My brain stutters.
“Three weeks?” Eli blurts, sounding like someone slapped him awake. “As in twenty-one days? As in… soon?”
Simpson gives him this patient smile that probably costs money. “If you want the momentum from last night to mean something, yes. Horizon wants you in LA by then. Writing room, preproduction, then tracking.”
I swallow because I’m pretty sure my pulse just climbed into my throat. LA. Not just a weekend trip. Not a showcase. NotAnthony coming to check on us in a dingy bar. LA-LA. Labels. Studios. The whole monster.
The best part? It’s where Ollie is. Not that I can think about that right now. Not when my future is being stapled together across a conference table.
Simpson flips another page in the packet, then pushes it toward us. “This is a preliminary offer. Not final. We’ll need to tailor things once you have an agent negotiating on your behalf.”
Miles nods slowly. Analytical. “So this isn’t the contract.”
“No,” Simpson says. “But it’s the skeleton. I’m showing you what Horizon is prepared to commit to, and what they’ll expect in return.”
Drew leans forward, eyes bright. “What… like money?”
“Like advances, recording budgets, recoupment structure,” Simpson says. “Tour support. Merch percentages. All negotiable. All things you’ll need proper representation for.”
Eli elbows me. “Representation. That’s code for someone to stop us from signing our lives away.”
“It’s code,” Simpson says dryly, “for someone who knows how to keep you from getting eaten.”
My knee bounces under the table. I can’t stop it. I’m buzzing and terrified and trying not to think about the fact that my brand-new husband—Jesus, those words—will be within touching distance.
Simpson taps the page. “Now. Logistic concern number one: You can’t work remotely, and you can’t commute. You need to be in LA. Full-time. At least six months. After that, we can talk about flexible timelines.”
Eli blinks. “We’re… already in LA.”
“Yes,” Simpson says, “and that simplifies one hurdle. But you’ll need to be available full-time. Daytime hours. Evenings. Weekends. Whatever the producers need.” He taps the folder. “Which means academia may not fit into that picture.”
Miles sits up. “We’d have to drop classes.”
“Defer,” Simpson corrects, though not unkindly. “Pause. Shift to online if your school allows it. You’ll need to talk with your advisors.” His gaze flicks to me. “And any financial aid tied to enrollment will need to be addressed.”
My stomach clenches. “Our rent… part of it’s subsidized through scholarships. If we drop, we lose that.” Why the hell haven’t I even considered that part?
“Then your agent will negotiate an advance large enough to cover your rent,” Simpson says. “Or Horizon can connect you with short-term creative housing we contract with for artists. It’s not fancy, but it’s close to the studios.”
Drew whistles. “Studios. As in the real thing?”
“Sunset and La Cienega,” Simpson says simply, like that’s normal.
This is real.
He flips to another section and continues, “As for the timeline, we want to record the EP quickly. Strike while the buzz exists. And the buzzdoesexist—your showcase numbers on socials are already climbing. You’ll need to rehearse, tighten your live show, prepare for media coaching. It’s a lot. But you’re ready.”
My throat goes tight. I can’t help it.
He thinks we’re ready.
Simpson closes the folder with deliberate care. “The next step is simple: Find an agent. Immediately. You’ll need someone in your corner before we move any further than this.”
Miles is already reaching for his phone.
Simpson chuckles. “Now that’s the urgency I like to see.”
Drew leans back in his chair, eyes huge. “We’re seriously doing this.”
