20 | The Video
Several days after the half-party, Midnight Theory played through the fourth demo without stopping to argue.
I stood near the studio wall recording them on my phone.
Kadir began with a low progression he had brought in that morning without pretending it was nothing.
Wesley listened through the first pass, found the rhythm, and kept it rough instead of smoothing every sharp edge before Leo could react.
Leo waited near the microphone with his eyes closed, head moving slightly with the beat.
When Leo finally entered, his voice landed in the space the others had created. He adjusted one phrase when Kadir altered the bass beneath him, and Wesley caught the change before the next measure.
Nobody stopped to announce that the arrangement had shifted.
They followed it.
That was the progress I had been trying to create since the first night in the lodge, when they had sat around the kitchen island acting like three separate artists forced into the same rental property.
Leo still pushed. Kadir still retreated when he became frustrated.
Wesley still tried to make every conflict easier before deciding whether it needed to be easy.
The difference was that they had started recognizing those habits in real time.
Leo looked toward Kadir before changing the end of the verse. Kadir gave a slight nod without simplifying the line for him. Wesley brought the chorus in harder, forcing both of them to commit.
I moved closer and adjusted the angle of my phone.
Three demos ago, they would have stopped after the first chorus.
This time, they played the full song.
Leo changed the final lyric. Wesley reacted with a short drum fill. Kadir repeated the opening phrase beneath it, giving the ending the same unresolved weight as the beginning.
Wesley ended the final note by throwing one drumstick upward and failing to catch it. The stick struck his shoulder before landing beside the kit.
I stopped recording.
“Excellent ending.”
“That part won’t be in the audio.”
“It’s in the video.”
Leo stepped away from the microphone and pushed his hair back. “Delete it.”
“Absolutely not.”
Kadir removed the strap of his bass and set the instrument carefully in its stand. He looked toward Wesley, who was rubbing his shoulder while insisting the throw had been affected by studio airflow.
The three of them moved toward me before I finished saving the file.
They gathered closely enough that the phone became difficult to see. Wesley stood behind my left shoulder. Leo leaned against my right side with one hand resting at my waist. Kadir remained behind us, tall enough to see over everyone without participating in the competition for screen space.
I played the video.
Watching them watch themselves had become one of my favorite parts of the work.
Leo studied the performance as though the frontman on the screen was a rival artist whose flaws required immediate identification. Wesley focused on the transitions, tapping lightly against my hip when the drums changed. Kadir watched the entire frame rather than only his hands.
The song began.
On-screen Leo waited through the bass opening.
Beside me, real Leo exhaled as though the delay still caused physical discomfort.
“You look like you’re being punished,” Wesley said.
“I’m listening.”
I kept my eyes on the video, but Leo’s hand tightened at my waist.
The arrangement worked. The vocal needed another take, and Wesley rushed one section near the second verse, but none of those problems threatened the structure. They were ordinary problems. Fixable ones.
The kind a functioning band was allowed to have.
Kadir reached over my shoulder and paused the video near the chorus.
“Go back.”
I dragged the marker several seconds earlier.
They watched the transition again.
Leo suggested delaying the vocal by half a beat. Wesley disagreed, then explained why without making the explanation sound like an apology. Kadir tested both versions by tapping his fingers against the back of my phone.
They were revising together while standing around me.
I barely needed to speak.
A strange mixture of pride and displacement moved through me. I had wanted them to reach this point. I had built entire sessions around forcing them to hear one another long enough to remember they were capable of it.
Now they were doing it without me.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
My father’s name appeared over the frozen image of Leo at the microphone.
The warmth of the moment drained so quickly I noticed its absence.
“I need to take this.”
The men shifted aside.
Leo’s hand left my waist. Wesley took my phone cable from the console before I could step on it. Kadir watched my face for a second longer, then returned to his bass.
I answered while walking into the hallway.
“Hey.”
“Do you have a minute?”
His voice was careful.
My father had several voices. The warm one he used when he wanted to know whether I was sleeping enough. The efficient one he used in label meetings. The gentler executive voice he used when delivering information that would have sounded cruel without softening around the edges.
This was the third.
I moved farther from the studio.
“What happened?”
He paused long enough to make my stomach tighten.
“The label’s publicity team found more posts this afternoon.”
“About Lodge Girl?”
“About you.”
I leaned against the wall.
He explained that pictures and a short video had begun circulating. Someone associated with the property had taken footage outside the lodge during the storm preparations several nights earlier.
The half-party.
I saw the living room as it had looked from inside. Empty beer cans on the kitchen island. The puzzle spread across the coffee table. Wesley against my side. Leo’s head in my lap. Kadir holding my legs across his.
All three men kissing me after I admitted they were cute.
The walls of the lodge were mostly glass.
I had spent weeks worrying about phones, social clips, fans at the bar, and Wesley’s bowling selfie. I had never considered someone standing outside in the snow with a clear view into the living room.
“What does the video show?”
“Enough to raise questions.”
That wasn’t an answer I could use.
“What questions?”
“Dasha.”
My name arrived as a warning. He was trying to protect me without telling me anything that belonged inside tomorrow’s formal conversation.
The label had scheduled a call for the following afternoon. Publicity, artist management, and another senior executive would attend. My father would be there too, though he made it clear he would not be attending only as my father.
“I wanted to give you a heads-up before someone sent the meeting invitation,” he said. “You should hear it from me first.”
“Am I being removed?”
“The board has not made a decision yet.”
The words created enough empty space for every possible decision to enter.
The label might ask me to return home immediately. They could send another manager to finish the retreat. They could move me to an artist with less visibility, fewer fans, and no risk of becoming a public story.
They could keep the demos and remove my name from the process.
“I’m calling as your father because I didn’t want you blindsided,” he continued. “Tomorrow, I may need to speak as an executive.”
I closed my eyes.
The division I had always pretended we could manage. My father had opened doors for me, defended my competence, and assigned me to the most important project of my career. Now he might have to participate in removing me from it.
“I understand.”
There was nothing else to say.
After the call ended, I remained against the wall with my phone in my hand.
The men’s voices drifted from the studio. Wesley was playing the transition again. Leo sang the altered line. Kadir stopped them after several measures and suggested another version.
They were working.
They sounded good.
I slid down the wall until I sat on the floor.
The meeting invitation appeared before I opened social media.
MIDNIGHT THEORY MANAGEMENT REVIEW
The subject line looked formal enough to erase the last several weeks.
I dismissed it and searched my name online.
The posts appeared immediately.
The first image showed the lodge from outside, snow collecting along the windows. Through the glass, the four of us sat around the coffee table.
Someone had zoomed in.
Wesley’s arm wrapped around me. Leo’s head rested in my lap. Kadir held my bare ankle while looking toward me.
The picture could still be explained as closeness.
The video was horrible.
It began with the camera moving across the exterior of the lodge. A man’s voice commented on the snowfall and the property lights. Then the image settled on the living room windows.
Inside, Wesley kissed my cheek. Leo leaned over the couch and kissed the other side of my face. Kadir pulled my legs across his lap when I tried to move.
The comments had already begun assembling the story.
Lodge Girl is definitely Dasha.
That’s their manager.
Her dad works for the label. How did she get this assignment again?
Are they all with her?
Imagine getting sent to a luxury lodge with Midnight Theory because your father owns half the industry.
He definitely didn’t own half the industry.
That correction felt insufficient.
Another post placed the video beside clips from the bar and the stripped-down performance. Each frame showed the men looking toward me, touching me, or arranging themselves around wherever I stood.
The story no longer required much imagination.
I returned to the studio.
The men had started another playback. Wesley sat at the kit. Leo stood beside the console. Kadir adjusted something on the bass amp.
All three looked toward me when I entered.
I held up my phone.
“There’s a video.”
Leo crossed the room first. Wesley left the kit. Kadir followed more slowly, watching my expression instead of the screen.
They crowded around me as I opened the post.
The video loaded halfway, freezing on the image of Wesley kissing my cheek while Leo leaned over my other shoulder. Kadir’s hand was visible around my ankle.
“What is this?” Leo asked.
“The half-party.”
Wesley’s smile disappeared.
I tried dragging the video forward.
The loading circle turned once, then stopped.
The studio lights flickered.
Every screen in the studio went black. The equipment shut down with a series of soft clicks. The room fell silent except for the sudden mechanical slowing of Wesley’s playback system.
My phone lost the Wi-Fi connection.
Leo looked toward the ceiling.
The emergency light near the door came on, casting the studio in a weak yellow glow.
“Storm,” Kadir said.
Upstairs, something heavy struck the side of the lodge as the wind intensified.
I looked down at my phone.
No service.