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The bastard is right.

A woman I barely know has taken over my goddamn sanity and inspired the best music I’ve ever fucking written.

I turn toward the mixing console.

“This shit is not okay, man. She just showed up.”

“That’s all they need to do. Show up.”

I rub a hand over my jaw.

Zymon watches me for a second, then lets out a quiet laugh.

“You’re fucked.”

“Fuck off.”

He grins.

“I know.”

His grin widens and then he sobers up. “About the reggeaton track. The only way it would make an impact in our culture is if we get the hottest reggaeton female act right now.” He starts scrolling through something on his phone.

“She’s charting in Europe. Latin America. The U.S. She’s everywhere.”

I lean forward.

“Name.”

He gives it to me.

I recognized it immediately.

She’s been impossible to avoid lately.

Her latest single is playing in clubs, cars, stores, fucking elevators.

She’s young, talented, and apparently incapable of releasing a song that doesn’t explode.

“She’d kill this track,” Zymon says.

I look at the unfinished file again.

Maybe.

Actually...Yeah.

“She could.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It isn’t.”

He grins.

“I'll reach out to her team.”

“Don’t promise anything.”