He flipped it open, saw the number, and his eyes widened. "You want to pay us... this is..."
"Three times what you would make from Ms. Wilson over the next two years, based on current projections," David supplied. "Plus royalties from all existing recordings remain in place."
"But why?" Jennifer looked genuinely confused. "We've made you successful. Rich. Famous."
"You have," I agreed. "But I realized something when I was in that trunk, when that man had me. I realized I didn't want to die as Stevie Wilson. I wanted to live as myself."
"This is that ranch guy," Robert said, his face reddening. "You're throwing away everything for some cowboy who?—"
"Stop." My voice stayed calm, but there was steel in it now. "Liam Walker saved my life. Literally. But this isn't about him. This is about me choosing what my life looks like going forward."
Barbara had been reading the contract carefully, her sharp mind working through the implications. "The label won't like this."
"The label can accept the album I've already recorded as fulfillment of contract one. I'll deliver acoustic versions of the required singles—stripped down, just me and a guitar. After that, I'm on indefinite hiatus."
"And when you come back?"
"If I come back, it'll be different. Small venues. Independent releases. My own terms."
"This is career suicide!" Robert stood, his composure finally cracking. "Do you know how many people would kill for what you have? The opportunities you're throwing away?"
"Then give those opportunities to them," I said simply. "I don't want them anymore."
Derek finally spoke, his voice quiet. "You're really done with all of this?"
"With this version of it, yes. I want to make music, not be a product. I want to sing songs I wrote, not ones a committee approved. I want to perform because I have something to say, not because a contract is making me."
David stepped in smoothly. "You have forty-eight hours to review the terms. After that, we'll need to explore other options, which might be less... generous."
Barbara stood, gathering her folder. "We'll be in touch."
They filed out, Robert still sputtering, Jennifer frantically texting, Derek looking oddly thoughtful.
Barbara paused at the door. "For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I get it. I wouldn't have your courage, but I get it."
After the management meeting, I knew there was one more conversation I couldn’t put off. My band deserved more than a press release or secondhand news—they’d carried me through every tour, every sleepless night, every moment when I’d doubted myself. I owed them an explanation. A real one.
So I asked them to meet me in our rehearsal room.
When I walked in, they were already there—Avery perched on an amp, Dom pacing, Cass cross-legged on the floor tapping nervously at her knee, Juno leaning against the wall with red-rimmed eyes like she already knew what I was going to say. The room was too quiet without warm-up chords or someone complaining about tuning.
I took a breath. “I owe you the truth,” I said, voice soft but steady. “About everything.”
And I told them—about the attack, the ranch, Liam, the fear that had nearly broken me, the strength I’d clawed back, and the decision I was making now. Not to quit music, but to reclaim it. To stop living for labels, managers, and charts. To start living for myself.
Silence followed… long and heavy.
Then Avery was the first to move. She crossed the room in three strides and wrapped her arms around me so tight it stole my breath. “You don’t owe us an apology,” she murmured into my hair. “Just happiness. That’s all we ever wanted for you.”
Dom swore under his breath and pulled me into a messy group hug. Cass started crying openly, muttering something about being mad but proud. Juno kissed my forehead like a sister.
We talked for hours—about songs we’d written at 2 a.m., fights we’d had three cities into a tour, tiny victories, major screwups, and all the nights we’d looked out at a crowd and known we were part of something bigger than ourselves.
They promised they’d keep going. I promised I wasn’t disappearing. We promised we’d come back together someday, but on different terms.
When I finally slung my guitar case over my shoulder, they followed me into the hallway. A little parade of love and heartbreak.
Just before the elevator doors closed, Avery called out, voice thick but fierce: “Go be happy, Steph. We’ll catch up when you’re ready.”
