Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Lily wipes a tear away and picks up her guitar. I expect her to try the lullaby but she doesn’t. She returns to practicing the song in the book, humming my melody under her breath while she works through chords.
Later, after I tuck her into bed with the guitar case propped against her nightstand, Lily wraps her arms around my neck and whispers against my ear.
“Can we have more days like this?”
“As many as you want.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I kiss her forehead and turn off the lamp, leaving her room feeling lighter than I have in months. In the hallway, I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself. Relaxed. Present. Like a mother instead of a manager.
Back in my room, I notice my phone on the dresser where I left it this morning. The screen shows missed calls and unread messages, but for the first time in years, I don’t feel compelled to check them.
I pick up the phone and scroll through the notifications quickly, confirming nothing needs an immediate response. Then I set it aside and get ready for bed, humming Lily’s lullaby.
Lying in bed listening to the quiet sounds of my house, I feel something I haven’t experienced in too long.
Peace.
darian
. . .
The knock comes at nine in the morning. I’m three cups of coffee deep and finally getting somewhere with this melody that’s been dodging me for days. I set my guitar down and head to the door. Through the peephole: a suit. Leather briefcase, slicked hair, the works.
“Darian Mercer?” He extends his hand before I’m fully through the door. “Mitchell Brennan, A&R for Apex Records.”
Apex. Not Bishop’s label. One of the majors.
“Come in.” I shake his hand, already wary. When majors show up at your door unannounced, they want something specific.
Mitchell follows me inside. “Nice setup,” he says, settling onto my couch without invitation. “Very authentic. Though I imagine you miss LA. The heat, the sun, endless women knocking on your door.”
Definitely not.
“Not really.”
He smiles like he doesn’t believe me. “I’ll get right to it. Apex wants to offer you a solo deal. Three albums, complete creative control, distribution that Bishop Entertainment can’t match. We’re talking real money, real promotion, real comeback.”
“I’m already working with Bishop.”
“No contracts signed though, right? Just informal studio time?” He opens his briefcase, pulls out a folder thick with papers. “We’ve done our homework. You’re recording demos, playing local venues, collaborating with that bar owner. All very quaint, but it’s not a career strategy.”
“It’s working for me.”
“Is it? Because from where I sit, you’re wasting your talent on Nashville’s bar circuit when you should be headlining festivals.”
I lean back in my chair. “What do you actually want, Mitchell?”
“You. Solo. We’ve heard the tracks you’ve been working on with Bishop. Strong material, but it needs professional polish. Our writers could elevate those songs.”
“I have a writing partner.”
“Rye Hayes.” He says her name like it tastes bitter. “Manages The Songbird, writes on the side. We know all about her.”
“Then you know she’s talented.”
“She’s a distraction. Look, I’ll be frank - Apex has no interest in unknown songwriters from failing venues. We want Darian Mercer, former Reverend Sister guitarist, not some package deal with a nobody who got lucky enough to catch your attention.”
The word ‘nobody’ hits different when it’s aimed at someone specific. Someone whose melodies have been keeping me up at night for all the right reasons. Someone who was treated like their voice didn’t matter before. I promised I wouldn’t be that person.
“She’s not a nobody.”
“In this industry? She absolutely is. No publishing deals, no cuts, no presence beyond one tiny venue. You’re letting sentiment cloud your judgment.”
“I’m being selective about who I work with.”
Mitchell leans forward. “Here’s what I think. You’re in Nashville licking wounds from the band breakup. You meet a pretty face who writes decent hooks, and suddenly you think you’ve found artistic integrity. But what happens in six months when the novelty wears off? When you remember what real success feels like?”
“This is real success.”
“Playing to fifty people a night? Recording in Bishop’s B-room? That’s not success, that’s hiding.”
“It’s building something authentic.”
“Authentic doesn’t sell records. You know what does? Professional songs written by people who understand the market. Not heartfelt ballads about daddy issues from someone who couldn’t make it past bar management.”
I stand up. “We’re done here.”
“Sit down. You haven’t heard the number yet.”
I laugh. They’re all the same, only carrying about how much they offer. Thinking it's the six or seven figures they can throw around to entice artists.“I don’t care about the number.”
Mitchell pulls out a single sheet of paper, slides it across the coffee table. The figure at the bottom has more zeros than I’ve seen in years. “That’s just the signing bonus. First album budget is triple that.”
“Not interested.”
“Because of her? You’re turning down generational wealth for someone who’ll be managing that same bar in ten years?”