Chapter 25
JULIAN
Eli stands beside me, tablet tucked under his arm like a weapon he hopes not to use, suit immaculate but his tie loosened just enough to tell me he’s ready to go to war if need be.
The careful loosening is deliberate, Eli’s version of rolling up his sleeves.
After twelve years as my manager, he knows when to look polished and when to look ready for battle. Today requires both.
Malik sits next to me on the leather couch, sunglasses on despite being indoors, cap pulled low over his eyes, his knee angled toward mine in a way that feels both casual and deliberate.
His presence fills the space around us, quiet confidence radiating from every line of his body.
His hand is wrapped around my fingers like he’s daring the ground to shift beneath us, thumb brushing slow circles into my palm that anchor me to this moment, to this choice.
The lobby of Reality Records hums with its usual corporate energy, assistants moving with purpose, phones ringing in distant offices, the soft murmur of conversations about contracts and quarterly projections.
I used to find comfort in this controlled chaos, the sense that important things were happening, that I belonged in this world of calculated success.
Now it feels like a museum I’m visiting one last time before walking away forever.
“You sure about this?” Malik asks quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear him. I don’t answer right away.
The receptionist behind her pristine desk keeps glancing our way, her curiosity poorly disguised as professional discretion.
I catch her eye and she immediately looks back at her computer screen, fingers flying over keys that probably aren’t typing anything meaningful.
A month ago, her attention would have sent panic racing through my chest. Today, it barely registers.
“I’m sure,” I say finally, the words coming out steadier than I expected.
Eli exhales through his nose, a resigned sound that carries twelve years of careful strategy and damage control.
He’s been protecting my career since I was twenty-three, building walls around my personal life with the precision of an architect.
Those walls kept me safe, but they also kept me trapped.
“Once we walk in there, there’s no undoing it,” he says, not as a warning but as a final confirmation that I understand what I’m choosing.
I turn my head just enough to look at Malik through his dark lenses.
He lifts his chin slightly, eyes hidden behind the glasses, but I know the expression by heart now.
Calm. Present. Unmoving. The same face he wore when he took the stage in Paris and changed everything between us with a single song, a single moment of raw honesty that shattered my carefully constructed silence.
“I know,” I say, my voice carrying a certainty that surprises even me. “That’s the point.”
A month ago, everything blew up in Paris, then again in Berlin. Not just my career, not just my carefully maintained public image, but the entire foundation of who I thought I had to be to survive in this world.
Since the end of the tour, Malik and I vanished from the public eye.
Not dramatically, not with press conferences or dramatic statements.
We just. . .stepped back. Disappeared into a quiet cottage-style home in the hills outside the city, surrounded by trees and morning fog that rolled in like a blessing.
No social media posts. No carefully crafted statements from publicists.
No interviews explaining or defending or justifying.
Just long mornings tangled together in sheets that smelled like us and possibility.
Late nights talking through futures that didn’t feel theoretical anymore, mapping out dreams we’d never dared voice when the world was watching.
We let the noise burn itself out while we remembered how to breathe without permission, how to touch without calculation, how to love without apology.
The media speculation reached a fever pitch and then, inevitably, moved on to the next scandal, the next tragedy, the next carefully orchestrated revelation.
The world kept spinning without us, and that felt like the most liberating discovery of my life.
Now we’re back, and I’m done letting other people decide what happens next. Done letting fear masquerade as professionalism, silence disguised itself as wisdom. I’m thirty-five years old, and I’ve spent too many years living like a guest in my own life.
The receptionist clears her throat, her voice cutting through the low hum of the lobby. “Mr. Reed? Mr. Grant? Damon is ready for you.”
Eli straightens, shoulders squaring in the way that means he’s shifting into business mode.
He’s fought for me in boardrooms and conference calls for over a decade, negotiating contracts and managing crises with the skill of a diplomat and the ruthlessness of a general.
Today might be the last time he’ll need to draw those weapons on my behalf.
Well, I’m sure he’ll find new ways to manage my career.
I have no doubt. “This is it,” he says quietly.
Malik squeezes my hand once before letting go, the absence of his touch immediate and cold. “I’ll be right here,” he promises, and I know he means it. He means it in a way that encompasses more than just this moment, this meeting, this building. He means it in the way that rewrites the future.
I lean in and kiss him quickly, soft and familiar, my lips finding his with the ease of practice and the weight of commitment.
The kiss tastes like coffee and courage, like morning conversations and shared decisions.
I don’t bother to check who’s watching, don’t calculate the potential cost or consequences.
A month ago, that kind of public display would have terrified me, sent me spiraling into worst-case scenarios and damage control strategies.
Now it just feels honest. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.
When I stand, straightening my jacket and squaring my shoulders, I don’t look back. Malik’s presence follows behind me like a steady flame, warming the space between my shoulder blades, reminding me that whatever happens in that office, I won’t be walking back into the world alone.
Damon Stone’s office hasn’t changed in the slightest since the last time I sat across from his oversized desk.
Same floor-to-ceiling glass walls that create the illusion of transparency while maintaining complete control over who gets to see in.
Same collection of abstract art that was chosen to look expensive and important without actually meaning anything to anyone.
Same massive desk positioned just far enough away from the guest chairs to establish dominance through distance, to make visitors feel small and grateful for his attention.
I’m just grateful I won’t have to grace this place with my presence much longer. The thought carries a lightness I haven’t felt in years, the freedom of knowing this is an ending rather than another negotiation in an endless cycle of compromise.
Damon rises when we enter, all practiced charm and perfectly white teeth, arms spreading wide like he’s greeting a beloved family member returning from a long journey.
He’s wearing one of his signature suits, navy blue, perfectly tailored, expensive enough to serve as a reminder of his power but not quite flashy enough to seem desperate.
His blonde hair is styled with the kind of precision that requires daily maintenance, and his blue eyes hold the calculating warmth of a man who’s built a career on reading people and using what he finds.
“Julian,” he says with manufactured warmth, voice pitched to suggest genuine affection. “So good to see you. You look. . .refreshed.”
I take the seat across from him without extending my hand, without engaging in the ritual of false friendship that’s defined our relationship for years.
The leather chair is exactly as uncomfortable as I remember, designed more for aesthetics than actual human comfort.
Everything in this office is designed to reinforce hierarchy, to remind visitors of their place in the carefully constructed ecosystem of the music industry.
“Let’s not pretend,” I say calmly, folding my hands in my lap with deliberate composure. “You didn’t call us in to compliment my skincare routine.”
Damon’s smile flickers for just a moment, like a light bulb with faulty wiring.
It’s the first crack in his polished facade, and I find myself studying it with the kind of detached curiosity I might reserve for an interesting specimen under a microscope.
Eli takes the chair beside me, tablet already in hand, fingers poised over the screen with the efficiency of a court stenographer.
“Straight to business,” Damon says, settling back into his chair with the kind of calculated casualness that probably took years to perfect.
“I respect that. Look, despite the. . .messiness of the last few weeks, the tour was a massive success. Ticket sales spiked across all remaining dates. Streaming numbers for your entire catalog tripled overnight. Social media engagement reached levels we’ve never seen before.
You came out of this situation stronger than ever, Julian. All is forgiven.”
The words hang in the air between us like smoke from an extinguished flame. All is forgiven. As if my personal life, my truth, my decades of carefully hidden pain were simply a PR crisis that could be smoothed over with the right spin and a generous interpretation of quarterly reports.
“I am not here to apologize,” I say, each word carefully measured and deliberately placed.