Page 39 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

There are four enormous paper bags lined up on the counter, two drink trays, and enough takeout containers to suggest either a family reunion or a hostage situation.

I look at Lara. “What in the hell is that?”

Her mouth twitches. “Your first delivery.”

I roll my eyes. “Great, just what I wanted on my day off. Someone ordering for the apocalypse.”

SIX

Gabe

By the time I’m on my fourth call of the morning, irritation has settled in. Not enough to show, because I don’t do outward irritation, but present all the same, beneath everything else.

“I understand the concern,” I say, keeping my tone even, measured, the same tone I’ve used to close deals worth more than most people will ever see. “But you’re looking at this from the wrong angle.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled shuffle. Someone covering the receiver, no doubt consulting with someone else who thinks they know better.

They don’t.

“It’s not about location,” I continue, leaning back, my gaze drifting over the glass wall of my office toward the grounds beyond. “It’s about environment. You’ve spent the last five years recording in cities that never shut up… do you really think that hasn’t affected your sound?”

Another pause follows, longer this time, and I let it stretch just enough to do its work.

“We’re offering you space,” I add. “Actual space. No label breathing down your neck, no timelines built around marketing cycles instead of the music itself. You come here, you work, and you leave with something real. Cities create noise. This place doesn’t. That’s the difference.”

Silence settles on the line, and I know I’ve hit the right pressure point.

People always assume artists thrive in drama, but they don’t. They want clarity, whether they realize it or not.

“We’ll talk,” the voice says finally.

“You should,” I reply, already certain I’ve done enough to pull them back in, even if they won’t admit it yet. “Take the week. I’ll expect your call.”

I end it there, before they can drag the conversation into something less decisive, and set my phone down with a thud against the desk.

Fourth call. Three more waiting. And still, hesitation.

It’s predictable.

We left the city, and that alone is enough to make people nervous. In this industry, noise passes for relevance, visibility for power, and if you’re not in the middle of it, people assume you’re already falling behind. What they don’t understand is that the middle of it is exactly what ruins most artists.

I built my entire career learning how to navigate that, how to control it, how to use it without letting it use me, and now we’ve stepped outside of it entirely.

Of course, they’re hesitant.

“They’ll come around,” I murmur, not as reassurance but as fact.

They always do.

I reach for the next file, flipping it open and scanning notes I already know well enough to recite: band history, streaming numbers, tour data, behavioral patterns, risk assessment, because talent is common, but stability never is.

My phone buzzes again before I can dial out.

Not a call. A notification.

I glance down, already expecting something I don’t want to deal with, and I’m not disappointed.

My jaw tightens as I open the message.