Page 219 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“Okay,” I say. “So what are these mysterious Willow-approved bands?”

She squints upward thoughtfully. “Wolf Alice.”

“Excellent choice. Deeply yearning. Tracks.”

She points at me again. “You’re making this weird.”

I laugh. “So, road trip?”

“Fine,” she mutters. “But if you make me listen to weird indie banjo music for eight hours straight, I’m jumping out of the car.”

I gasp dramatically. “First of all, rude. Second, I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

Three hours later, our flight has landed and we’re headed to the venue.

This might be the most relaxed I’ve felt in months.

No cameras, or interviews, no publicists panicking in the background. The drive stretches long through soft gray skies while music cycles through the speakers.

By the time we hit downtown Minneapolis, the sun’s already setting gold across the skyline.

The showcase venue is packed. Dark lights, sticky floors, too many people pretending they discovered alternative music first.

My natural habitat.

Willow sticks close beside me as we move through the crowd, eyes taking everything in carefully.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She glances around. “It just feels strange being around industry people.”

I bump my shoulder lightly against hers. “You’re industry people now.”

She looks horrified. “Take it back.”

I grin. “No.”

The showcase itself is dramatic in the best way.

Cicada absolutely destroys the room. They have the kind of chemistry you can’t manufacture, no matter how much money labels throw at people.

Willow notices it, too.

Halfway through the set, she leans toward me and says, “They’re good!”

I glance sideways at her. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely.”

After the show, we head backstage.

The band’s sweaty and overstimulated and trying very hard to act cooler than they are while Gabe joins us via video call to handle the actual business side.

Meanwhile, I mostly charm people professionally.

A valuable skill.