Chapter 12 Malik #2
Something cold settles in my chest, spreading outward until my fingertips feel numb.
I think of Julian’s fury. The way he looked cornered in that hallway.
The tight, controlled expressions. The barely contained anger during every joint appearance.
The way he snapped when I stepped in to help him.
Hell, the morning of our first interview in Las Vegas, the stiffness in his posture, the careful distance he maintained.
He never wanted to be here, he made that very clear, but to be forced.
To have no say in being thrown back into my orbit after all these years.
The realization twists something painful inside me.
“Malik,” Joseph says, voice firm, leaving no room for argument, “you’re a professional.
You’ve built your career on adaptability and authenticity.
This should be easy for you compared to what you’ve overcome already.
You will rehearse in the remaining cities here in the states.
You will collaborate and write something new with Julian.
There will be no other incidents. Make amends, play nice, do what you need to. But this is happening.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask, though I already know the answer. The music industry’s memory for defiance is long and unforgiving.
“Your contract is up for negotiation,” Joseph says flatly, confirming my fears. “Let your continued success with Blackline be your motivation or not. It is up to you. But I strongly advise against testing our CEO’s patience right now.”
The line goes quiet after that, leaving his threat hanging in the air between us.
“He will do his job, Joseph. Talk soon,” Renee says before reaching for the phone and ending the call before I can say something I can’t take back.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The silence in the room is heavy with implications, with choices narrowing by the second.
“So,” I say finally, running a hand over my head, feeling the slight roughness that tells me I need a cut soon. “I find out he was forced into this, and the solution is to trap him even further. To make him work with me. After everything.”
Renee sighs, rubbing her temple where I can see the beginnings of tension headache forming. “I don’t like it either, Mal. But we’re past liking things. We’re in survival mode now, and like it or not, your careers are tangled together for the foreseeable future.”
I nod slowly, the reality sinking in. “When does he hear about this.”
“Damon will handle it,” she says, glancing at her phone again. “Eli too. Studio time’s already being carved out. Hence, my pacing. My feet are killing me. They’ve been on the phone with every studio in our upcoming cities trying to arrange time that works with both your schedules.”
Of course it is. They have backed us both into a corner, decisions made, futures plotted, without either of us having a say.
I stand, pushing the chair back with more force than necessary.
It scrapes loudly against the floor, a small rebellion in an unwinnable situation.
“This isn’t right. He wants nothing to do with me, Renee.
You heard him, you saw him. I’m the last person he wants to do anything with. ”
Renee’s gaze sharpens, the maternal softness I usually see there hardening into the businesswoman who has protected my career for years. “It’s not your call, Malik. I get it. I heard what Julian said, and you forget I know why. But this is bigger than old wounds now.”
“It is,” I say quietly, conviction forming even as I speak. “I owe him that much. I respect him enough to stand down, to give him the space he needs. After what I did? After what he said? Forcing him into this is cruel.”
She studies me for a moment, seeing the determination in my stance, then nods once. “Just. . .don’t make it worse. Don’t add fuel to what’s already burning. We need to contain this, not escalate it.”
I leave the conference room before she can say anything else, before she can see the conflict on my face. The hallway beyond is quiet, mercifully empty of people who might recognize me, who might see too much in my expression.
That night, during the second show in Chicago, I don’t stand in the wings like I have every other night of the tour.
I stay in my dressing room with Asha and Deidra, who finally made it in to see the show, surrounded by the flowers and gifts from fans, feeling more isolated than I have in years.
I let the monitors stay dark. I give him the space I should have given him weeks ago, let him play without my eyes on him, without the weight of our shared history crowding the stage.
When I go onstage later, the applause still roars, washing over me in familiar waves.
The lights are blinding and beautiful. The music still moves the room, bodies swaying, hands raised, but for the first time since this tour began, I don’t look for him among the shadows or in the VIP section.
I don’t search for his face or try to catch his eye.
Because soon enough, I won’t be able to avoid him at all.
Soon we’ll be locked in studios, forced to create together, to find harmony when there’s only discord between us.
Whatever comes next, whatever we write together, whatever the world turns it into, it won’t be something either of us chose freely. Just like everything else between us now, just another performance, another mask, another compromise neither of us wanted to make.