No say. No choice.
“I signed something with Angelo,” I say slowly. “When I was eighteen. It was bad, but it wasn’t…this.”
“It wasn’t,” Rafael confirms. “This was the upgrade they drafted when D’Angelo decided you were worth more than tour revenue.”
“Upgrade,” I echo, nauseated.
“From their perspective,” he says. “You were valuable. He wanted out. D’Angelo wanted in. So they drafted…this.”
He taps the paper.
The phrase "commercial exploitation" throbs on the page.
I flip again.
Morals clause. Termination clause that doesn’t mention me at all—only how to pass my rights along if one of them dies.
There’s a supplementary agreement behind it.
Less formal. No fancy letterhead.
Just two names, two signatures.
My old manager’s.
And a shell company I recognize now as one of Dante’s hol
