A rush of exhilaration courses through me at Izzy’s words, a potent mixture of disbelief and joy. I knew she was on board with the idea, has worked diligently as my manager to help make my dreams a reality, but I never could have expected her to adopt them as her own too.
Izzy and Gill have become synonymous in the structure of the label. It’s their baby as much as mine.
“I can’t believe it’s really happening,” I murmur, my voice laced with awe as I watch the animated discussions unfolding on the computer screen. My fingers trace the edge of my notepad, gripping it tight.
“Trust me, Raina, there’s no stopping us now,” Dare states.
Izzy continues weaving together our plans, outlining our vision, and I soak in every detail. We aren’t just creating a legacy; we’re carving out a sanctuary where artists can thrive unrestrained by the things I once endured.
I glance around the room, my gaze settling on Keaton’s steady presence. He’s always my anchor—the calm in the chaos. I lift my glass again, the warmth of the moment washing through me.
“To new beginnings,” I say, my voice strong and sure.
Our glasses clink, the sound ringing like a promise.
Izzy smiles wide, the sparkle in her eyes illuminating the moment. “Together, we’ll make it happen,” she assures us. I hold on to those words, letting them settle deep within me, a grounding reassurance as we wrap up the meeting.
With the virtual call concluding, I feel the weight of anticipation shift to something tangible. In that moment, I know I’ve taken a giant step forward, with my bandmates steadfastly supporting me.
Of course, the joy of the launch couldn’t last forever…
And it comes as no surprise that Dickless is the one to pop the bubble only a couple days after our announcement.
“How did he already line up an interview?” Tris asks angrily.
Dare works to bring up the recording on our giant TV so we can watch it together. I can’t express how thankful I am to have them in my life. For the fact that I never have to watch something like this alone again. I can’t count the times he tried to belittle me to the public while wearing a smile. Forever trying to slice me with a thousand cuts.
We bunch together on the couch in the media room, my gut twisting with dread. The glow from the screen illuminates the faces of my guys, and I can sense the tension weaving through the room, thick enough to taste.
As the intro to the show pierces the silence, a wave of anxiety crashes over me, threatening to sweep away my resolve.
“Welcome back to Spotlight Syndicate,” the host introduces, his tone polished. The flicker of the camera shifts to Dickless, perfectly coiffed in a tailored suit that screams power, exuding a calm confidence as he smiles into the lens. My stomach churns; he seems poised and composed, a predator waiting to pounce.
“The music industry is abuzz with rumors about new artists, including a certain up-and-coming label,” the interviewer prompts, and I lean forward, heart pounding.
“It’s adorable, really,” he chuckles, waving a dismissive hand as if swatting at a pesky fly. “These vanity projects tend to flutter about like moths to a flame but rarely last once the reality sets in.” His tone drips with mockery, a wolfish glimmer flickering in his eye as I feel anger bubbling within me.
Beside me, Nash erupts, “What an arrogant prick!” He slams his palm on the coffee table, making the mugs tremble. His ire settles over me, but my gaze remains glued to the screen, unable to tear away from the trainwreck unfolding.
“Especially when the artist in question can’t even perform.” The words hit harder than they should have—but only for a moment. The sting fades, leaving something colder, clearer. I’ve bled for this dream. He can’t take that from me.
He doesn’t even know what he’s talking about. Neither him nor my parents have reached out to ask how I’m doing. But he doesn’t need the truth to spread his defamation.
Tristan’s knuckles whiten around his glass, his face turning a shade of red.
My pulse races, my thoughts tumble over one another as the feeling of being backed into a corner washes over me. Flashbacks of when he’s done this to me in the past threaten to take over. “This is bullshit!” I whisper fiercely, the anger igniting every fiber of my being.
Dickless’ condescending tone continues to flow, “I wish them the best, but talent without guidance is just noise.” The finality of his words hangs like a dark cloud, suffocating in their weight.
“Does he think we’re going to let him define us?” Blake asks, fists clenched, determination igniting in his gaze. I look at him, and his voice becomes my own—loud and defiant, urging me to rise above this moment.
“Let’s not give him power over us,” I whisper fiercely, standing abruptly, my reflection in the glass revealing not just a victim, but a fighter ready to rise. “This isn’t just about us anymore; it’s about the message we’re sending. Our existence speaks volumes louder than his empty words.”
“We’ll make them listen,” Keaton states, his voice calm, a tether anchoring our resolve as the band circles around me, determination igniting in their eyes. The energy in the room shifts; we stand together—bandmates, friends, family, a united front against the negativity thrust upon us.
This is why I just reminded myself that I need them, that I’ll never be alone again. Because it’s so freaking true.
“I’ve got this,” Dare claims, lifting his phone. I know without even asking him that he’s planning some videos to post on our socials.
