23. Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Emily
The performance goes off without a hitch. No mishaps, no accidents.
The roar of the crowd is still ringing in my ears as we settle onto the bus after the performance. Despite all of my misgivings, everything went smoothly for now.
I should feel relieved, or at least feel a sense of pride at how flawlessly it all came together, but instead, I’m left feeling even more anxious.
I glance at Sam, who’s leaning back in his seat, his head tilted against the window. There’s a quiet intensity about him tonight, and I wonder if he’s mulling over the same thoughts I am. I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes stayed on me during most of the performance. It helped settle my nerves and keep me calm.
The next morning, we arrive at the hotel for a much-needed reset before preparing for the next leg of the tour. While the band disperses to their rooms, I take a moment to go over my notes for the meeting I’ve planned. This is my chance to present my vision for the band’s future—a vision I know won’t be without its challenges.
Later, everyone gathers around the table in the hotel's small conference room. As I prepare my notes, I catch Sam watching me from across the room, his eyes warm with that mix of pride and protection that makes my heart flutter. He takes the seat beside me, and his presence steadies my nerves in a way that nothing else can. Even in this professional setting, just having him near changes everything.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” I begin, standing at the head of the table. “I wanted to take this time to discuss where the band is heading and some ideas I have for the future.”
All eyes are on me, some curious, others cautious.
“First, I want to acknowledge the progress we’ve made recently,” I continue. “We’ve scaled back the grueling schedule Derrick had in place, giving everyone more balance and breathing room. That was the first step. But now, it’s time to think about the long-term growth of the band.”
I pause, letting my words sink in.
“Under Derrick’s management, the focus was almost entirely on Cass as the face of the band. And while that makes sense—he’s the lead singer—it also put a lot of pressure on him. Too much pressure, honestly.” I glance at Cass, who gives a wry smile of agreement.
“My goal is to shift that focus—not away from Cass but toward highlighting each of you as individuals.”
Luke perks up slightly. “Highlighting us? What does that mean exactly?”
“It means showcasing what makes each of you unique,” I explain. “This is a band, not a solo act. Each of you has incredible talent, and I think it’s time the fans see that.”
Nate leans forward, his interest piqued. “You mean like solos?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “Incorporating solos into the performances is one way to do it. Another is increasing your individual presence on social media. The more fans connect with each of you, the stronger the band’s overall brand becomes.”
“Social media?” Vince guesses, his tone skeptical.
“Partly, yes,” I admit. “But it’s not just about social media and solos. It’s behind-the-scenes footage, interviews, and other ways to make you all more visible and relatable.” I direct my next statement to Cass and Kendrick. “For Cass, I’m also scheduling more duets with Pixie Cane and other popular singers.”
Cass nods thoughtfully, but Vince stubbornly shakes his head. “I don’t know about this. I’ve seen what Cass deals with—the scrutiny and the lack of privacy. I’m not sure I want that.”
“It’s not about invading your privacy,” I counter gently. “It’s about letting fans see the talent and personality that make this band what it is. And you can control how much you share.”
“But what if it backfires?” Vince presses. “What if it shifts the dynamic too much? We’ve always been about the music, not marketing ourselves.”
Luke jumps in, his tone lighter. “Come on, Vince. It’s not like we’re selling out. If anything, it’s giving us more control over how we’re seen.”
Sam, who’s been quiet so far, finally speaks. “She’s right. We’ve all seen what happens when the focus is too narrow. If this helps spread the spotlight and gives Cass some breathing room, it’s worth a shot.”
Vince still looks skeptical, but Nate speaks up next. “I think it’s a solid idea. We’ve been doing things the same way for a long time. Maybe it’s time to shake things up.”
I glance at Vince, waiting for his response. After a moment, he sighs heavily. “Fine. I’ll give it a try. But I’m not doing online dances or any of that crap.”
A ripple of laughter breaks the tension, and I allow myself a small smile. “Noted. And remember, this is a team effort. No one has to do anything they’re uncomfortable with. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Cass leans forward, his expression thoughtful. “I like it, Em. It takes the pressure off me, and it gives everyone else a chance to shine. Let’s do it.”
Relief floods through me as the others murmur their agreement.
After the meeting, the band leaves, but I linger behind to gather my notes. Sam stays, leaning against the table with a faint smile.
“You handled that well,” he says.
“Thanks,” I reply, tucking my notes into a folder.
“You know Vince is going to grumble the whole way, right?”
I laugh softly. “Probably. But I think he’ll come around once he sees the results.”
Sam’s smile widens, and for a moment, the weight of the tour lifts.
“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand. “Let’s grab some lunch before we hit the road again.”
The day spent at the hotel felt like a precious interlude of quiet serenity. The band members split off to enjoy their downtime—Luke and Vince hung out at the pool, and Nate disappeared into his room, probably on his computer, checking out his next stock investment. Cass spent time with his family. Sam and I managed to steal a quiet moment for lunch together, and the tension in my shoulders finally began to ease.
But the reprieve is short-lived.
When we arrive at the next location, the venue manager waits for us near the loading dock, his arms crossed and a scowl plastered across his face. The moment I step forward to introduce myself, his expression twists further into annoyance.
“Emily Wild?” he asks, his tone curt.
“Yes,” I reply, keeping my voice professional. “I’m the band’s manager. We’re looking forward to tonight’s performance.”
His eyes flick over me, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. Let’s get one thing straight—I don’t have time to babysit. So stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
I blink, caught off guard by the hostility. “Of course. I’m here to make things run smoothly, not cause problems.”
He snorts, clearly unconvinced. “We’ll see about that.”
Standing a few steps behind me, Sam stiffens, and I can feel the tension radiating from him. I shake my head subtly. Now isn't the time for confrontation, though his protective instinct makes my heart warm.
The manager barks a few orders at his crew, barely acknowledging me as he storms off toward the stage. I exhale slowly, forcing myself to focus.
“Don't let him get to you,” Sam murmurs, his hand brushing against mine. That simple touch sends warmth through my entire body, his quiet support more steadying than any words could be.
“I won't,” I lie, though the pit in my stomach tells a different story. But with Sam beside me, his fingers lingering against my skin, I feel stronger and more capable of facing whatever comes next.
As the setup begins, I throw myself into the work. The crew is efficient, but a few minor issues crop up. I handle each problem quickly and decisively, coordinating with the venue staff and ensuring the band stays on schedule.
But the venue manager doesn’t make it easy. He hovers nearby, his arms crossed and his face set in a perpetual sneer.
“You think you’ve got this under control?” he says at one point, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Let me guess—your brother pulled some strings to get you this job? Or was it your husband?”
I stiffen at his words that carry the sharp sting of insult and doubt. I square my shoulders, refusing to let him see the impact.
“Cass hired me because he knows I can handle this job, not because we’re related.” I say curtly, “And I’m doing it well despite your lack of cooperation.”
His eyes narrow, but before he can respond, one of his crew members approaches with a question about the seating arrangements. He grumbles something under his breath and walks off.
As the evening progresses, the band arrives for soundcheck, and I make sure everything is in place. Sam catches my eye from across the stage, his expression questioning. I give him a small nod, silently reassuring him that everything is fine.
But it isn’t. Not really.
The manager’s earlier comments stick with me, gnawing at my confidence. Where did he get the idea that I didn’t earn my position? Has someone been spreading rumors? Or is it just his own bias coloring his opinion?
Fifteen minutes before the show starts, a frantic tech bursts out. “Emily, we’ve got a problem with the pyrotechnics!”
My heart lurches. “What kind of problem?”
“The control panel isn’t responding. The entire system is down. We can’t run any of the cues.”
The flames and fireworks are a crucial part of the show’s finale; without them, the performance will fall flat. I follow the tech to the control room, where a cluster of staff huddles around the malfunctioning panel.
“What’s the issue?” I ask, scanning the equipment.
“The wiring is fried,” the lead technician explains, his voice laced with frustration. “We’ve been trying to reboot, but nothing’s working.”
“Is there a manual override?” I ask, stepping closer.
The tech hesitates. “There is, but it’s risky. The system’s old, and we can’t guarantee it’ll work without causing another issue.”
I think quickly, assessing the situation. “What if we skip the automated sequences and fire the cues manually? Could we pull it off?”
The lead tech looks doubtful. “It’s possible, but it would require someone with steady hands and precise timing.”
“I’ll do it,” I say without hesitation.
The room falls silent, everyone staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Emily, you’ve never worked with pyrotechnics before,” the tech protests.
“I’ve read the safety protocols and know the song cues,” I counter. “Unless you have a better solution, this is our best shot.”
The tech glances at the venue manager, who shrugs dismissively. “Your show, your call,” he says, clearly expecting me to fail.
Ignoring him, I step up to the panel and take a deep breath. The instructions are straightforward but require precision. As the show begins, I keep my eyes glued to the monitors, my fingers hovering over the controls.
The first few cues fire perfectly, sending bursts of flame and sparks into the air at exactly the right moments. My confidence grows with each successful execution, but I don’t let myself relax. One mistake could derail the entire performance.
When the final song reaches its crescendo, I hit the last sequence. The stage erupts in a dazzling display of fireworks, illuminating the band as the crowd roars with approval.
I exhale shakily, my hands trembling as I step back from the panel. The lead tech looks at me, his expression a mix of disbelief and admiration.
“Nice work,” he says grudgingly.
“Thanks,” I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through me.
Sam finds me near the control room as the band exits the stage. His eyes search mine, his concern evident.
“What happened?” he asks.
“The pyrotechnics system failed,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “We had to run it manually.”
His jaw tightens, but there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes. “You handled it?”
“Yes.” I give a furtive glance around. “But it shouldn’t have happened.”
Frowning, Sam agrees. “I think you’re right. This is more than a coincidence.” Suddenly, his frown turns into a faint smile. “You ran those manually? Damn, Em, you never cease to amaze me, you know that?”
I shrug, but his words warm me in a way I can’t explain.
Later, the venue manager approaches me as the crew packs up and the venue empties. His expression is less dismissive now, though his tone remains gruff.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” he says reluctantly, “but you pulled it off.”
“Thank you,” I reply coolly.
As he walks away, Sam steps closer, his voice low. “What do you think made him doubt your competence?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, frowning. “But it feels like someone’s been spreading rumors about me.”
“Who?” His expression darkens. “Nobody messes with you, Emily—not on my watch,” he promises as he pulls me into his arms.
Pressed against Sam's chest, his arms strong and secure around me, I breathe in his familiar scent. Even with all the uncertainty swirling around us, this feels right—like coming home. His promise to protect me sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
Exhaling, I am grateful for his support—but a lingering unease settles in my chest. The night was a success, but the questions remain.
Who’s trying to undermine me and hurt the band? And why?