Do you really think I’m staying long enough to need custom building permits?” I ask.
“One year is a long time without the right tools,” he says. “You told your label you were resting. You’re not. You’re working from here. With me. On your terms, as much as possible.”
“That last part is doing a lot of work in that sentence,” I say.
He ignores that. “You need a place you can own,” he says. “Even if it’s just four walls and a soundproof door.”
I stare at the plans.
It’s a generous gesture. Strategic, too. The more he builds around me, the more rooted I become.
New chains.
Prettier ones.
“I don’t know whether to say thank you or accuse you of long‑term musical kidnapping,” I say.
“Do both,” he says. “It suits you.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile.
As I flip to the next sheet, some
