My index finger taps on the tabletop, the ring at the base clinking with each downward pump. “I’m aware of that fact. It’s my contract, after all.”
The switch to his label, Symposium Records, was not one made lightly; however, after being dropped from the previous one due to some hits my reputation took, I didn’t have much of a choice.
And while a typical contract spans a single year, with the potential to renew for future releases, the contract I’d been asked to sign roped me in for three years and as many albums, minimum.
Not necessarily unheard of for a firm as large as Symposium, but still. It’s the principle; being stuck living under my father’s thumb, the way I have my entire life, becomes less appealing every day.
His mouth twists. “I get it. You’re tired, we just finished the Argonautica tour, and you’re feeling flighty. Every performer gets that way. Once you see the eight-figure projections, you’ll feel differently.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s not the money. I’m not jonesing for cash. I’m just not sure I want to work with your label.”
The penthouse apartment gets extremely quiet, the only sound that of the busy East Fifty-Seventh Street below.
Gripping the armrests of his seat, my father swallows audibly. The unspoken words hang in the air between us, the implication heavy: I don’t want to work with him.
But because this is the music industry, and I’m legally bound in more ways than just one, I don’t get a fucking say. Before he speaks, I can feel his words in the pit of my stomach, like a large stone disrupting a shallow pond.
“Guess you’ll just have to learn to live with it.”
Callie’s voice is barely discernible through the din of the gala, even though she’s got her mouth pressed against my ear.
I can feel her pink lipstick staining my skin as she informs me of my role tonight for the millionth time; the show’s over now, a stagehand having already taken my acoustic guitar up to the penthouse, leaving my hands feeling very empty.
Autographs have been signed, and I’m supposed to sit on stage and look pretty for the rest of the night.
Until the auction, that is. Then, I’m supposed to be attentive and friendly to entice the crowd—as if any woman here wouldn’t crawl on her fucking knees for a chance to breathe the same air as Aiden fucking James.
That’s not even ego talking; it’s just how it is. Rabid fans flashing their tits in the hopes that I’ll see and want to take them home with me. It’s the main reason I stopped doing VIP events after concerts.
“Think you can handle sitting here and not causing a commotion?” Callie asks, pushing some of her dark coppery hair off her shoulder.
“Do I think I can handle something you can teach a dog to do?” I hook one ankle over the opposite knee, resting my hands on my lap. “Yes, you’ve trained me well.”
She rolls her eyes, reaching to adjust the collar of her red blazer. “Ay, such a smart-ass. I can tell your father is around.”
Her accent peeks through her irritation, so I don’t bother correcting her; he left right after telling me to nut up and get over my reservations with the label, presumably to rejoin my ex-girlfriend in whatever luxury hotel they’re at for the weekend.
Since I had this event scheduled, there was no time to press him on it.
“See any causes you might wanna bid on?” Liam, my best friend and publicist, asks as Callie walks away to bother some of the catering staff. He pulls a hand through his dirty-blond hair, tossing a quick look around the room, as if we haven’t been through the prospects twice since arriving.
I shake my head, glancing around quickly for the millionth time; black satin cloths mask each round table lining the ballroom, and candles sit at their centers, drowning the partygoers in darkness.
They all look the fucking same at these events; the men in their expensive three-piece suits, eyes roaming no matter their attachments. There’s always someone willing to put themselves up for sale, if only for the night.
Far be it from any of these men to deny themselves temporary carnal pleasure.
The women are all dressed in similar black gowns, unable to deviate from the status quo for even a second.
It’s positively fucking boring.
A flash of green catches my eye, and I squint into the shadows, trying to make out more than just a silhouette.
I spotted her the second we walked in, my eyes drawn to her like moths to a flame. She’d been flocked by two giggling girls and dragged around the room countless times, so I hadn’t had a chance to fully soak her in; the girls have since gone, and now that I’m looking, I don’t ever want to stop.
She sits at the corner of the bar staring into an empty champagne flute, right leg cocked on the bottom rung of her stool, revealing pale flesh through the high slit in her dress.
And fuck me, the dress.
Deep, emerald-green silk molds to every curve of her lithe body, and the way she folds her arms over her chest has her tits spilling from the ridiculous neckline.
Light emanates from the chandelier just above her head, casting a warm glow over her honey-colored hair, and even though her face is hidden, she looks like a fucking angel.
An uneasy fish out of water… but an angel, no less.
My gut tightens, twisting with each passing second spent not in her presence.
For some inexplicable reason, I want to taste the discomfort radiating off her skin. Want to be the sole cause of it.
But that’s insane, and I’m trying to prove to the world that I’m not. So, instead of marching over and thrusting myself into her existence, I swallow down my arousal and ignore it.
Gripping my armrests, I blow out a breath and groan loudly, ignoring the immediate swarm of attention the sound brings. I tower over everyone on stage, sticking out like a sore thumb, and while I’m used to those stares, right now, I’m not in the mood.
Besides, she doesn’t look my way, and I don’t like the hollow feeling that sprouts in my chest at that notion.
“You have to donate something.” Liam raises his brows. “We’re trying to improve your image here. Do you know how bad it’ll look if you attend a charity function and don’t actually do anything?”
“I don’t really give a shit how it looks. This was your idea.”
He frowns, pointing an index finger at my chest. “You hired me to fix your reputation.”
My stomach burns, reality clawing at my skin and trying to slip inside. God, you trash a few hotel rooms in a fit of grief, and suddenly you’re the poster child for mental instability.
Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I snatch the laminated pamphlet we were given when we walked in from his hands.
I scan the itemized list, looking for something that catches my eye. Airbnbs, wellness consultations, dates with celebrities—all things I can get any day of the week without dropping half a million dollars beforehand.
“What is this even benefiting?” I ask, tossing the pamphlet back. “Women putting themselves up for celebrities to bid on, like this is some sort of cattle show?”
Liam catches it in his lap, shrugging. “It’s benefiting homelessness.” He pauses, glaring at the paper, and turns it over. “Or… maybe AIDS research? I can’t remember now.”