4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Hunter
The glass doors of Trace Media opened as Hunter reached them. An assistant in black waited on the other side, tablet held against her chest. She gave him a careful smile and didn’t ask why he’d ignored every call the day before. No one asked questions they weren’t paid to ask.
Hunter stepped into the elevator. His eyes felt rough from too little sleep. Wendy’s voice had followed him through the voice appointment, the hotel room he’d used instead of going home, and the long drive into West Hollywood.
She’d asked who’d inspired the song. He’d answered everything except the truth.
His phone rested heavy in his pocket. Her last message still filled the screen.
Wendy: Are you coming home tonight?
He hadn’t answered. He’d told himself he needed to settle the campaign first, so he could go home with facts instead of another fight.
The excuse had lasted through a full day of missed calls, room-service coffee, and staring at a ceiling that wasn’t his.
Sometimes, when he felt overwhelmed, he booked a hotel room instead of facing his home and his wife.
Wendy had never liked it. Had never understood it.
However, she’d accepted it over the years.
The boardroom was on the top floor. Beyond its glass walls, Los Angeles stretched under a pale sky and hard sun, with buildings packed to the hills.
Inside, a screen showed Hunter and Serena under the title TWENTY AGAIN: THE NEXT ERA.
The still came from the end of the duet.
Serena’s face was lifted toward him, and his hand rested at her waist. The crop left no room for Wendy’s seat, the band, or the thousands of people around them.
It looked private because a team had cut away everything that showed it wasn’t.
His manager Billy stood at the head of the long table in a charcoal suit.
Around him sat lawyers, label executives, streaming partners, brand representatives, and three members of Serena’s team.
His friend and guitarist Eli had taken the chair farthest from the screen.
He looked almost rude in his plain dark shirt among all that polished cloth.
“Glad you could join us,” Billy said.
“You knew I would.”
Billy’s easy smile didn’t reach his pale eyes. “I knew you’d remember how many people need an answer.”
A leather folder lay on the table, in front of Hunter’s chair. He sat without opening it.
Billy touched a control. The image changed to columns of numbers.
Views, searches, streams of Hunter’s old albums. New followers, listener ages.
Every line rose. Compared with the month before the Bowl, catalog streams had risen sixty-two percent and searches for Hunter’s tour dates had nearly tripled.
Both sponsors that had declined to renew were asking to reopen negotiations.
The four arenas that had curtained their upper levels now wanted approval to put those seats back on sale.
“The Bowl performance has passed every model we built,” Billy said.
“Your catalog just made a jump we haven’t seen in a long time.
Serena’s audience crossed into markets we couldn’t reach with the last album.
Most important, listeners under twenty-five aren’t treating you like their parents’ artist anymore. ”
A label executive leaned forward. “This isn’t a comeback to where you were. It’s access to a generation you haven’t had before.”
Relief moved through Hunter so fast it almost made him lightheaded.
He hated that reaction. He wanted it anyway.
For months, every review that called him safe and predictable had scraped at the old fear inside him.
Safe became stale. Stale became finished.
Finished became his father sitting in a dark kitchen, blaming the world for a talent no one would pay to hear.
Now twelve people watched Hunter as if the next major stage of their work depended on his name.
Beyond them, his companies employed musicians, drivers, engineers, warehouse crews, distillers, designers, and office teams. His masters and publishing fed the label.
His touring company booked work across the country.
The bourbon brand filled another set of ledgers.
Billy knew how to take all of it and lay it across Hunter’s shoulders until fear felt like duty.
“Show me the plan,” Hunter said.
Billy changed the slide and explained.
The completed studio duet would be released as the lead single.
The preliminary dates Hunter had approved before the Bowl would become a binding joint tour.
A documentary team would follow rehearsals and selected shows.
There would be two streaming performances, a signature-guitar release, a limited bourbon package, and sponsored short videos built around the idea of Serena bringing out Hunter’s reckless side.
Mock-ups filled the screen. Hunter and Serena sharing one microphone, Serena sitting on an equipment case while Hunter leaned close to hear her, their faces reflected in studio glass. Suggested captions used words like danger, spark, and too close.
The streaming representative clicked to a sample episode list. The first documentary hour would follow the making of the duet. Another would place Hunter and Serena alone in a rehearsal room, talking about fear, age, and artistic risk. The final episode would lead into the first tour performance.
“No spouses on camera,” she said. “No formal questions about anyone’s marriage. We stay with the creative bond.”
“Which means you ask the question without saying it,” Eli said.
She glanced at Billy before answering. “It means we trust the audience.”
The guitar campaign showed Serena holding a smaller version of Hunter’s worn stage model. A bourbon ad placed two glasses on a studio piano under the line SOME THINGS GET BETTER WITH A LITTLE DANGER.
Hunter looked toward the brand representative. “Serena doesn’t even drink bourbon.”
The man smiled. “She doesn’t have to drink it on camera. She hands you the glass.”
“And what’s she doing with my guitar?”
“Reaching younger women who want to play. Her model would carry her own name. Yours anchors the collection.”
Every answer was reasonable by itself. That was how Billy built these things. No single photograph said affair, no caption said desire. Taken together, they created a locked path and invited the public to walk it.
“No direct lies,” Hunter said.
“There aren’t any,” Billy replied. “We show the connection. The audience decides what it means.”
The same defense Hunter had given Wendy sounded thinner coming from Billy’s mouth.
Serena’s manager tapped the contract in front of her. “Her team needs assurance the story won’t be corrected halfway through the launch. If either side suddenly calls this a standard feature, the value drops.”
“It is a feature,” Eli said.
Silence followed.
Billy looked toward him. “It’s a lead partnership.”
“It’s a duet,” Eli said. “The rest is a story you’re selling.”
“A story people want.”
“Wendy didn’t want it,” Eli said.
Hunter’s jaw tightened. He’d invited Eli because the tour affected the band, and because Eli had earned a voice at this table. Right then, Hunter wished he’d left him at home. The last thing he needed was to hear another man defend his wife.
Billy’s tone stayed smooth. “Wendy had an uncomfortable evening. No one’s denying that. She’s also secure, smart, and experienced enough to understand a launch. This campaign protects an empire she benefits from as much as anyone.”
Hunter’s fingers closed around the edge of the folder. “Don’t talk about her like she’s an insurance policy.”
“I’m talking about facts. She has every protection money can provide.”
“Money didn’t keep that camera off her face,” Eli said.
The still on the screen changed again. This one showed Wendy applauding after “Twenty Again.” Her posture was perfect. Her expression wasn’t. Someone had placed the proposed tour logo below her hands.
Hunter stared at it.
“Take that out,” he said.
Billy glanced at the screen. “The wife’s reaction tests extremely well with the public.”
“I said take it out.”
Billy nodded, and an assistant made a note. The order gave Hunter a quick sense of relief. He’d protected Wendy. He’d drawn a line.
Then Eli asked, “Would you sign any of this if Wendy were sitting here with us?”
Hunter turned his wedding ring with his thumb. The gold was warm against his skin, but the motion didn’t calm him. He could picture Wendy next to him too clearly. Blonde hair tucked behind one ear, blue eyes steady on the mock-ups, no raised voice. She’d only ask him to say what he was choosing.
He remembered another image: a cramped service corridor at the Bowl, concrete walls, black equipment cases, and Serena blocking his path after Wendy had gone home.
Hunter had been trying to get back to the dressing rooms. A discarded staff credential lay near one wall.
People moved through an open service door farther down the corridor, their voices blurred by rolling carts and the distant reception music.
Serena stepped in front of him. Her waist-length hair fell over one bare shoulder. The sweet smile she’d worn for the cameras was gone.
“You embarrassed me up there,” she said.
Hunter stopped. “How?”
“You thanked her.”
“She’s my wife.”
“Exactly.” Serena moved closer. Her perfume cut through the smell of concrete and hot cables. “She gets the house, the ring, the history, and the safe little thank-you. I get the part of you that’s alive.”
“You get a duet.”
Her eyes hardened. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Hide behind the business when we’re alone.”
Hunter glanced toward the service door. A crew member crossed the opening with a coil of cable. Behind a stack of cases, something dark shifted and went still. He assumed someone had set down a phone or another piece of gear. The Bowl had been full of both.
“There’s no us when we’re alone,” he said.
Serena laughed once, without warmth. “You let millions of people see it.”
“We performed a song.”