Signed In Deception

The club was alive music thumping like a second heartbeat under my skin, lights cutting through the crowd, bodies moving in chaotic rhythm. It was noisy, hot, and wild. But on stage, I had the reins. I held the mic tight, leaned in, and let the final note fly. It rang out pure and strong just for a moment, everything froze. Then came the roar: applause, cheers, and someone even called my name. “Kim!” I offered a small smile and bowed. As I scanned the crowd, I saw a few people still caught in the moment, while others drifted off, waiting for the DJ to start. For them, it was just another night out. For me, it was a win. Backstage, the chaos faded to a dull hum. I wiped sweat from my neck, collapsed onto the worn-out couch, and let my pulse slow. My boots hurt, my throat was dry, but I felt alive. The air smelled like spilled beer and faded ambition, but I came here every time I could because even in a dingy bar with broken speakers, I felt seen. I checked my phone. Three missed calls from Maya probably about almond milk. A fire emoji from Lisa, my old bandmate, who never missed a chance to text after a show. Then a buzz. One more notification. Unknown Number. I hesitated. Probably spam. I picked up anyway. “Hello?” “Kim.” The voice was smooth, confident like I should recognize it. “That was impressive.” My pulse jumped. “Who’s this?” “Phil Carter.” I went still. No way. Phil Carter. The Phil Carter. The legendary producer whose name had once filled my bedroom walls on posters and album covers. The man who could launch careers. “I have a studio in Hollywood,” he said casually. “We should talk.” I struggled to speak. “I—I don’t know what to say.” “Say yes,” he said, amused, like he already knew I would. “You want this, don’t you?” Of course I did. This had been the dream since I was a kid singing into a hairbrush, facing an imaginary audience. Every open mic, every rejection—all of it had led here. “When?” “I’ll send a car. Noon.” Click. He hung up. I stared at the screen, stunned, the world continuing around me—but I was somewhere else entirely. Everything had just shifted. --- Sleep didn’t come that night. I lay awake, heart racing, hearing his voice on a loop. Let’s talk. Say yes. Noon. Part of me was excited. The other part whispered, What if it’s fake? What if you’re not ready? Still, I was up with the sun. I dressed carefully—high-waisted jeans, a white crop top, hoops. Just enough to say: I’m here. I belong. My bag was packed: lyrics, demo CDs, and my lucky pen. Don’t ask why—it just felt right. At 12:01, a sleek black Mercedes pulled up outside. A driver stepped out, dressed like a secret agent. “Kim?” I nodded, too nervous to speak. He opened the door. I climbed in. Hollywood flew past the window, but from the back of that luxury car, it looked like a whole new city—shimmering, like it was winking at me. We pulled up to a stunning glass building, hidden behind hedges and a fountain worth more than my rent. I’d seen it before. In magazines. Blog posts. Phil Carter’s studio. Inside, marble floors gleamed. Gold records lined the walls. The receptionist nodded and pointed me to the elevator. “Top floor. He’s waiting.” The elevator felt endless. When the doors opened, I stepped into what looked like a penthouse—leather couches, shelves of vinyl, windows overlooking all of L.A. And there he was. Phil Carter. Tall, confident, dressed in black, wearing a chain that caught the light. He radiated power. “Kim,” he said warmly. “Welcome.” “Thanks for having me,” I replied, hoping he didn’t notice my nerves. “I heard your set,” he said, circling the room. “One of my guys recorded it. You’ve got something.” “Thank you,” I said, trying not to freak out. “I want to work with you,” he said. “Shape your sound. Build a brand. Maybe drop an EP.” An EP. “If you’re ready,” he added. “I’m ready,” I said instantly. “Good.” He led me into the studio—state-of-the-art equipment, a vocal booth, everything pristine. He handed me headphones. “Let’s hear what you can do.” I stepped into the booth, shut the door, and sang. It was a stripped-back version of one of my originals—about struggle, survival, and hope. I gave it everything. When I opened my eyes, silence. Then slow, steady clapping. “That’s a voice,” Phil said. “We’re going to do big things.” I stepped out, lightheaded. He handed me water and looked me over again. “You’ve got the voice. The look. Now you need control.” “Control?” “This business will pull you every which way. Stick with me, and I’ll guide you where you need to be.” His voice was steady. Calm. A little dangerous. --- The car dropped me home just as the sun began to set. I sat on my bed, notebook open, staring at the same words again and again: This is it. Then my phone buzzed. Phil Carter: I’ll draw up the contract. Tomorrow, same time. Tell no one. My heart fluttered. This was it—the beginning. But somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice warned: Be careful. Still, I smiled. Because the door was open. And I was stepping through.