Chapter 19 Psychotic Music s
PSYCHOTIC MUSIC EXECS
MORGAN
Hold Onto Me By Amira Elfeky
The office is buzzing before I even get through the front door.
Not the usual Monday energy. Not the kind that comes with last-minute release pushes or an artist accidentally posting something they weren’t supposed to.
This is… different.
The crowd near the front desk gives me pause.
At first glance, it looks like a tech meltdown.
Please God, not today. Not when I have a morning full of important meetings.
But when I catch sight of the TV screen—business news, not music—I know that’s not it.
“…Apex Talent faces uncertainty as several artists reconsider their contracts in the wake of allegations surrounding key investor Gerald Harrison…”
APEX INVESTOR UNDER FIRE scrolls across the chyron in bold red letters, each word slicing through the air like static.
I slow my pace, murmuring under my breath, “What the fuck?”
A few employees turn, eyes wide, then quickly scatter like I just threatened to assign them to budget reviews for the next six months.
I move in closer, the sharp scent of burnt espresso and yesterday’s air freshener lingering around the lobby. The ticker scrolls beneath the headline.
Misconduct allegations. Artist representation in question. Harrison denies claims.
My brow knits. My stomach twists.
The timing feels suspicious. Especially because I didn’t tell anyone. Although… our dinner wasn’t exactly subtle. Not with the scene I made.
Still. I’m not sorry to see it happen.
I turn toward the hallway, heels clicking against the tile as I make my way to my office.
Patricia falls in step beside me, effortlessly composed in a tailored navy pantsuit, sleek black heels, and her signature cat-eye glasses making her look like she was born mid-cross-examination. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight bun. The only hint of softness is her lipstick—deep plum.
She sips her coffee, watching me with the kind of curiosity that usually precedes bad news or excellent gossip.
“Harrison is all anyone’s talking about,” she says, tossing a glance toward the screen behind us.
“Two of Apex’s rising artists already announced they’re considering other representation. ”
I slide her a sideways look. “You think there’s any truth to it?”
She lifts a brow and shrugs. “Industry’s full of whispers, but this one’s been growing legs for weeks. Assistants talk. Nothing confirmed, but enough smoke to scare off some artists.”
I don’t say anything. But the corner of my mouth curves into a smile I try to suppress—but fail.
Patricia catches it. “Why are you smiling?”
I keep it light. “Guys like that get what they deserve eventually.”
She lets out a low whistle. “I guess we dodged a bullet not getting into bed with him.”
The buzz of the office dims behind us.
“Hollow Reign’s coming in soon. This could give Left Turn a much-needed boost, especially for the showcase. If we sign them, we might be able to attract some of those artists reconsidering their options.”
“They’re picking up serious momentum,” Patricia agrees. “Their last single hit 600K streams in under two weeks—without label backing. And their shows are selling out faster than they can book them.”
I feel a spark of hope. “With the showcase and the Cirque Noire partnership, we could make an impactful statement in the industry.”
Patricia lifts her coffee in a mock toast. “Here’s to bigger and better things. Or at least, not drowning.”
I nod, exhaling slowly, and push open the door.
Time to focus.
I close the door behind me, smile fading, and the noise from the hallway dulls.
If I want to show the world Left Turn still has teeth, still has vision, I need to show up for this meeting like it’s the only one that matters.
After sifting through a dozen emails, I straighten the edge of a folder that doesn’t need straightening and check the time again.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. They’re just another band with heat behind them, rising streams, a tight live show, and real potential.
Except ever since the night at the club, seeing Dylan’s hostility, Liam’s reaction, and the tension snapped between them like a wire pulled too tight, I haven’t been able to shake it.
Dylan should be circling like a vulture, but he looked like he wanted to punch Liam in the face for trying to give him a demo. It doesn’t track.
I press my palms flat to the desk and try to focus. This isn’t about Dylan. Or Liam. This is about Left Turn.
When my dad started this label, he used to say musicians could tell the second they stepped into a meeting if they were being treated like a paycheck instead of a person. Most of them walked in with their shoulders up, waiting to be sold to, or worse, dismissed.
That’s why he fought so hard to build something different. And why I can’t let it fall apart on my watch. The knock comes just as I finally stop fidgeting.
The band files in with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from too many green rooms and not enough sleep.
Phoenix, the frontman, leads the charge—tall, copper-brown skin, easy grin, and a vintage band tee under an open flannel.
He could talk his way into any woman’s panties, or out of any bar fight.
Behind him is Casey, with bleached curls tucked under a beanie and a silver pick necklace resting against his chest. Theo’s all shoulders and height, quiet in a cracked leather jacket with a bass clef inked behind his ear.
And then there’s Liam. He hesitates in the doorway.
Dark denim, black hoodie, hands shoved deep into the pockets.
His eyes lift and meet mine for a second.
The club was all dark and hazy, but now I see him clearly and a familiarity to his face makes my pulse hitch.
The angle of his jaw, or the shape and color of his eyes.
I find myself staring at him a second too long, taking in the features stirring a strange sense of déjà vu.
It’s not only the jawline—it’s something in his eyes.
They’re hazel-green, with the same intensity Dylan has, like he’s measuring everything he sees.
And when he shifts his weight, there’s a familiar restlessness to it.
I shake the thought away and get down to business.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, stepping out from behind my desk and offering my hand. “Please, sit.”
The leather chairs creak under their weight as they settle in. I take mine, crossing one leg over the other, smoothing the hem of my skirt more out of habit than nerves, because now that they’re here, I’m calm.
“At Left Turn, we’re not chasing trends,” I begin, keeping my tone level but open.
“We care about the long game and about legacy. We want to work with artists who have a point of view, something to say. We don’t treat musicians like product—we partner with them.
That’s how my dad ran it. That’s how I intend to keep running it. ”
Casey nods along, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest. “Respect. Honestly, most places talk like that, but you can tell they’re full of shit.”
“I mean it,” I say, not taken aback in the slightest. “I liked what I heard the other night. You’ve got something. It’s raw, but it’s real.”
Phoenix grins. “That’s what we’re going for. Real with a little chaos.”
I smile, but my eyes flick again to Liam. He’s watching me—still silent, still unreadable.
The question pushes against the inside of my ribs: what happened between you and Dylan?
But I don’t ask. Not here.
Theo speaks up, voice low but direct. “Look, not to be blunt, but there are rumors Left Turn is in financial trouble. What kind of backing can we actually expect?”
The hit to my pride burns more than it should.
I inhale slowly. Exhale once.
“What those rumors don’t mention,” I continue, “is over the past six months, we’ve rebuilt our marketing strategy from the ground up.
Streams are climbing, fan engagement is up almost twenty-five percent, and more listeners are following our artists before the music even drops.
We’re building anticipation—fans are already waiting by the time a track goes live.
That kind of momentum gives artists staying power.
” I lean forward slightly. “We’re also arranging a new artist showcase this quarter.
Intimate venue, big names in the audience—press, scouts, playlist curators.
And we just locked in a cross-promotional partnership with Cirque Noire. ”
That gets their attention.
“We’re pairing new music drops with editorial visuals—think stylized promo shoots, behind-the-scenes content, and creative direction from their team. It’s bold, high concept. Each artist gets their own look.”
Phoenix perks up. “Wait—Cirque Noire? That’s sick. I’ve been obsessed with their last runway show.”
Casey groans. “Oh god. You’re actually excited about being dressed by a fashion house? You do realize that means fittings? Like… tailors and tape measures? I’m not vibing with that,” Casey shakes his head.
Phoenix shrugs. “Art demands sacrifice. Besides, I look good in anything.”
Casey leans over to me. “You know he spends more time on his eyeliner than our soundchecks, right?”
Phoenix grins, unapologetic. “And it shows.”
Even Liam huffs a quiet laugh under his breath.
This band might be chaos—but it’s the kind I can work with.
I pull out a folder and slide it across the desk.
“This is what we’re thinking in terms of marketing rollout.
Three singles before the EP drop, each with its own visual treatment.
We’d push the first one as an exclusive with Alt Press, target playlists in the indie rock and alternative spaces, and build from there. ”
Liam finally speaks up, surprising me. “The songs have an organic build—start raw and then expand. The marketing should follow that pattern.”
I meet his eyes, nodding. “Exactly. We start intimate, like you’re playing in a dive bar to a small crowd, gradually opening it up until the final single feels like an arena show.”