Chapter 32
BIX
Slayer parts ways with me in the village to run an errand, leaving me and Toto to walk back to the hotel.
The morning air and Oscar’s slow-turtle dignity helped clear some tension between us, creating a fragile understanding. Yet uncertainty lingers like morning mist.
“Professional,” he said. Just for two more days.
“Thank you for Toto,” I tell the concierge as I kneel to stroke the terrier’s ears. “He was a great scout.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed your run. A message just arrived for you.” He extends an envelope, cream-colored paper sealed with a gold-wax stamp bearing an elegant monogram.
Tearing it open, I find a handwritten note. It’s from Carlos Rhodes, the record producer I met at Caroline yesterday. In the note, he writes that he heard me sing at Le Cave and wants to meet.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, reading it again. Could this be real? An actual chance to be recognized for my music?
“Ms. Bismark?”
I look up at the sound of a subtle accent, cultured and distinctly British. Carlos himself stands there, impeccably dressed in a tailored tan linen jacket, his dark eyes warm with interest.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I wanted to ensure you received the note.”
“Thank you. I’m very flattered...”
“It’s important that I speak with you right away.”
“Oh,” I manage, feeling slightly off-balance. “Yes, of course.”
“How about coffee on the poolside terrace?”
I hesitate, my mind racing. I don’t know Sterling’s plans, or what he’ll think if he sees us together.
But curiosity wins. Carlos wrote a personal note and came to deliver it himself. This could be my chance. “Of course,” I say.
Self-consciousness creeps in as we cross the elegant marble lobby to the sparkling blue pool.
I’m acutely aware of my post-run appearance—my sweaty white T-shirt and plain black gym shorts against the backdrop of Saint-Tropez perfection.
It’s still early morning, but the true sun worshippers are already out in force.
This is nothing like beach days with my friends back in San Diego, when we lay on the sand in our department store bikinis with pride.
That golden memory makes me snort-laugh. What would Le Majestic management do if they saw me in that frayed Target bikini today? Toss me out?
Every single woman by the pool looks pageant-ready. Perfect body, perfect hair, designer bikini. And somehow, they’re wearing impossibly high-heeled shoes and carrying “sporty summer” Chanel handbags despite lying prone.
The scent of sunscreen mingles with chlorine and fresh-cut flowers as we make our way to a table. I feel eyes tracking our movement, whispers following in our wake.
Is it Carlos they recognize, or do they know me as Slayer’s girlfriend now?
Carlos’s hand rests lightly on my shoulder as he guides me to a chair at the poolside café, protected by a massive shade awning.
The white tablecloth ripples gently in the breeze, crystal water glasses catching the morning light.
“Well, Miss Bix.” Carlos leans forward. “When I first met you, I thought you were just another pretty girl. Slayer’s sweet new girlfriend. But now I find there’s another side of you entirely.”
I blush under his scrutiny. “Thank you.”
“Last night, you were something else. Your voice. The way you own a stage. Your connection with the audience.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Thank you.”
“Do you know Crown Point Records?”
I nod again. Everyone knows Crown Point Records.
“My father built it. Started small in the eighties. Now we’re global.”
The weight of his attention makes my skin prickle. I sip my coffee and wait for him to get to the point.
“We’re always looking.” His words come slowly. Deliberately. “For fresh talent. Real talent.”
My pulse quickens. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
Carlos studies me over the rim of his espresso cup. “I’ve signed hundreds of artists over the years. Most of them had training. Polish. Experience.”
I wait, barely breathing.
“But none of them had what you showed us last night.” He sets his cup down. “That raw connection. That ability to make an entire room feel something real.”
The compliment settles in my chest. But wariness follows close behind. Sterling’s warning about Carlos trying to poach talent echoes in my head, along with Milo’s cryptic advice about not upsetting Sterling.
“Tell me about your background and how you learned to sing like that. Did you have lessons?” His smile invites confidence.
I shake my head and tell him my story about my grandmother and what she taught Hilary and me. Pride fills my voice.
“And your sister?” he asks. “Is she part of your act?”
I feel that question in my gut. “No.” Grief edges into my voice. “She died last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
Silence stretches between us. I study the delicate china cup in my hands, remembering Hilary’s laugh.
“That song you chose last night.” Carlos taps his lips. “The way you made it your own. Tell me about that choice.”
I shrug. “I grew up with those songs. Lola taught them to me—not the words so much as the style. The way the words should be sung.”
A warm breeze stirs the awning above us. Across the pool, the early sun turns everything golden. I can almost hear Hilary’s voice in my head: “This is your shot, Bix. Don’t blow it.”
“You have a rare gift.” Carlos’s voice drops low. “The ability to make old songs feel urgent. New.” He reaches across the table and opens my hand, studies it like he’s reading my future.
The contact sends an unexpected flutter through me—not attraction, exactly, but the thrill of being seen. Seen for my talent rather than an accessory to someone else’s life. Then a cold feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. Is he trying to seduce me, or sign me?
And what if Slayer or Sterling is watching? My eyes drift to the balconies of the suites across from us.
Sterling probably has better things to do than spy on me. Though I can picture him in his suite, wearing silk pajamas, phone glued to his ear, pulling back the curtains to check out the pool scene.
Slayer could be doing the same. But then I know he’s not, because when I look up, I see him striding across the pool deck, his gaze locked on our table.
My stomach drops. The look on his face tells me this won’t end well.