6. Gabe
SIX
Gabe
By the time I’m on my fourth call of the morning, irritation has settled in. Not enough to show, because I don’t do outward irritation, but present all the same, beneath everything else.
“I understand the concern,” I say, keeping my tone even, measured, the same tone I’ve used to close deals worth more than most people will ever see. “But you’re looking at this from the wrong angle.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled shuffle. Someone covering the receiver, no doubt consulting with someone else who thinks they know better.
They don’t.
“It’s not about location,” I continue, leaning back, my gaze drifting over the glass wall of my office toward the grounds beyond. “It’s about environment. You’ve spent the last five years recording in cities that never shut up… do you really think that hasn’t affected your sound?”
Another pause follows, longer this time, and I let it stretch just enough to do its work.
“We’re offering you space,” I add. “Actual space. No label breathing down your neck, no timelines built around marketing cycles instead of the music itself. You come here, you work, and you leave with something real. Cities create noise. This place doesn’t. That’s the difference.”
Silence settles on the line, and I know I’ve hit the right pressure point.
People always assume artists thrive in drama, but they don’t. They want clarity, whether they realize it or not.
“We’ll talk,” the voice says finally.
“You should,” I reply, already certain I’ve done enough to pull them back in, even if they won’t admit it yet. “Take the week. I’ll expect your call.”
I end it there, before they can drag the conversation into something less decisive, and set my phone down with a thud against the desk.
Fourth call. Three more waiting. And still, hesitation.
It’s predictable.
We left the city, and that alone is enough to make people nervous.
In this industry, noise passes for relevance, visibility for power, and if you’re not in the middle of it, people assume you’re already falling behind.
What they don’t understand is that the middle of it is exactly what ruins most artists.
I built my entire career learning how to navigate that, how to control it, how to use it without letting it use me, and now we’ve stepped outside of it entirely.
Of course, they’re hesitant.
“They’ll come around,” I murmur, not as reassurance but as fact.
They always do.
I reach for the next file, flipping it open and scanning notes I already know well enough to recite: band history, streaming numbers, tour data, behavioral patterns, risk assessment, because talent is common, but stability never is.
My phone buzzes again before I can dial out.
Not a call. A notification.
I glance down, already expecting something I don’t want to deal with, and I’m not disappointed.
My jaw tightens as I open the message.
Dylan: We need to talk. About the new album.
I let the words sit there.
The timing isn’t a coincidence. It never is with him.
I don’t respond, not yet. Not because I’m ignoring it, but because I don’t know what the right move is here, and I don’t make moves without knowing exactly where they land.
Instead, I lock the screen and set the phone face down on the desk, a small act that creates just enough distance to think.
Because that’s what Dylan is.
Not just a complication for the label, but for Xander, which, by extension, makes him a problem for all of us.
Xander built his younger brother Dylan’s band from nothing.
Managed them before anyone else saw what they could be, before the tours, before the numbers, before the kind of attention that attracts people who think they know better.
And then, somewhere along the way, someone else stepped in and took over after the fallout with cleaner contracts, bigger promises, the kind of move that appears to be progress from the outside.
It wasn’t.
It just put distance where there shouldn’t have been any.
Now Dylan’s reaching out directly to me, cutting across lines that still exist whether anyone acknowledges them or not, and doing it because he knows exactly where I sit. Close enough to Xander to matter, separate enough to be useful.
And that’s the problem.
Because Xander doesn’t enjoy being circumvented. Especially not when it comes to something he built.
I haven’t told him about the messages.
Not yet.
I don’t deal in problems. I deal in solutions.
I push the thought aside, at least for now, and reach for my coffee, taking a sip as I pull up the next contact. Only for another notification to cut in before I can dial.
Caitlin West: Still interested in doing a feature. Timing feels right. Call me.
I almost laugh.
Too early.
We already have the vision. The problem is letting the industry decide what it is before we officially show them ourselves.
The last thing we need is some tabloid writer shaping the narrative into “three ex-rockstars hiding in the mountains chasing relevance” before anyone understands what we’re actually building here.
I don’t respond to her either.
Instead, I stand, because movement helps, and step out into the hallway, where the house carries on around me. Music bleeds faintly from one of the studios, voices farther in.
This is what we built.
Not just a label, but a system. A place where things can happen without interference, without pressure, without the constant demand to perform before something is ready to exist.
We were tired of it, all of us, being pushed, molded, marketed before the music even had time to breathe. So, we stepped out. Built something better.
A place where artists can think for themselves, where they’re not constantly reacting, just creating.
Now we just have to convince everyone else of that.
I head toward the stairs, rolling the tension out of my shoulders as I go, my phone buzzing again in my hand before I’ve made it halfway down.
Dylan: Don’t ignore me, Gabe. We need to talk. You know that as well as I do.
I stop, not because of the message itself, but because of what sits underneath it. He knows. Or at least he suspects.
Gabe: Not now.
The three dots appear immediately, then disappear before the next message comes through.
Dylan: Come on, this is ridiculous.
My jaw tightens, just a fraction.
I lock the screen again, ending the conversation without replying, and slip the phone into my pocket as I continue down the stairs.
And then I stop, mid-step, because standing in the entrance hall, as if she’s taken a wrong turn into someone else’s life, is Willow Jameson.
She’s holding a delivery bag, staring around the estate with confusion dancing in her eyes, her attention catching on the high ceilings, the open space, the glass walls that reveal more rooms beyond, equipment, movement, people, understanding settling in piece by piece.
Then her eyes find mine.
And everything else drops out.
Hazel. Piercing. Alive in a way that cuts straight through the controlled environment around us. She doesn’t belong here… or maybe she belongs more than anything else.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.