Chapter 29 #2
“Two sparkling waters with limes, please.” Because I think Griffin will find that amusing.
The bartender nods and grabs a fresh pair of tumblers.
"Harmony Sonora,” someone says from a few feet away. “So good to see you.”
It’s a woman (in her mid-forties I’d guess) with a blonde pixie haircut.
She wears a tweed Chanel blazer and a delicate gold chain necklace.
She has the type or face that, at first glance, says “friendly,” a heart shape with blue eyes and a soft smile—but there’s something sharp about her too, something I can’t put my finger on.
"Do I know you?" I ask.
“You probably don't remember me.” She extends her hand and I accept it with a tentative grip.
“Dana Hatton, Head of Catalog at FM Sound. We met once, briefly, during your exit meeting. At the time, I was only a catalog manager. There were other executives there, of course, and you were … pretty eager to be on your way, so I don’t blame you for not paying attention. How have you been?"
I rack my brain, trying to conjure the memory of that meeting, of who was there, what was said. That was eight years ago, though.
I may not know who this woman is, but I know one thing: She doesn’t give a fuck how I’ve been.
“What do you want?"
She chuckles. "You always were a feisty one."
“No, I just don’t tolerate bullshit.”
“And I admire that.” She nurses a gin and tonic. “Sometimes, though, you need to know when to back down, when to admit you’re no match for the big kids.”
“I assume you’re referring to my first two albums—the ones you and your people have been holding hostage since I left.”
“‘Hostage’?” She huffs a laugh. “That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”
The bartender hands me my waters as someone else approaches to ask for a white wine spritzer. “Did you come here to taunt me on purpose,” I ask Dana, “or was this run-in just a happy coincidence for you?”
She sets down her glass, then stands and smooths her pencil skirt. “Why don't we go talk somewhere more private?”
“To what end? I don’t have anything else to say to you, and I definitely don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”
“ That’s too bad. I wanted to give you the opportunity to salvage your career”—she lowers her voice significantly and leans close to my ear—“before the truth comes out about you and Riff Hurley.”
My whole body goes rigid.
Relax, I think. It’s a blind accusation. People have been making claims about us all over the internet for weeks—months. So what?
Except … I highly doubt this woman wouldn’t be so bold as to approach me like this, and with that tone, if there wasn’t the possibility that she had more information.
I try not to choke on my reply. “What?”
Still in a whisper, she guides me away from anyone within earshot and says, “Let’s just say I have some inside information.”
My pulse quickens. I clench my jaw. “Riff and I are together, end of story. And what does my relationship have to do with FM Sound anyway? You still have my masters. Now you don’t want me to be happy in my personal life either? Out of spite?”
Unbelievable.
Dana smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes, clasping her hands in front of her. “Oh, sweetie. If only it were that petty.”
“Don’t tell me FM Sound is above being petty. You only made my masters available for purchase because you knew I could never afford them. Even with everything I’ve accomplished at this point, they’re still out of reach for me.”
“Not for long though. Isn’t that right?” She says this like it’s something I’m supposed to be ashamed of.
“I … Glambam said …”
Shit. If she really does have insider info about the dating stunt, then she must also know about the deal—the part where that stunt earns me Glambam’s purchasing power. That’s what it has to do with FM Sound.
“You keep this up until the albums release and you get what you’ve been dying to have for almost a decade,” Dana states.
“Glambam promised me they’d buy my masters if I can hit a sales goal,” I tell her firmly.
That’s not the whole truth, but it’s the truth.
“Hmm.” Dana unlocks her phone and begins to scroll.
“I wonder if your fans would like to know how you’ve been working towards that.
Maybe they’d like to see screenshots of the text messages between your manager and the rest of your team discussing just how much physical contact they can persuade you and Riff to engage in”—she turns her screen around to show me a conversation between Stefanie and Jared—“or better yet, a copy of the contract between Glambam and the photographer hired to document your ‘impromptu’ beach date.” With the screen still facing me, she swipes right to reveal a miniature copy of said contract.
“Maybe they’d like to read your social media report”—she swipes again—“including notes that highlight an uptick in engagement whenever your name and Riff’s are mentioned together, and which advise you both to ‘keep up the good work.’”
My fingers curl instinctively, tightening around the cool glasses in my hands. I imagine myself shattering the drinks, liquid everywhere, some of it my own blood.
What am I supposed to say to that? My instinct is to deny it, to pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she has all the details. Someone at Glambam must have been helping her, and that means that this isn’t a bluff; she can leak this at will.
The question is …
“How do you benefit from trying to damage my career? My success means more sales for you too. Every time I drop a new album, it eventually ripples back to Brightly Burning and Nebulous. You want to hurt my sales? You’ll also hurt streaming numbers and syncs on those old tracks.”
“Which is exactly why I came to you first, instead of sharing what I know. It would be very easy to get what I want on behalf of FM Sound simply by exposing your elaborate lies. All those fans who find you so … genuine and relatable … would see that you’re a fraud, and they’d destroy you online, and they’d boycott your music.
You wouldn’t meet your sales goal—not even close—and Glambam wouldn’t follow through on their promise. No masters for you.”
“It would be even easier to just pull the masters off the market. You’ve done it before,” I say.
“Yes, but we can’t have you blocking sync deals again, or refusing to perform the songs so that they become irrelevant.”
“Because your threat to take away my chance at having them was all you had keeping me in line, and if you make good on that threat, I have no reason to play nice …”
“More importantly, you’ve done a fantastic job publicizing the bad blood between you and FM Sound, vilifying the label in the press—”
“Baiting and harassing your former artists is villain behavior at its fucking finest,” I hiss.
If we weren’t surrounded by people (however inattentive they may be at the moment) this is probably where she’d slap me.
“FM Sound plucked you from obscurity,” she says through her teeth, “and made you what you are. The label deserves credit for that, and it deserves to keep the masters we helped you create.”
“And to profit from them ‘in perpetuity’?”
She sneers. “We know a change in their price or availability would be terrible PR, so naturally we’d prefer to avoid that.”
Makes sense. FM Sound is a record label, not a private investment firm; they need talent to be profitable, and they have to look appealing to artists who can sell records.
“Oh, are good artists afraid to work with you now? I can’t imagine why.”
“I know you think you’re some kind of goddess among us, and that you’ve done it all on your own, but plenty of Lucky Stars contestants don’t see fame beyond their handful of onscreen performances.
You could still be peddling homemade EPs and dragging yourself to open mic nights. FM Sound gave you a chance.”
“And I gave them something to sell.”
“We recognize the value in that. Logically, you can see why we’d want to hold onto our investment. In short, yes, harming you harms us—and that’s the point. If we can come to an agreement, maybe no one has to get hurt.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“Yes, I know your ego must be suffering greatly, but trust me, it could be much worse.”
I swallow, suddenly feeling my throat go dry. “What sort of … ‘agreement’ … are you referring to?”
“Tell Glambam to back off the masters purchase. Say you’ve changed your mind and you don’t want them anymore, even if you reach or exceed your sales goal.
We keep the masters without looking like the bad guys, your secret stays secret, your sales flourish, and everyone gets to move on without ever having to have this fight again. ”
Narrowing my eyes, I say, “You’re seriously going to stand here and try to blackmail me?”
“Again with the drama.” Dana sighs. “This can really be a very simple transaction.”
“My masters—and my dignity—for your silence.”
“Exactly.”
“And if I get legal involved?”
“‘To what end?’” she mocks. “What proof do you have? It’s the word of a desperate starlet seeking attention to try and win a tired battle she should have given up years ago.
And do you really want to turn Glambam into a madhouse with a lawsuit there aren’t grounds for?
If they’re already hesitant to invest in you—as evidenced by their refusal to even consider buying your masters until recently—how much more hesitant will they be once you’ve brought new chaos to their doorstep? Please. Let’s settle this practically.”
It feels like the walls are closing in on me.
My muscles are rigid, yet somehow they don’t keep me from trembling.
She’s right; I have no case—no proof besides my own testimony.
At best I might be able to get a few attendees here to say they saw me talking to FM Sound’s Head of Catalog, which means nothing.
This was the perfect place for Dana to approach me.
She can argue that she simply “ran into” me and stopped to say hello because, we are, after all, in the same industry—and this is an industry event.
Plus, the hotel bar is loud enough to cover a private conversation but quiet enough that if I get visibly heated I’ll make a scene and draw negative attention to myself.
“Also,” she adds, “if we catch a whiff of you talking to lawyers, we’ll leak the documents anyway—anonymously, of course. You still won’t have a case, and the damage will be done.”
Not just damage to my career, but damage to Griffin’s too.
Damage to Glambam and their reputation, which would affect their ability to sign future talent, which would affect the company as a whole, including all its employees.
A leak would ruin all of us. If it was only me, I’d say “fuck it” and let Dana tell the truth.
In fact, I’d tell it myself, on a live broadcast for the whole world to hear.
But nothing is ever that easy, is it?
“I stop pursuing the masters, and you leave me and my friends at Glambam alone?”
“That’s right. As long as you approve sync deals, continue to promote your early work, and don’t re-record the songs.
Any attempt to retaliate in underhanded ways will result in the same punishment we’ve just discussed.
If you test us, yes, we risk losing a bit of money on Brightly Burning and Nebulous sales and streams when the fans turn on you—but FM Sound will always be the one who made you, even if, in your personal morals, you turned out to be a disappointment.
That’s something we can spin. ‘Harmony Sonora goes off the rails since leaving her first label.’ Either way, you’re not getting those masters.
It’s just a matter of whether you want to keep the situation clean and private, or make it a major spectacle. Up to you.”
Neither fight nor flight seems like a viable option right now. Instead, I freeze. Deer in the headlights. Standing in front of her, about to let her run me over the middle of a street I thought was safe.
Her ultimatum screams in my mind, a dissonance unlike any I’ve heard before. She’ll destroy everything I’ve built; she’ll hurt people I care about; and I still won’t legally possess the original music I wrote.
I say nothing. What can I say? I can’t agree to this.
But I can’t argue either.
I’m stuck.
“When you’ve made up your mind about what you’re going to do,” says Dana, “call FM Sound headquarters; reception has been instructed to give you my personal number. They don’t know anything about this meeting, so you let me know directly. Until then … enjoy your night.”