She blinks. “Keep them?”
I nod. “Most of those songs are of a genre I don’t want to perform anymore. So you go ahead and keep them. That’ll be part of the contract negotiations where I don’t have to, how’d you say it? Be indebted by millions to you.”
Her jaw goes slack. “Piper.”
I shake my head. There’s no point arguing this. “It’s already been decided.”
Raelynn clicks her tongue. “You know what, Piper? I’m honestly disappointed. I brought you up. I protected you when you were nothing but a teenager with a guitar and a TikTok. I built your brand. And now you think you’re too good for any of this?”
I actually laugh at her. “That’s not what I said. I said you don’t own me. I said I want to try something new, and I want to decide what that is. And I don’t intend to keep working with someone who thinks my personal life and mydesignationaremarketing tools for them to play with. We’re done, Raelynn. It’s over.”
It’s more complicated than that. I know it is. There are costs and damages associated with an artist of my caliber canceling an album, and I may never recoup those costs against royalties earned. But the freedom will be worth it, and more.
Raelynn’s mouth quirks up in a tight, not-quite-smile. “I’m sure you’ll make a very compelling circus act for whoever signs you next. Don’t get eaten.”
I smile sweetly at her. “I won’t, but make sure you don’t get the same treatment. I wonder if the next big star happens to also be an omega, will she give you the time of day after how you treated me? I hope not.”
Raelynn’s glare settles on my alphas, especially Kellen. “I’ll expect a call from your family’s lawyers soon then, I suppose?”
Kellen inclines his head. “Absolutely. They’re looking forward to taking this on and hope you settle rather than dragging this out to the court of public opinion.”
Raelynn smiles but her eyes twitch. “Get the hell out of my office.”
I give her a little bow and file out. Kellen walks beside me, and Elliot and Nolan follow behind us to put distance between me and Raelynn. On the way out, I instruct each of them to help me take down the six platinum record displays that belong to me. Raelynn’s studio might have produced the tracks and did all the marketing, but those albums were built withmyblood and tears, my lyrics, and my melodies.
These albums belong tome.
We take them outside Reverie Rest and carefully store them in the car. When I turn back to look at the studio that built my career, my heart is full of bittersweet happiness. A lot of bad happened inside those walls, but an even larger amount of good did, too.
But this isn’t my entire success story. Reverie Rest didn’t build the foundation of my career—I did. With TikTok and a guitar.
Reverie Rest was simply phase one.
I hop into the car alongside my pack and we drive off. Before we’re more than a few minutes from the studio, my phone starts buzzing wildly with notifications.
Someone’s already leaked the news.
The headline reads: WORLD’S FIRST OMEGA POP QUEEN WALKS OUT, TAKES ROYALTY WITH HER.
At least this one’s true.
CHAPTER 28
Piper
You knowwhat doesn’t get enough credit? Sleeping on a boat. The way the engine rumbles underneath your bones, the gentle sway—there’s no lullaby like it. I’m not saying I’d move to a yacht full-time, but after this week, I’d at least do a timeshare. I haven’t slept this well in… maybe ever? Maybe since I was a teenager, before my scent changed and before “privacy” became a punchline in my autobiography.
My eyes flick open. There’s a strange patchwork of blue and gold shadows on the ceiling, thanks to the sun knifing through open portholes and the bright-white pillows stacked up by my head. I’ve got one hand tangled in the blanket and the other clutching a phone, screen-down on my chest. The phone’s still warm, which means I fell asleep mid-scroll, which meanssomeonein my pack is going to roast me about it before noon.
I roll onto my side, cradling the phone and whatever stubborn dregs of sleep I can summon. It’s pointless.
I don’t have to check the calendar to know it’s exactly two years since our first boat trip together, aka the best weekend of my life. I don’t even have to get up to know this one is going to be even better. Last night, all four of us drank expensive wine under the stars until those stars started to swirl together in my vision.
The rest of the pack is already up. Their voices carry down the hallway on the briny air.
I drag myself upright, stretch, and check my phone, which is stacked with notifications. A new album review in which my voice is said to “shred the soul in the best way.” A desperate DM from my publicist asking if I can refrain from drunk-posting about liquid democracy, whatever that means. A video message from Nolan, timestamped 6:14 a.m. I tap it. He’s shirtless, smirking, and saying, “Bet you can’t beat me to the deck. Loser makes the winner coffee.” He sends a similar challenge every morning and loses every time, except the one when I overslept by three hours, and today when the wine from last night definitely kept me asleep for longer.
My toes hit the floor. I pad down the hall in my favorite cherry pajamas. I round the corner, and all three alphas are waiting for me in the galley with delighted smiles the moment they spot me.
