Angela’s's POV
I stood at the microphone and looked at the three judges.
Patrick — thirty-two, pop ballads, four consecutive chart hits. Clean craft. Good instincts. Not what I needed.
Lowe — twenty-eight, light rock, frontman, band dynamic. The style I'd been building toward. The kind of stage that would let me grow rather than contain me.
Adrienne — twenty-five. My song in her hands. My pain in her performance credits. The wolf who had sent rogues to kill me and my pup was standing six feet away wearing a smile of absolute certainty.
All three had invited me.
"Thank you," I said. Sincerely.
Choose carefully, Silvia said.
I know exactly what I'm doing.
"Based on my style, and the direction I want to go on this stage—" I paused. One beat. Let Adrienne's certainty settle fully into
