Signed In Deception

Chapter 2 The First Meeting

The studio smelled like leather and money. Not that fake new-car leather scent, but the real kind—aged, expensive, lived-in. The kind you only find in the private rooms of people who never have to ask for anything.

Platinum records lined the walls. Some were framed with signed memorabilia. All of them bore Phil Carter’s name like a badge of royalty. I recognized half the artists—chart-toppers, Grammy-winners, legends. My throat tightened.

I perched on the edge of a black leather couch that felt too smooth, too rich for someone like me. My palms were damp, so I pressed them into my lap, hoping I didn’t leave any sweat marks on my jeans. Every movement felt too loud in the quiet.

Across from me, Phil lounged like a man who’d seen the world bow at his feet and expected no less from me. One ankle rested on his knee, his gold watch catching the light with every flick of his wrist.

“I’ve been looking for a new voice,” he said, his eyes trailing over me like he was already dressing me in image, in strategy, in chart positions. “Something fresh. Authentic.”

My heart pounded. “And you think that’s me?”

A slow smile curved his mouth, smooth and sure. “I know it is.”

There was something chilling in how certain he sounded. Like this had already been decided, long before I stepped into the room. Like I was already his.

I forced a smile, trying to hold on to my own breath, my own thoughts. “That’s… that means a lot.”

He rose, moving to the sleek black table behind him. A manila folder waited there—thick, crisp, deliberate. He slid it toward me with two fingers like he was offering a gift or a test.

“A contract,” he said. “Exclusive. You’d be under my label. My guidance. I’ll handle everything—production, marketing, appearances. You focus on the music. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He spoke like a magician, as if the path he offered led straight to fame, skipping all the mess in between.

I opened the folder. The first page had my name on it—Kimberly E. Raines—typed in bold capital letters. My stomach flipped.

A deal.

A real one.

Something people like me don’t just get handed. Not without blood and hustle and tears.

My fingers trembled slightly as I turned the pages. Lines and lines of legal jargon, industry terms I barely understood—royalty percentages, ownership rights, exclusivity clauses, image control.

“There’s… a lot of fine print,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice even. My eyes scanned a section about control of likeness—what I could wear, what I could post, even who I was seen with. “This gives you—kind of a lot.”

Phil waved a hand like he was brushing dust from his shoulder. “Legal talk. Standard. Trust me, Kim, I’ve done this a hundred times. Every artist who’s ever worked with me started right there. You’re not special.” He grinned. “Not yet.”

Not yet.

That stung more than it should have.

Still, my eyes drifted back to the signature line.

This was it. The doorway.

I could see it already—my name in lights, on the back of tour buses, on tickets clutched by screaming fans. My voice on radios, streaming apps, and award shows. The little girl in me ached for it.

But something held me back.

“Can I—can I have someone look over it?” I asked, careful, testing the waters.

Phil tilted his head slightly, his expression cooling.

“You could,” he said. “If you want to waste a week and lose the window. I’m offering now because the timing is right. The moment is hot. We strike now, or we don’t strike at all.”

He leaned forward, eyes sharp. “You can walk out now. Keep singing in clubs. Hustling for scraps. Hoping someone like me hears you again.” He shrugged. “Or you can sign that paper and become a star.”

The way he said it—become a star—wasn’t encouragement. It was a promise. A dare. An ultimatum.

And I hated how badly I wanted to believe him.

I stared at the pen lying beside the folder. My hand moved almost of its own accord.

The pen was in my fingers before I could think.

My name formed in shaky cursive across the page—once, then again, initialed here, signed there. When I was done, Phil took the folder back without looking at it.

“You won’t regret this,” he said, tucking it under his arm. “You’re about to be reborn, Kim. This is the part where you stop surviving and start living.”

It should have felt good. It should have felt like fireworks and champagne.

Instead, it felt like crossing a line I couldn’t uncross.

---

He gave me a tour of the building next. Studio A, where the biggest voices in the industry had recorded. Studio B, where beats were built from scratch, magic pulled from air and steel. Writers’ rooms with wall-to-wall whiteboards filled with half-written lyrics and scribbled hooks. A wardrobe closet bigger than my apartment.

He showed me the vocal booth I’d be using and told me about the team he’d assign—engineers, vocal coaches, stylists, and a brand manager.

“You’re raw,” he said as we walked. “Beautifully raw. But raw won’t sell. We’ll polish you, shape you. You’ll still be you, just more… palatable.”

He said it like it was a compliment. Like palatable was a goal.

I nodded, but my throat felt tight.

By the time we returned to his office, someone had already brought in champagne. Two crystal flutes sat on the table, the bubbles already fizzing.

“To new beginnings,” he said, holding one out.

I clinked my glass against his, forcing a smile. “To dreams coming true.”

We sipped. The champagne was dry and cold. I barely tasted it.

“You’ll stay here for a while,” he said, moving back to his seat. “We’ve got a guest suite upstairs. You’ll train, write, and rehearse. Your social media will go dark for a bit—we’re going to reintroduce you to the world on our terms.”

He handed me a phone—new, sleek, and empty of contacts. “Use this now. Don’t talk to anyone until we finalize the rollout. Clean break. Total control. That’s how stars are made.”

I took the phone, feeling the weight of it settle into my palm like a second leash.

“And your old life?” he asked, smiling faintly. “You’ll thank me for helping you leave it behind.”

---

Later that night, alone in the guest suite with its velvet curtains and white noise machine, I stared at the ceiling.

My real phone—my phone—was tucked in the bottom of my duffel bag, powered off. I hadn’t told Maya. Or Lisa. Or anyone. Phil said it was better this way. Cleaner.

I tried to sleep, but every creak of the building sounded like a warning.

Had I done the right thing?

Was this the beginning of everything I ever wanted?

Or the start of something else entirely?

Somewhere downstairs, I imagined Phil sitting in his office, my signature glowing under the lamp. I imagined him smiling.

And I couldn’t help but wonder—

Who would I be when this was over?