Temporary. Like I was playing dress-up in someone else's life. The expensive cars, the designer clothes—none of it felt real."
"That's good, actually. Very good. You have substantial savings. Enough to buy your way out if we're strategic. Most artists in your position have spent everything, borrowed against future earnings. You have leverage."
"I don't care about the money. I just want to be free."
"Then let's get you free." He pulled out a legal pad, began sketching out a plan. "First, we need to understand every contract, every obligation. Then we make them an offer they can't refuse—not because we're threatening, but because it's genuinely good business for everyone."
"You think they'll accept?"
"Money talks. And you're offering to make them whole financially while removing a client who no longer wants to be there. It's win-win if we frame it right."
The meetingwith my team was three days later. David had coached me thoroughly: “Be calm, be clear, be kind until they give you reason not to be. You're not burning bridges; you're building new ones."
They arrived at my house en masse, sweeping through the door in a cloud of expensive perfume and entitlement. Robert in his thousand-dollar suit, Jennifer with her phone already out, Derek shuffling his ever-present papers, and Barbara from the label, sharp as a blade in Chanel.
They were already talking over each other about tour dates and promotional opportunities, assuming I'd called them to get back to work.
They stopped short when they saw David sitting at my dining room table, legal documents neatly arranged in front of him.
"Who's this?" Robert asked, his practiced smile tightening at the corners.
"This is David Kim, my attorney."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"You have attorneys," Barbara said slowly, each word precise. "We provide?—"
"I've hired my own representation." I kept my voice gentle, the way you'd talk to a spooked horse. "Please, sit down. We need to talk about the future."
They sat, but I could see the shift—the calculation beginning behind their eyes, the defensive walls going up.
"I want to start by saying how grateful I am," I began, meaning it. "You took a girl playing dive bars in Austin and made her a star. You believed in my talent when no one else did. You've worked incredibly hard for me, and I recognize that."
Robert relaxed slightly. "Well, of course. We're a team."
"We were a team. And a successful one. But I need to make some changes going forward."
"Changes," Barbara repeated, the word flat and dangerous.
"I've decided to take an extended break and to restructure my professional relationships."
"A break?" Robert laughed, but it was nervous, his eyes darting to the others. "Stevie, you can't take a break. The momentum from the attack—I mean, the sympathy from the public—we need to capitalize?—"
"That's exactly why I need a break," I said quietly. "You see my trauma as momentum to capitalize on. I see it as something to heal from."
"We can work in some rest," Jennifer jumped in, fingers flying over her phone. "Maybe a spa retreat, very public, showing your recovery?—"
"I'm buying out my contracts."
The words landed like a bomb. David smoothly slid folders across the table, one to each of them.
"Fair market compensation for contract termination," he explained. "Above industry standard. Clean break, no litigation, everyone walks away whole."
Robert didn't even open his. "This is insane. We made you. You were nothing before us."
"Robert," I said, still gentle. "Please look at the offer."
