Page 312 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

He presses his tongue into his cheek.

Tries to hold back what he wants to say.

But can’t, and he lifts his hand. “Yo—why’s your password fuckandrew?”

I deliver a dead glare for peeking.

“'Cause it fits whatever mood I’m in.”

He laughs quick under his breath,

bringing the laptop closer to him.

“Aight. So, quick profit means jack shit if the audience stops believin’ in Callista after. You gotta make ‘em understand there’s a difference between revenue and reputation. One takes a quarter to build. The other takes years. And you’re showin’ the difference in their language—with numbers, not feelings.”

He clicks into Callista’s streaming data,

merch conversion, tour sales.

“Here’s your baseline.

“This is what she’s pullin’ right now.

“So now we figure impact.”

He taps the kitchen table,

thinking,

thinking—

got it.

“You take engagement dips tied to past controversy cycles, right? Even small ones. You apply that to her core audience. If trust drops even ten to fifteen percent, you’re not only losin’ listeners, you’re losin’ repeat buyers. That’s where shit sinks faster.”

He keeps going and I’m lookin’ at him, shocked. I’m not even listening anymore. My brain's just got a boner.

Who the fuck are you, Andrew Harding?

“We also pull comparable artists who had credibility hits. The board needs to see the proof. So, now it’s not ‘she might lose fans.’ It’s ‘here’s the decline in revenue after she does.’”

He spins the laptop so I can see.

I look from his profile

down to the screen.

He falls back in the chair,

takes off his glasses,

looks up at me,

tracing the temple tip across his bottom lip. “Looks real stupid now, don’t it?”

We’re not talking thousands in loss.

We’re talking millions.