I can get through this. One meeting, one conversation, then I go home.
The label’s LA headquarters is exactly what you’d expect. Glass and chrome and people who look like they’ve never eaten a carbohydrate. Everyone moves fast, talks fast, smiles fast. It’s exhausting just walking through the lobby.
I used to fit in here. Or at least I thought Idid. Now I feel like an imposter in my own career, a guy pretending to be Levi Cole while the real version of me is sitting on a pier somewhere, watching the waves.
The elevator takes forever. The receptionist on the top floor offers me water, sparkling or still, and a selection of beverages that includes something called “activated charcoal lemonade.” I decline everything.
The conference room has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a table long enough to land a small plane on, and approximately fifteen people I don’t recognize sitting around it.
And two people I do.
Diane is seated near the head of the table, power suit perfectly pressed, looking like she’s been waiting for this moment for months.
She gives me a tight smile when I walk in. The kind that says “finally” and “don’t mess this up” at the same time.
Mia Monroe is perched at the far end of the table, surrounded by her own team of handlers. She’s wearing white, and everything about her is calculated, from her posture to her lip gloss. When she looks up as I walk in, her face breaks into a smile that probably costs her a fortune to maintain.
“Levi!” She stands, arms outstretched like we’reold friends instead of two people who met exactly once at a meeting just like this one. “So good to see you again.”
She hugs me before I can react. It’s the kind of hug that lingers too long, her perfume overwhelming, her hand resting on my back a beat past comfortable.
“Mia.” I step back. Create distance. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Surprise!” She does jazz hands. Actual jazz hands. “The label thought we should reconnect. Talk about that duet idea.”
The duet idea. Right. Last time I was here, someone floated the concept of me doing a song with Mia Monroe. A rock-pop crossover. “Historic,” they called it. “Career-defining.”
I called it a hard pass, but apparently no one wrote that down.
“Have a seat, Levi.” That’s Richard Stein, the head of the label. He’s got silver hair, a tan that suggests he’s never seen a cloudy day, and the demeanor of someone who’s used to getting what he wants. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
I sit. As far from Mia as the table allows.
She notices. Her smile doesn’t waver, but something flickers in her eyes.
Good. Messagereceived.
The meeting is exactly as painful as I expected.
Richard talks about numbers. Streaming figures. Social media engagement. My “brand trajectory,” which is apparently not trajectoring the way they’d like.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says, and it’s not a compliment. “The industry moves fast. If you’re not putting out content, you’re being forgotten.”
“I’ve been writing.”
“Writing doesn’t pay the bills. Recording pays the bills. Touring pays the bills.” He leans back in his chair. “We’ve been patient, Levi. But patience has limits.”
There’s that phrase again. Harper must’ve gotten it from him.
“I’m working on new material,” I say. “It’s different from my old stuff. More personal.”
“Personal is great. Personal sells. But you need to actually release it.” Richard slides a folder across the table. “Here’s what we’re proposing. A new album by end of year. A tour starting in January. And,” he gestures toward Mia, “a collaboration single to generate buzz before the album drops.”
I don’t touch the folder.
“The single with Mia would be huge,” one of the other suits chimes in. “Her fanbase, your fanbase,there’s almost no overlap. We could pull in a whole new demographic.”
“I’m a rock artist,” I say. “She’s pop.”
