Chapter 15
BIX
Twenty minutes later, a tall, lanky man appears before me. He wears designer streetwear with the resigned elegance of a Fashion Week regular.
“Ms. Bismark? I’m Milo Holmes, Mr. Sterling’s assistant. We spoke on the phone earlier this morning. Follow me, please.”
As we move through the gleaming corridors, the nervous flutter in my stomach builds. Every step echoes with the surreal speed of what’s happened. Sam's disappearance early this morning. Then Sterling's call.
It's like a dream tightening its grip around me faster than I can understand. My fingers trace the Ethiopian cross on my chest.
Good luck. Protection.
I try to push Sam out of my thoughts, but his vanishing still stings. Raw and unresolved.
We pass a room humming with unseen music equipment, voices mingling with the soft thrum of bass.
Next, Milo leads me into what looks to be an audition room. Dark velvet covers the walls, and soft amber sconces glow above a row of screening-room-style leather chairs.
Piano, bass, and drums for a trio are set up on the stage. Maxwell Sterling comes forward to greet me as I enter, cell phone to his ear.
In person, he’s smaller than I expected for such a music industry icon. He’s compact, well-tailored, and with silvery hair sculpted like a GQ model’s.
He waves me in without missing a beat on his call. “Yes, Tuesday. No, cancel Tony. I don’t care what he said in Cannes—reschedule. Yes. Thank you.”
Then he ends the call and turns to me. His eyes float from my dress to my posture and finally to my face.
“Ms. Bismark. My God, you’re even more radiant up close. Have a seat beside me, please. Did Milo mention why I asked you to come in today?”
“He was a little vague, actually.” It takes all my self-control to stop from gushing out a million questions.
“Well, you’re here because I saw you sing last night at the club from the sky box. I was impressed. You have an uncanny ability to express your soul when you sing—and that dazzling smile. I liked what I saw.”
“Thank you! I reach into my bag. “I brought my resume…”
“Maybe later.”
“Oh.” I glance at three men who've take their positions behind the instruments on the small stage. “So you’d like to hear me sing again?”
“Later on that too.”
“I’m not here for an audition? What are the musicians for, then?” A cold sensation creeps into my gut. Something's wrong. Something's off.
"Oh, that’s for…” Sterling stops speaking. “Yes. Why not? Boys, tune up,” he tells the musicians. “Ms. Bismark, what would you like to sing? Another torch song like last night?”
“I could. But I also write my own songs. I’d love this opportunity to sing them for you.”
“Excellent. Please take the stage.”
I step toward the mic and adjust it, my fingers brushing against cold steel. I look at the piano player. “Do you know Louis Armstrong's ‘Heebie Jeebies’?”
He gives me a strange look before turning to the rest of the band, who nod.
“Good. Play the opening bars. Then follow my lead.”
The first notes drift from the piano, delicate and questioning. My cue.
I close my eyes, willing away the intimidating room, Sterling’s calculating gaze, Milo’s arctic judgment.
My Grandmother Lola’s voice echoes in my memory: “Don’t sing from your throat, child. Sing from that place where your heart meets your soul.”
I open my mouth, and the melody carries me.
It isn’t perfect. It isn’t polished like a studio recording. But it’s mine. Raw and honest, the way jazz should be.
Each note is weighted with my dreams, my fears, my confusion over Sam and his abrupt disappearance.
Somewhere in the middle of the second verse, something shifts in the room. The temperature changes. The air grows charged, electric. Like it knows something I don’t.
Goose bumps rise on my arms, and I feel someone watching me.
Not Sterling. Not Milo.
Someone else.
Someone yet unseen.
My eyes drift open, still holding the note as I scan the shadowy corners of the room.
The door at the far end has opened silently, and a tall figure stands in the threshold, silhouetted against the hallway light.
I can’t make out the face, just the unmistakable outline of a man in black, standing perfectly still, watching.
Something about that presence makes me shiver, though I can’t say why.
I force myself to stay with the song, to finish what I’ve started. But as the final notes fade into silence, the figure steps forward into the room.
And with that, everything changes.