Madison
One Year Earlier
“Knock, knock,” she calls lightly, pushing open the cracked door.
“Hey!” Harrison beams, looking up from his computer. “Come on in.”
The office is muted, lit only by the large window on the west wall, the sun covered mostly by pebble-toned clouds.
The fall season is taking its time to settle, only four days into its arrival, as the trees scattering the city remain a rich green.
The top half of the Seattle Great Wheel, down on the pier, slices through the gray horizon, its slow rotation a ghost of summertime.
Madison lowers into the chair across from her boss’s desk, her shoulders stiff with the weight of what she’s about to say. Her entire day has been a smudge of email chains and talent scouting on the internet. But this… this has been poking at her since she texted Harrison hours ago.
“I’ll make this as quick as I can,” she begins. “I know you’re busy. And, to be honest… it’s an uncomfortable situation for me.”
“Shoot,” Harrison says, casual but attentive, a pen spinning idly between his fingers. “You can tell me anything.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you…
” She trails off, his face hardening in concern.
“For the past couple months”—she swallows, picking dead skin from her thumbnail—“Peter has been… unprofessional with me. He’s always been friendly and, frankly, flirtatious—which I’ve never reciprocated.
But he’s become much more physical lately. ”
Harrison straightens. “What?” The word drips with disgust.
She turns her head, watching the glimmer of that Ferris wheel beyond the window. Suddenly, she’s back there, in Peter’s office. The last time it happened.
It was last Friday night, a couple hours after everyone else had left for the weekend.
Madison was staying late, adding final touches to the week’s artist-scouting reports—scrubbing through demos, cross-checking streaming analytics, updating the shared roster with the handful of new acts she’d spent days tracking down.
Normally, she loved the quiet of research, the way her headphones could make the world disappear.
But that night, she rushed through the work with frantic precision, knowing Peter was waiting for her in his office on the floor above.
He’d given her a special project: pitch decks, press kits, invites for an upcoming artist showcase—the first big one she’d been trusted to coordinate almost entirely on her own. Peter had been hovering all week, breathing down her neck about curating fresh stars who would impress.
When she finished, she took the elevator up, hoping Harrison would be at his desk next door.
He wasn’t. No one else was on the entire floor—that she could see.
Peter’s office was dark except for the lemony glow of his desk lamp and the neon haze of the city through the wall of glass.
Music hummed softly from his turntable, something slow, bass heavy.
Peter always carried himself like someone the whole world deferred to—statuesque, with those tailored shirts that hinted at an old-money upbringing.
A posh British accent that turned insults charming.
When she’d first started, she caught herself wanting to impress him, like everyone did.
He made you feel seen, like your work mattered. Like you mattered.
“There’s my girl,” he’d said when she walked in, getting up and locking the door with a casual flick of his wrist. Like she wouldn’t notice. “Couldn’t do this showcase without you.”
She followed him to his desk, a crystal tumbler in his hand. “You work too hard, Mads. Sit. Relax.” He gestured to the leather couch in the corner, the one where visiting artists lounged.
He snatched the report from her grasp, setting it down atop his keyboard without a glance.
“Actually, I should really get going. It’s late,” she protested. “Thanks for the invite, though.”
He grabbed her hand, hard at first, then lax. “You’ve got it, you know,” he said. “That spark no one can teach.”
Her heart thudded. She tried to shift away, but his arm came up behind her, boxing her in.
“I could fast-track you.” He smiled, blond hair flopping in his eyes. He was loose with drink. Too loose.
The smell of whiskey and expensive cologne clung to him, and his mouth lingered near her neck. His palm trailed slowly down her arm, and then, without pause, bent around her waist, pulling her into him.
“Peter, no—” she tried.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t like being noticed,” he whispered, lips almost at her ear.
His hand slid lower, cupping her, pressing possessively. Her body locked. The world narrowed to the hot pressure of his palm, the rising rush of shame in her ears.
“What did he do?” Harrison asks, breaking her from the trance.
Madison is back in Harrison’s office. Tuesday.
She clears her throat. “He’s… touched me.
He makes… explicit comments. When no one else is around.
” The word explicit feels too light in her mouth.
“Sexually explicit. It’s only getting worse.
So I wanted to tell someone now—while he’s on his trip.
Because I don’t feel comfortable working under him anymore.
” She meets Harrison’s gaze. “I know his position here. But if this isn’t taken seriously…
I’ll have to leave. And I don’t want to. ”
Harrison leans forward, pen forgotten, forearms braced on the desk. “Madison. I’m… disgusted to hear this. That is not acceptable behavior anywhere, but especially not here at Pacific Records.”
“Thank you.” Madison gulps. She bites a wobble in her lip, happy to feel validated, but reeling from saying the words out loud. To a man, at that.
“I want this to be a safe space for you… Of course, I’ll need to formally involve HR, with your blessing. That way we can follow the proper protocols.”
Madison nods, her molars digging into the inside of her cheek until she tastes iron on her tongue.
“Okay,” he says, smiling politely. He pulls his keyboard closer to his palms. “I’ll need to document this conversation.
I will only share this with HR, and then they’ll have a conversation with you.
We have a zero-tolerance policy for sexual harassment.
” He nods. “Do you feel comfortable sharing the specifics with me?”
She sighs, knowing she isn’t. But she has to.
“I can start from the beginning.”
Madison shrugs on her duster as she ducks out of the Pacific Records building, relieved that dreaded conversation is over.
She feels lighter. Harrison had taken her seriously.
Now she may not have to leave the label after all.
But she knows the storm isn’t over. Peter will be back in town next week.
Knowing him, he probably won’t go quietly.
She exhales steam into the cool autumn air and fishes her phone from her pocket, thumbs flying across the screen to text Macy.
Macy is the only person she’s told about what’s been happening with Peter. Besides Harrison. She promises her best friend she’ll call her later with details but keeps it vague for now: It went well I think? Harrison was supportive, luckily—just like I thought he’d be. I’ll tell you about it later.
She hasn’t found the courage to tell her sister, Phoebe, yet. Or her mom.
After tonight, things might finally start getting better.
Madison tucks the phone away and falls into her familiar walking tempo, heading the same route home she takes every day, rain or shine. The streets are bathed in soft purple light, the last dregs of sun feathering through the buildings as the city eases toward nightfall.
She tries to distract herself by wondering what she’ll eat for dinner, if she might coax Macy out to Seattle for a cocktail rather than a phone call. Anything to keep her mind from circling back to that meeting.
As she rounds the corner onto her quiet block, a black sedan idles at the curb. The passenger door cracks open as she steps onto the sidewalk, startling her. She flinches and stumbles sideways but corrects her path. Until a voice floats from the driver’s seat.
“Madison!” the man calls, casual. As though to say, Funny seeing you here!
The street is otherwise hushed, making the sound of her name too loud. It pins her in place. She forces a dry laugh and crouches toward the open door to see who’s inside.
It’s her ex-boyfriend. Parker Lane.
Her expression drops into a flat line, completely unenthused to run into him.
They’d met in what she used to think was a serendipitous, old-fashioned meet-cute straight from a film.
She’d come barreling out of Pacific Records one snowy evening with her head in her phone and collided with him on the sidewalk.
He’d bought her mulled wine that night, and for a while after, she’d been charmed.
He was attractive, attentive, moody in a way that seemed soulful back then.
He had this watchful, intuitive air—complimenting her, showing commitment in ways no man had before.
He made her feel chosen. He seemed to truly adore her.
At least, that’s how it felt at first. Over time, Madison began to understand that the warmth he wrapped her in was only camouflage.
It disguised the calculating, controlling core of him.
She learned, bit by bit, that Parker still lived with his mother, in Seattle, never branching out on his own.
On its face, this struck her as peculiar for a man in his late twenties.
But Parker had quickly offered an excuse: His mother was dying of an aggressive cancer, and he was simply being a dutiful son.
It had moved her, this portrait of loyalty.
Until Madison visited their house and saw Meredith with her own eyes: healthy, composed.
She looked like she’d stepped off the page of a lifestyle magazine.
If anyone in that house had seemed unwell, it was Meredith’s boyfriend, Cale, whose sour breath and trembling hands betrayed his perpetual intoxication.