Chapter 5 The Price Of Curiosity
968 Words
The next morning, I woke up with the echo of gunfire still ringing in my ears. My body moved on instinct—checking locks, drawing the curtains, clutching my phone like it could shield me. Lena had promised to reach out soon. But she hadn’t.
And Phil hadn’t called.
That was unusual.
By noon, the silence had stretched into something unbearable. I finally picked up my phone and called him. Straight to voicemail.
I got dressed, threw on a hoodie and sunglasses, and headed to his mansion in the Hills. The gate opened as I approached—his system must've still had me authorized. But when I reached the front door and rang the bell, the man who opened it wasn’t Phil. It was Marcus, his assistant.
He looked surprised to see me.
"You weren’t on the schedule."
"Is Phil in?" I asked.
Marcus hesitated. "He’s busy. Very busy."
"Tell him it’s me."
He glanced back inside, then stepped aside.
The place was darker than usual. Curtains drawn. Lights low. The air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and something heavier—bitterness, maybe.
Phil stood at the grand piano in the corner of the sitting room, a half-empty tumbler in hand. He didn’t look at me as I walked in. Just kept playing a low, meandering tune that sounded like a lullaby gone wrong.
"You’ve been busy," he said quietly.
I swallowed. "I could say the same."
He finally turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot. Not from tears. From anger.
"You met with Lena Royce."
I said nothing. I didn’t need to.
Phil rose from the bench and approached slowly. "After all I’ve done for you, Kim. After everything we built. You go whispering with a has-been who sabotaged her own career."
"She warned me, Phil. About you."
He stopped just in front of me. "And did you believe her?"
My silence was answer enough.
Phil’s hand rose, not to strike—but to cradle my face. Gentle. Almost mournful.
"I made you," he said. "Every note, every spotlight, every headline. You think anyone looked at you before I pulled you from obscurity?"
I pulled away from his touch. "You don’t own me."
He smiled. Cold. "But I do."
He walked back to the piano and tapped a key. A single, eerie note.
"Check your calendar," he said. "You’ve been dropped from the Malibu Gala."
My heart sank. That gala had been my biggest performance yet.
"Why? What did you do?"
He shrugged. "I simply told them the truth. That you’ve been uncooperative. Erratic. Unreliable."
"You’re punishing me."
He met my eyes. "I’m protecting you from yourself. From making the wrong choices."
I stormed toward the door.
"You can’t stop me," I said. "I’ll find a way."
He called after me, "Go ahead. But don’t forget—I know everything about you. Everything. And I can make it all disappear."
---
That night, I received an email from my college music professor. Someone I hadn’t heard from in years.
Subject line: You need to see this.
The email was short. Just a Dropbox link and one sentence: From your father’s old files.
Against better judgment, I clicked it. A video began to buffer.
My father sat at his desk, looking weary, older than I remembered. He pressed a button on a handheld recorder.
"If you’re watching this, Kim... then Phil Carter is still in your life. And that’s a mistake I should’ve prevented."
My breath caught.
"He was my friend. Once. But he’s not who you think he is. He didn’t just help me with your early music. He controlled it. Stole it. Profited from it. I have the proof. All in the folder labeled 'June Fire."'
The video cut off.
June Fire?
I tore through my closet where I’d stored some of my dad’s old belongings. Sure enough, at the bottom of a dusty box was a folder labeled in my dad’s familiar handwriting: June Fire.
Inside were contracts. Voice recordings. Emails. Phil had stolen royalties from my dad, used fake names on contracts, and blackballed other producers who tried to work with him.
This wasn’t just manipulation.
It was theft. Betrayal.
---
I called George—the lawyer my sister introduced me to. I hadn’t needed him yet. Until now.
When I told him what I found, he said, "That’s enough to burn him down. We’ll need copies. Originals. Names. Witnesses."
"There’s more," I said. "Lena knows things."
He paused. "Then she’s in danger. So are you."
I swallowed hard. "I know."
"I’ll come by first thing in the morning. Don’t leave your place. Don’t answer unknown calls. And Kim—lock your doors."
I hung up and turned to close my windows. That’s when I noticed something on the balcony.
A red rose.
Just one.
I didn’t open the glass door. I simply stared at it.
Phil’s signature. No note this time. Just a symbol.
He knew I’d gone digging.
And he wasn’t done.
---
The next day, George arrived with two other legal associates. They helped me scan everything into a secure server. We were halfway through cataloging files when there was a knock at the door.
Too soft.
I peeked through the peephole.
No one.
Then I saw it—taped to the door.
A photo.
Me. From last night. Standing on my balcony.
The angle was high—taken from a drone.
Scrawled across the photo in red ink were the words:
"You sing for me—or you disappear."
My hands trembled. George pulled me back from the door.
"We need to move you. Now."
I nodded, heart racing. But even as fear settled in, another feeling bloomed beneath it.
Fury.
Phil had played the wrong girl this time.
I was done running.
And I had nothing left to lose.
- Writer
