I don’t catch the rest. It’s as if his words become a dull murmur in the background, a soundtrack to Dickless’ tightening grip on my reality.
What will happen to my career now? I can’t breathe; each syllable pulls me deeper into an abyss where I fear I might drown. It’s like he’s speaking a death sentence. My fingers twitch against the paper beneath me, craving comfort but finding none. How can this be happening? The dreams I’ve built around my music teeter on the edge of an abyss, ready to plummet at any moment.
Nash’s hand finds mine, and he threads our fingers together. At the same time, Blake presses in against my side, his body offering me warmth through my clothes. Dare moves away from the wall and rests his hand on my shoulder.
I’m not alone in this. Even after hearing that my voice will forever be changed, they’re still standing here. Still supporting me. Still the band I love.
As the bastard’s focus shifts, something in the air changes. The doctor’s voice dips as he mentions the permanent nature ofthe damage, how my range won’t be as high as it once was, and I feel Dickless’ presence grow even more suffocating, his whole demeanor recalibrating like a predator honing in on its prey. “Permanent?” he repeats, the wolfish glint in his eyes setting off alarm bells inside me.
In an instant, he turns to face me, looming over the table like a dark cloud, and for a brief moment, I can’t meet his gaze. His voice drops to a low, dangerous growl. “How could you let this happen to yourself?” His words slice into me, jagged and deliberate, each syllable meant to pierce. “You’re the center of my investment! I gave you everything—every mentor, every coach—and this is how you repay me?”
How dare he act like I chose this! We all know he was the one behind my attack.
A hot flush crawls up my neck, fire feeding off the years of helplessness, the years I let him yank my strings. For the briefest second I’m sixteen again, knees knocking together in his office while he pretends to comfort me. Those long, crooked fingers gripping my shoulder—too tight—while he whispers that I’m his prized possession.
His words make me want to vomit.
I’m about to reply, to scream maybe, but the sound’s caught in my throat, replaced by a dull ache. Instead, Nash beats me to it, voice low and laced with a venom I’ve never heard from him before. “Nobody owns her, asshole.” He says it so calmly, so matter-of-fact, that for a second I wonder if Dickless actually heard it.
The room freezes, everyone teetering on the edge of violence—or maybe just a word sharp enough to cut years of chains.
Dickless doesn’t even glance at Nash. He sets his jaw, eyes locked on me. “Don’t fool yourself. You’re nothing without your voice. And without me, you won’t have a shot in hell at resurfacing when the industry chews you up over this.” A musclein his cheek twitches. For a fleeting second, I wonder if there’s fear under all that venom; the thought gives me a thrill so foreign I almost laugh. He’s not angry I’m broken—he’s terrified his investment is.
I look at him, really look at him, as if for the first time. How his suit strains at his shoulders, how every motion from the doctor, the band—me—pulls the threads a little tighter until all his power seems like an ill-fitting costume.
“Raina is stronger than anyone has ever given her credit for,” Keaton says, twirling his sticks between his fingers.
The nerve-grating laugh I’ve despised for years fills the room as Dickless tilts his head back and lets it out like he’s heard the best joke of his life. Focusing his gaze back on Keaton, he points his finger at me. “This has nothing to do with how strong she is. She’s fucking worthless without that voice. Ruined goods. Absolutely useless. She won’t perform another day in her life, and all her fans will move on. They’ll forget all about shunning Carmen now that she’s the best option there is.”
Anger rushes through me at the mention of her name. How fucking dare he suggest she’s replacing me, and while we are in my doctor’s office nonetheless. He really is uncaring for anyone outside of what they can do for his wallet.
Nash squeezes my hand, which is probably to give me some support for what he says next. “If you find her so worthless, then why don’t you tear up her contract? Prove you really believe the words coming out of your mouth.”
I hold my breath. This is risky as fuck. I never took Nash for a gambling man, but that’s what he’s doing right now. It’s not like we’re in his office at the headquarters for the label and can watch him dispose of the document.
It wouldn’t hold up in court either. I’m sure there’s more than enough digital copies. I’d be surprised if he didn’t keep thedocuments on a flash drive around his neck. Never letting proof of hispropertyout of arms’ reach.
“That’s a very good idea out of a dumpster scrape of a bass player. I want my name removed from the stain of her failure. Because that’s all people will say when they think of you. ‘Oh, what she could’ve been if she had only taken care of her voice.’” His face twists into a sneer. “You should’ve died, Raina. It would’ve been a favor to the world.”
I blink slowly. It’s like he erased the memory from his mind of how I was attacked. Like he wants to rewrite history. Like he’s trying to push me toward suicide again. Maybe he manipulated me toward it the first time all along. But I’m stronger now. His words don’t cut nearly as deep.
Dickless steps toward the door, wanting to storm from the room in a dramatic temper tantrum exit that isn’t surprising at all. Before he can make it past the guys at the door, Tristan’s arm shoots out and stops him in his tracks before he can even reach for the handle.
“Prove it. If she means nothing to you, show us.” I almost want to smile, Tristan is hot as fuck when he stands up for me. I’ve missed this side of him. And it doesn’t pass my notice that Dare is holding his phone nonchalantly, most likely recording everything. He’s always so good at catching the most perfect behind-the-scenes footage.
With a malicious smirk, he tugs his phone from his pocket and dials a number. “Alyssa, I want you to shred Raina’s contract, we’re finished with her.” He pauses for a moment, anger flashing in his eyes. “You heard what I said, now do it, I’m not repeating myself. Get legal on it, and make it happen. While we’re at it, include the band’s contract as well. Schedule a press conference in an hour. We’re announcing the end of Raina’s career.”
He slaps Tristan’s arm out of his way and rips the door open, striding from the room without a second thought, barking orders into his phone at Alyssa.
This is exactly what I’ve wanted for so long. To be free from my contract, to be free fromhim… So why does my gut turn with the idea of how he’ll paint me to the media? He won’t show his true colors like he did here. But we know… and we have video proof of how he treated me. What he thinks of me will be saved in case we need it. But somehow in spite of all that, I almost feel… abandoned?
Which pisses me the fuck off.
Silence grows thick in the room until someone clearing their throat cuts through it. “I’ll see myself out,” the doctor says, voice tight, skirting the edge of the room with the instinct of a prey animal. “But, Ms. Lexington, if you find it helpful, we can revisit options next week. There are forms of therapy—new research—sometimes a different technique opens unexpected doors for patients in your position.” He looks at me directly, and his gaze is insistent, a lifeline thrown out for me to grab. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll find a way forward.” He doesn’t mean it in that bland, bedside-manner way—more the way you say,We haven’t lost yet, not as long as we breathe.
He leaves, and I glance around taking in the demeanor of my men. My label might be against me, wanting to ruin my career for good, but my band digs their heels in the dirt and refuses to budge.
Tristan’s voice pipes up, softer than expected, tinged with something that sounds a lot like hope. “We rebrand. Fuck having a label. We stream. We DIY. We twist the story—everybody loves a comeback, right?” The words hit like a jolt of adrenaline straight to the chest. I want to believe him. A tiny, reckless part of me does.
