Page 133 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

The Last Rebels burned bright, burned messy, then started eating themselves alive in public. Great music. No infrastructure. Too much ego, too much damage, not enough discipline. The usual tragedy with better cheekbones.

Still, there’s a difference between knowing a band’s unstable and hearing Gabe say it casually because he’s already measured the collapse.

“They’re not done,” I say.

“No,” he agrees. “Which is exactly why this matters.”

He moves back to the desk and flips the notebook open again, this time on purpose.

I stay where I am and let him.

“Dylan’s been sending over rough material,” he says. “Not officially. Nothing polished. But enough.”

I blink at him. “You’ve heard demos?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Gabe looks up.

The pure strategist falls away, and I can see the music guy underneath it. The one who still, despite everything, loves the thing itself more than the money around it.

“They’re good,” he says simply. “Very good.”

Gabe doesn’t hand out praise as candy. If anything, he under-calls things to avoid sentiment clouding the read.

If he says they’re good, they’re good.

I walk back toward the desk. “How good?”

His gaze holds mine. “Good enough to carry the label.”

I stop moving.

Redemption Records is built, but it isn’t anchored yet. We’ve got talent. Promise. A roster with teeth. But we need a flagship act big enough to force the industry to look up and stop calling this move a vanity retreat.

And The Last Rebels…

Christ.

They would do it.

I look at Gabe and feel the exact moment irritation starts mixing with understanding.

“That’s what this is,” I say.

“It’s part of what this is.”

“No, Gabe. That’s what this is.”

He closes the notebook. “It would be irresponsible not to consider it.”

I bark out a laugh. “You really can make anything sound noble.”

“It doesn’t have to be noble to be necessary.”

“Necessary for the label.”