“I didn’t say anything,” she mutters. “But if he ever wants to discuss my ‘interesting’ lack of therapy in a private session, I’m available.”
“You’re hopeless,” I say.
She grins, then sobers. “You going on that call?” she asks.
“Would you prefer I hide?” I ask.
She squeezes my arm. “I’d prefer you own them,” she says. “Politely. Then with fire.”
“I can do polite,” I say. “Once.”
Dante’s gaze lingers on me.
“Mia will stay here,” he says. “You come with me.”
“Bossy,” Mia mutters.
“Alive,” Dante corrects.
He turns, fully expecting me to follow.
I do.
Because for now, like it or not, our wars are the same.
—
The label call is a battlefield made of boxes and bandwidth—faces in little squares on a big screen, voices polished and careful. A lawyer. Marketing. PR. My A&R rep in LA, e
