That Friday night was my first real dinner at the Baxter house.
And “house” still felt like the wrong word.
It wasn’t cold in the way I’d expected.
It wasn’t all polished silence and stiff formality.
No.
The Baxter house felt lived in—
If “lived in” meant platinum records on the walls, framed tour posters from three different decades, guitars mounted like trophies, and enough gold records to make the entire foyer glint under the chandelier light.
This wasn’t old money.
This was fame money.
Built on sound, image, obsession, and whatever was left of people after the spotlight got done with them.
It was louder than I expected.
Messier.
More chaotic.
And somehow that made it more intimidating.
Because this wasn’t just wealth.
This was a machine.
And every room in this house fel
