Page 532 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

they’ll know I dropped her.

My palm sweats against the leather arm.

What if this isn’t a premonition?

What if this bad feeling’s karma ‘cause everything I’ve done? I don’t deserve to sit in happy for this long.

Linc pushes off the glass, raising his palm, as if he’s not trying to start a fight. “All I’m saying. What’s Monarch doing that you can’t hire out?”

Ty rattles it off⁠—

“Distribution. Radio. International.”

Kate rolls her eyes.

“Cool,” Linc says. “So services.” Then his attention darts to me. “I mean no disrespect, Allie. I know this is your world.”

If they only knew I’m only half here.

But really,

I’m distracted by this unsettling.

Over on the main deck, The Weeknd’s “Starboy” moves through the speakers, and bursts of partying crawl up into the sky. The rooftop is hyped for the countdown in less than two hours.

The year I’ll turn twenty-five, finally become a CEO of a label, become a reason another artist gets dropped, a reason a rapper wants to go indie, a reason a rock star feels taken advantage of.

Fuck. All I wanted to do was make music with people, not war. And now I’m scared more than ever before.

I stare into the fire,

watching embers dance in a glass cage.

I only snap out of it when Gemma slides onto the couch right next to Andrew—runway model first, fragrance campaigns second. “I’ll take being objectified and manhandled, thank you,” she says, sinking close, her knee angling toward his, her silver dress riding high up her thighs.

I glance over my shoulder, catching her tuck her dark hair behind her ear, neck long, mouth pink, mind stupid for thinking he’s available.

She leans into him,

brushing up against his shoulder.

I remain mature and run away from it, lifting off the arm of the chair, redirecting my focus. “Alright, Mr. Indie,” I say, walking closer to Linc before I’m the bad thing coming. “Let’s build a label you’d sign with and not cry about on your birthday. What’s the first thing it has?”

He stares back at me⁠—

sunset-calm in his stance,

graveyard-grief in his eyes.

“Masters.” No hesitation. “Artist keeps ‘em. Or they revert fast. I’m not givin’ somebody my songs forever because they fronted marketing.”

Bowie, Ty’s producer, chimes in:

“Artist keeps the masters.

“Producer keeps the points.

“Writers keep the splits⁠—