20. Callum
TWENTY
Callum
I’d find you then, my legend
Wednesday, March 19
12:12 PM
The email hits my inbox just after noon, and for a second, I almost delete without reading it. I don’t recognize the sender—some legal name that sounds like it belongs on a brass plaque in a high-rise office.
But the subject line stops me cold:
Regarding Your Agreement with Jake Morrison
I open it, my chest tightening with every word.
Jake Morrison didn’t just threaten to go to Pinnacle. He fucking did it. He’s claiming breach of contract and demanding $400,000—half of what Pinnacle signed me for—plus royalties. He’s copied Pinnacle’s legal team and my manager, Luke, on the email. It’s a warning shot, but the kind that aims straight for the heart.
My stomach churns as I stare at the screen. The bastard actually did it.
I push back from the kitchen table, running a hand through my hair. My smoothie sits untouched, melted by now, and the toast I ordered from room service is still sitting on the plate. I haven’t been able to eat much lately—too much shit hanging over my head. And now this.
The phone buzzes on the table. It’s Luke. I swipe to answer.
"You saw it," he says, not even bothering with a greeting.
"Yeah," I mutter, pacing to the window. The Mercer’s view of SoHo feels more suffocating than inspiring right now. The city’s energy is buzzing too loud. "What the hell do we do?"
"First, we don’t panic," Luke says, though his tone is tight. "This is a scare tactic. Morrison’s trying to squeeze you, same as always. His direct threat didn't get results, so he is trying another avenue."
"It’s working," I say bitterly. "I don’t have $400,000, Luke. I don’t have anything close to that. And he wants fucking royalties, too?! I'd rather starve and never play another dive bar before I give him a penny of any royalty."
"You don’t need to," he says quickly. "Not yet. Let me talk to Victor and see what kind of counter we can put together. Now that they are involved, they may have some ideas. I'm sure this isn't a first for them. Call Ethan and let him know what’s going on. He said you haven’t returned any of his calls in a week."
"I’ve been a little busy. And what the hell kind of counter are we supposed to offer him?" My voice rises, the frustration spilling over. "He’s got that damn contract. It’s airtight, right? You said so yourself."
Luke sighs, and I can practically hear him rubbing his temples on the other end. "He’s got leverage, it's true. The best move might be to negotiate some kind of settlement. Something to put this to bed finally."
"Settlement," I repeat, my voice flat. "And where’s that money supposed to come from? Because I’m not touching Pinnacle’s advance for this asshole."
"That’s what we need to figure out," Luke says, his tone sharp now. "But you freaking out isn’t going to solve anything. Let me talk to the suits and Pinnacle and the lawyers. We’ll figure out our next move."
The call ends, but the lump in my throat doesn’t budge. I drop the phone on the counter and lean against the sink, staring down at the stainless steel like it might offer some kind of clarity. Instead, all I feel is the anger simmering in my veins.
Jake fucking Morrison. The man who "discovered" me, who dangled dreams of stardom in front of me like a carrot, only to keep me on a leash the second I signed his bullshit contract. And now, just when I’m finally clawing my way out, he’s trying to take everything down with him.
I hear the knock on the door before I see the email pop up on my laptop. This time, it’s from Pinnacle’s legal team. Morrison’s demands have officially triggered a response. They want to set up a call tomorrow morning.
It’s all happening too fast. Faster than I can think, faster than I can breathe. And the worst part? I don’t see a way out.
I press my palms to the counter, the metal cold under my hands. My mind spins with every worst-case scenario: losing the album, losing the deal, losing everything I’ve worked for.
I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this together.
"Housekeeping."
Electric Lady Studios
4:52 PM
The riff is wrong. Again.
I rip off the headphones, my jaw tightening as I glance through the glass at Mike, who’s sitting in the booth, holding his guitar like it’s the goddamn problem.
"Let’s take it from the top," the engineer says, his voice flat over the intercom.
"It’s not the top!" I snap, louder than I mean to. Everyone freezes, their eyes flicking to me. Mike raises an eyebrow, his fingers still on the strings.
I press my hands to my temples, exhaling slowly. "Sorry," I mutter, forcing myself to calm down. "It’s just... It’s not landing. Let’s take five."
I shove back from the console before anyone can say anything else and head for the hallway. The hum of equipment fades as the door swings shut behind me, replaced by the distant hum of the heating vents. I find Luke leaning against the wall. He's got his phone in his hand, looking like he’s about to call me out.
"You’re unraveling," he says flatly.
"Thanks for the insight, Dr. Phil," I shoot back, running a hand through my hair.
"I’m serious, Callum," he says, pushing off the wall. "You’re wasting everyone’s time if you’re not ready to record. You need to clear your head or reschedule."
"I can’t clear my head," I snap. "Not with all this shit hanging over me."
"Then reschedule," he says, his tone sharper now. "No one’s going to bail on you for needing to push a session, but if you keep blowing up like this, you’re going to burn out your crew."
He’s right, of course. I hate that he’s right, but I hate the thought of blowing the session even more. Finally, I sigh, leaning back against the wall. "Fine. Push it to after the call tomorrow."
Luke nods, already pulling out his phone to text the studio manager. "Good call."
"Yeah, well," I mutter, already walking toward the exit. "Let’s hope it’s not my last good one."
The cold hits me as soon as I step outside, cutting through my jacket like a slap. I dig my hands into my pockets, pulling out my phone as I walk down the block. I haven’t heard from Sienna since last night, and every time I’ve tried calling today, it’s gone straight to voicemail.
I unlock my phone, scrolling to her name. My thumb hovers over the call button before I hit it, bringing the phone to my ear.
One ring. Two. And then straight to voicemail. Again.
"Hey," I say, trying to keep my voice light even though my stomach’s twisting. "It’s me. Just checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a bit. Call me back when you can."
I hang up, my thumb tapping against the screen as I stare at her name. She’s probably just busy. Or tired. Or dealing with Ollie. But something about the silence is eating at me, and I can’t shake it.
Finally, I send a text.
You okay? I’ve tried reaching you a few times. Just let me know.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, trying to shake the knot in my chest. She’ll get back to me. We both agreed to follow up due to what happened before.
The notification comes five minutes later, just as I’m about to hit the corner. I pull out my phone, relief flooding me for a second—until I read her message.
Hey. I’ve got a lot going on right now. Won’t be reachable for a few days. I’ll get in touch soon.
A few days? My brow furrows as I reread the message. What’s going on? Immediately, irritation and worry flow through me.
I start typing a response, but nothing feels right. After a few seconds, I shove the phone back into my pocket. If she says she’ll get in touch, I’ll have to trust her. For now.
I’ve got my own mess to deal with. Luke’s always telling me to chill before I blow up at the band. That advice applies here, too—I can’t let my frustrations and insecurities spill over onto her. If we both get through our stuff, maybe we can leave all this behind us.
The knot in my chest only tightens as I walk on. The city lights blur in the corners of my vision.
Between Morrison and Sienna, it feels like everything I’m holding onto is slipping through my fingers.
Thursday, March 20
Pinnacle Records Headquarters
9:09 AM
The conference room at Pinnacle’s offices feels sterile. It's all glass walls and sleek furniture that screams money.
I’m sitting at the head of the table, Luke on one side and Victor on the other. A massive speakerphone sits in the center, the red light blinking as the lawyers on the other end shuffle papers.
"Mr. Reid," one of the voices finally says, smooth and rehearsed, like they’re delivering bad news to someone for the hundredth time this week. "We’ve reviewed the demands submitted by Mr. Morrison’s legal team, as well as the terms of your original agreement with him."
I lean forward, gripping the edge of the table. "And?"
There’s a pause, the kind that tells me I’m not going to like what’s coming. "Legally speaking, Mr. Morrison’s claims hold merit. The contract you signed grants him a fifty percent share of your recording-related earnings from any deal you secure during the active term of the agreement."
"Recording-related," I echo, my voice flat. "So half of my advance from Pinnacle."
"That’s correct," the lawyer says. "The $400,000 he’s demanding aligns with the terms of the contract."
Luke curses under his breath, and Victor crosses his arms, his jaw tightening. My grip on the table edge tightens, my knuckles whitening as I try to keep my temper in check.
"You’re telling me he gets to walk away with half of everything I’ve worked for? After six years of bullshit gigs and clawing my way out from under him, he still wins?" I snap, my voice rising.
"Mr. Reid," another lawyer cuts in, her voice sharper. "This isn’t about who wins or loses. It’s about resolving the issue in a way that protects your career moving forward. The good news is that Mr. Morrison’s team has indicated they’re willing to negotiate."
"And what the hell does that look like?" I ask, leaning back in my chair, my chest tight with frustration.
"One option is to offer him a reduced lump sum," she says. "Another is to structure a payment plan tied to your future royalties. Either way, we’ll need to engage in discussions to determine the terms."
"So I’m screwed either way," I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face.
"No," Luke says firmly, leaning forward. "You’re not screwed. Let's figure out the best way, together, and move forward. We just need to figure out the best way to make this work without killing your momentum."
"It’s a setback," Victor adds, his tone more measured. "But it doesn’t have to derail you completely. We’ll work through it. We're willing to contribute a financial piece as part of your payment, but we need to find a number that works for Morrison, you, and Pinnacle."
The words feel hollow, even if they’re meant to reassure me. All I can see is the number—$400,000—and the way it looms over everything I’ve worked for. Morrison’s shadow has always been there, but now it’s threatening to swallow me whole.
"Mr. Reid?" the lawyer on the phone prompts. "How would you like to proceed?"
I glance at Luke and Victor, their faces tense but expectant, waiting for me to make the call. My stomach churns, but I force myself to focus.
"We’ll negotiate," I say finally, my voice low but steady. "But I’m bending over. We all come to the table. You make that clear."
"We’ll begin discussions immediately," she replies. "And we’ll update you as soon as we have a response."
The call ends with a click, the room falling into a heavy silence. I push back from the table, standing too quickly and pacing to the glass wall. The city stretches out below me, crawling with life, and for the first time, it feels like I’m on the outside looking in.
"You okay?" Luke asks, breaking the silence.
"No," I say bluntly, turning to face him. "But I don’t have time to fall apart. Just... make this go away, Luke. I don’t care how you do it."
He nods, and I grab my jacket, heading for the door without another word. As I step out into the hallway, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, hoping for something—anything—that feels like good news.
It’s Sienna.
Hope your day’s going okay. Just wanted to check in.
Seeing a text from her does more for me than any drug. The tightness in my chest eases slightly, and I type back quickly.
Rough morning, but hearing from you helps. Dinner tonight?
I stare at the screen, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come right away. I slide the phone back into my pocket and I head for the elevator.
When it buzzes again, this time the message doesn’t do anything to brighten my mood. In fact, it takes me ten steps back.
I can’t, Cal. But we have to talk. I can’t put it off until Ollie goes back to Marcus’s. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Fuck. I know what that means without knowing anything. I can’t win from losing.