23 | The Call #2
I thought of the fire. Wesley admitting he wanted me after the retreat. Kadir refusing to remain outside the decision. Leo saying he didn’t want me to become something that happened at the lodge.
I thought of waking beneath three bodies before the lights came on.
“Yes.”
Several people began typing.
Questions followed.
Had I favored material created by one member? Had the relationship influenced which songs received additional development? Could I evaluate performances objectively? Could I manage conflict involving men with whom I was personally involved? Would the band comply with decisions they disliked?
Most of my answers required more nuance than the call seemed designed to allow.
When artist management finished reviewing the work, publicity shared what had happened during the outage.
The footage had spread farther than expected.
The first wave had focused on identifying me. Once my name circulated, criticism appeared quickly. Nepotism. Unprofessional conduct. A label-funded vacation disguised as artist development.
Then fans began connecting the footage to the rest of the retreat.
The bar videos resurfaced. The lodge tour gained new attention.
The stripped-down recording received more shares than any official Midnight Theory post from the previous year.
Older performance clips began circulating beside the newer material, with people comparing how disconnected the band had looked before the retreat.
The leaked footage showed more than affection.
It showed all four of us around the coffee table with food, instruments, and the unfinished puzzle.
Leo’s lyric sheets were visible. Kadir had his bass beside him.
Wesley tapped a rhythm against the table while talking.
I had been leaning toward all three of them, laughing at something the video couldn’t hear.
The public saw a band that looked comfortable together.
Streams had risen. Engagement around the upcoming album had increased. Fan accounts had begun referring to the lodge sessions as Midnight Theory’s comeback before the label had officially used the word.
The publicity director described it as a developing narrative the label could either guide or damage.
A sudden denial would invite more investigation. Removing me immediately could make the label look punitive while confirming that something serious had occurred. Turning the relationship into a campaign would create its own problems and reduce the music to gossip.
Her recommendation was restraint.
No lies. No intimate details. No official use of Lodge Girl. No staged relationship content. Questions about the retreat would be redirected toward the album and the creative process.
The senior vice president asked to speak with the band.
I had known the request might come. My hand still tightened around the pen.
I muted myself and opened the office door.
All three men were in the hall.
Wesley stood closest, holding my coffee even though another mug already sat beside my laptop. Kadir leaned against the wall with his arms folded. Leo had apparently attempted to pretend he was passing through and failed because there was nowhere in that hallway to go.
“They want you.”
The three of them entered without comment.
The office had two guest chairs. Wesley and Kadir took them. Leo remained standing behind me, one hand resting against the back of my chair. The arrangement placed me in front of them rather than surrounded, though I could feel their attention.
The call reviewed the same concerns in shorter form.
Each man answered differently.
Wesley explained how the previous band dynamic had allowed him to become useful without becoming heard. My management had required him to state preferences before accommodating anyone else. The change affected both the music and the way he understood his role in the band.
He spoke without softening the point to protect Leo or Kadir.
Kadir described the sessions built around his bass line. He explained that I often pushed him to develop material he would have abandoned and challenged him when withdrawal became easier than disagreement.
Leo had the most dangerous opportunity.
I felt his hand tighten on the chair when the senior vice president asked whether personal involvement had affected his willingness to accept my authority.
For the first week of the retreat, he had treated my authority like a temporary obstacle. Everyone on the call knew enough about him to believe that.
He described the arguments, the rejected instructions, and the number of times I had made him redo work because he had rushed the others.
“She didn’t get results because we wanted her,” he said. “We wanted her while she was getting results.”
The sentence created a silence long enough for him to recognize how it sounded.
Wesley looked down.
Kadir rubbed one hand over his mouth.
I kept my expression professional through effort alone.
Leo continued before anyone could interrupt, clarifying that my work had earned his respect while he was still actively resisting me. The relationship hadn’t purchased cooperation. It had developed alongside the trust created by the work.
His second explanation was better.
The first was probably the line everyone would remember.
The executives asked the men whether they would cooperate with professional oversight and whether they understood that an ongoing relationship could limit my authority in specific areas.
All three agreed.
They behaved like the functioning band the label needed them to be.
That might have been the most useful evidence I presented.
The men were asked to leave for the final discussion.
Leo’s hand brushed my shoulder before he stepped away. Wesley gave me the coffee he had carried into the room, though it was the wrong mug. Kadir closed the door behind them.
I remained on camera while the label discussed my future as though I were both present and temporarily theoretical.
The structure they proposed kept me in place.
I would remain Midnight Theory’s manager through completion of the album and the next phase of release planning.
I would no longer report through my father in any capacity.
The West Coast supervisor on the call would become my direct contact, reviewing budgets, staffing, contractual matters, and any decision that created a reasonable appearance of personal favoritism.
Disciplinary decisions would require independent approval. Major spending would be reviewed. The arrangement would be evaluated again once the album was delivered.
The label would document the relationship from that point forward without retroactively treating the previous arrangement as a concealed commitment.
The senior vice president asked whether I understood the conditions.
“Yes.”
The decision was entered into the meeting record with enough formal language to make survival sound administrative.
People began leaving the call.
Publicity disappeared first, already moving toward whatever crisis waited next.
Business affairs followed. The A&R representative gave me a brief nod before signing off.
The new supervisor remained long enough to schedule a separate meeting, then left after telling me to send the current project files before the end of the day.
My father stayed.
He confirmed that he would remove himself from every decision involving me and Midnight Theory. No informal updates. No approvals routed through his office. No conversations where he advised another executive from the background.
The separation would make my work easier to defend.
It would also make my career harder.
For years, I had wanted an opportunity nobody could attribute to him while accepting opportunities that arrived partly because of his name.
The contradiction had followed me into every room.
Now the label had created a wall between us strong enough that neither of us could quietly open a door for the other.
“Did I embarrass you?” I asked with a strained voice.
“As your father?” He took a long, deep breath. “When I saw that video, I could tell you were happy. I hadn’t seen you smile and laugh like that since you were a child, Dasha.”
My eyes began to water.
“As a professional, I saw three musicians finally working together again. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m embarrassed. You know by now that this isn't a career for people who live for the opinions of others.”
I nodded and wiped a tear away from my face.
“Bye, Dasha. I love you.”