Page 79 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

The singer, Noah, runs a hand through his hair and glances toward the glass for the third time in as many minutes. He’s pretending not to look at me.

He keeps missing the first half second of the entry because of it.

I press the talkback button. “Stop looking in here.”

All four of them snap to attention.

Noah straightens. “Sorry.”

“If you’re sorry, stop doing it.”

A laugh comes through one of the engineer’s noses beside me. I ignore it.

I keep my eyes on the band. “You know the song. You know the structure. The only thing in your way right now is the fact that you’ve decided this room matters more than the music.”

Noah swallows. The drummer looks like he wants the floor to open up and take him. The guitarist, to his credit, squares his shoulders like he’d rather get called out than coddled.

Good.

I lean closer to the mic. “You’re not here to impress me. You’re here to make me believe you. There’s a difference.”

Silence in the booth.

Then Noah nods once. More settled this time. “Got it.”

I release the button and glance toward the engineer. “Take it back.”

The track rewinds.

To my left, Gabe is standing with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, looking like he was born in expensive rooms built for negotiation and control. Tailored dark shirt. Sleeves rolled once. Expression calm enough to fool most people into thinking he isn’t constantly calculating six moves ahead.

He glances at me. “Subtle.”

“They’re wasting time.”

“They’re scared.”

“That’s part of the job too.”

He takes a sip of coffee. “You enjoy making that point.”

“I enjoy results.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t push it. He never wastes effort where it won’t get him anywhere.

Julian, on the other hand, wastes effort like it’s a personality trait.

He pushes through the control room door two seconds later, grinning at something that only exists in his own head, a guitar pick flipping over his knuckles as he moves.

“You know,” he says, drifting toward the back of the room, “most people ease new artists into confidence instead of glaring at them until they find God.”

“They don’t need confidence,” I say. “They need discipline.”

“They need therapy after that talkback button.”

Noah’s voice starts again over the speakers before I answer, rough around the edges but stronger now. Better. Less in his head. More in the song.

I nod once toward the glass. “That.”