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Carl extended a hand for me to shake, but the disdain on his face suggested he'd rather be touching actual garbage. "Pleasure," he muttered, though the way he promptly wiped his hand afterward suggested otherwise. "Follow me, please, Mr. Scott."
Without bothering to check if I trailed behind, he began striding back toward the imposing building. Stepping into the pristine marble lobby felt like entering an alternate universe reserved for the ultra-privileged, from the grandiose chandelier to the cut-crystal glasses at the water station, each item screamed excessive price tags. Glancing down at my worn jeans and scuffed boots only served to underscore how out of place I felt in this world.
Wordlessly, I followed Carl into the mirrored elevator, the ascent climbing far higher than I’d expected. Based on Colt's photos, I had assumed the studio was much closer to ground level. Yet, even after reaching an altitude that caused my ears to pop, the lift continued carrying us skyward.
As the elevator finally crawled to a stop, we stepped into a vast, opulent office adorned with expansive windows offering breathtaking views of downtown LA. Passing by a series of plush couches, I half-expected Carl to take a seat, but instead, he settled behind a grand mahogany desk and gestured for me to occupy the chair opposite him, as if I were a student being summoned to the principal's office.
"Um, is Colt joining us?" I ventured cautiously.
"I'd prefer to speak with you alone. Man to man. Let's not disturb Colton while he's working," he remarked pointedly.
"Ah, of course. But I didn't intend to interrupt his work. I just wanted to say hello before heading back to his place," I explained tentatively.
Carl let out a chuckle, though there was no warmth to it. "It's not Colton's place. It's owned by the label, and Colton must seek permission before having guests. I'm afraid you'll have to find alternative accommodations for tonight."
I chuckled awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. "What, is he back in middle school again and needs sleepovers approved by Daddy?" I quipped, attempting to diffuse the tension.
Carl's glare remained steadfast.
"This is ridiculous. You do realize we're married, right? You can't stop me from seeing my husband," I asserted, frustration creeping into my voice.
"Unfortunately not," he replied curtly, making it clear he wished for nothing more.
"Fine, whatever," I muttered, pushing back my chair. I had no desire to engage in this absurd conversation any longer. "Could you just point me in the direction of the studio?"
"Sit down, Grayson," Carl commanded.
His tone sent a chill down my spine, causing me to sink back into my seat before I even registered obeying. Who the fuck did this guy think he was?
"Now, as you mentioned, yes, you and Colton are legally married. Though, fortunately for us, Colton opted to use his biological father's surname on your marriage certificate, rather than Ray. It helps us maintain this facade without drawing unwanted attention from the public," he explained with a dismissive eye roll. "If it were up to me, I'd have the entire marriage annulled. But the PR team assures me that would attract more negative attention than simply pretending it never occurred."
"Excuse me?" I sputtered in disbelief.
"Oh, come on. I know Colton didn't marry a genius, but I didn't think I'd have to spell it out for you," he scoffed.
His condescending remark hit a nerve. I had spent my entire life enduring whispers behind my back about my intelligence—or lack thereof. And, ashamedly, part of my drive to attend college stemmed from the fear of being deemed unworthy of Colt.
I wanted to brush off this jerk's opinion, but it struck deeper than I cared to admit.
"Spell out what? I couldn't give a shit about your opinion of my relationship, and neither does Colt," I retorted, attempting to loosen my grip on the arms of the expensive chair.
"That's not entirely accurate, though, is it? I'm well aware that Colton doesn't care, as I've already attempted to reason with him," Carl remarked.
He had? Why hadn't Colt mentioned this to me? The Colt I knew would have relayed Carl's words verbatim and then laughed at the absurdity of it. Was he also having doubts about us?
"But I understand you care deeply about his career, perhaps more so than he does," Carl continued. "After all, you're the one who signed him up for that open mic night."
"Well, yes. Colt is talented and deserves an opportunity to share his music. I fail to see what his personal life has to do with it," I replied.
"Sweet Jesus, you naive idiots. Is everyone from bumfuck nowhere Idaho so clueless?" Carl huffed. "Talent means very little in this industry. Yes, your boy Colton is immensely talented and is destined for greatness with a voice like that. But he could have the talent of Beyoncé and still flop in the charts without the right marketing and audience. And let me tell you who wants to buy music from Colton—teenage girls. Teen girls who fantasize about him, about mending his broken heart. But that illusion is shattered when he jumps off stage and kisses his “husband”. Being tied down is bad enough if it's with a woman, but with a man? Forget it. Fans want to believe they have a chance with him, even if they know it's never going to happen," his remarks dripped with disdain.
"So, if I were you, I'd gracefully exit this sham of a “marriage.” If you truly love him, let him shine as the star he was meant to be without you holding him back," Carl concluded, twirling a pen between his fingers as if he hadn't just shattered my entire world.
"Go fuck yourself!" I spat.
"Hmm, it seems you don't love him as much as Colton claims," Carl retorted casually.
"That's none of your fucking business. We're happy together. Nothing you say will change that," I growled.
