I knowit’s going to be a bad day when I’m summoned to Cal’s office as soon as I walk inside the studio. Sure enough, Cal is waiting for me with his arms crossed and jaw set.
“Did you have time to review the song choices?” he asks me, not bothering with pleasantries before diving right into business.
“I did. Did you get my email back?” He gives me a blank look, which tells me everything I need to know. “Why didn’t you read it?”
“Because, like I saidyesterday, we have the final say on which songs end up on the album. You know this. There was no reason for me to read your email when I’ve already decided.”
I set my jaw before firing back, “And I’m telling you, I don’tlikethose songs. I don’t want them attached to my brand.”
“Your brand ismybrand. At the end of the day, you have no say. You show up, sing the songs, do the publicity, and go on tour. Leave all the big kid decisions to someone who’s been in the industry for as long as you’ve been alive. You’re out of your league here, Jersey. Trust me.”
Trust is a funny concept for me when it comes to Cal. I trust him about as far as I can throw him.
The familiar frustration and annoyance rear their ugly heads again, but instead of backing down like I usually do, I remember what Hayes said to me last night.
You’re extraordinary. Your label is full of fools if they don’t see that, too.
Somehow, I find bravery deep inside myself and stand up straighter. “At least meet me halfway. I don’t want ‘Half the Woman I Am’ or ‘Silly Little Girl’ on the album. Pick different songs, whatever, but I don’t want those songs. They’re not good enough.”
Callum narrows his eyes as he weighs my offer. He drops his arms and seats himself at his desk, grabbing a pen and scribbling himself a note. “Fine. We’ll pick different ones. But the rest stay.”
I breathe a deep sigh of relief, thankful that Cal didn’t make a big fuss about my suggestion. “Thank you.”
He turns to me again and scowls. “You didn’t win here, Jersey. Don’t get any ideas. At the end of the day, I still own you. You’ll do well to remember that.”
I bite my tongue, choosing silence over getting into an argument with him again. Our last conversation still lingers, like a heavy cloud of smoke. His words echo in my ears, and I do my best to tune them out.
Cal steeples his fingers together. I recognize the power move, and I tilt my nose up, trying to assure him he doesn’t affect me. But both parties in this room know that’s not true.
“Are you ready to get to work?” he asks, his voice condescending.
I bite back the irritation in my voice, so when I respond, it’s professional and level-headed. “Yes, let’s get started.”
“Excellent. You can go ahead and head down to the studio. I’ve got it blocked for the morning.” He waves me off before opening his laptop and burying his face in the screen.
My eyes burn, and my stomach roils, making me want to vomit, but I do what he says, seeing myself out.
Bethany is waiting for me outside his office, her face etched with concern. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head and hurry to the bathroom, Bethany hot on my heels. I brace my hands against the sinks and squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry. But it’s pointless when my best friend’s gentle hand rests on my shoulder. A few tears leak out of the corners of my eyes, and I wipe them away quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice.
“I hate him.”
She rubs my back. “I know. I wish there was more I could do.”
With her strength helping me, I find my own strength to stand up straight and stare down my reflection. I fix my hair, wipe away my tears, and force myself to look put together, reminding myself over and over that Cal might control my career, he might own my brand—for now—but despite what he says, hedoesn’townme.
“I have to go down and start recording now. He let me take off two songs, but I’m sure he’ll find some just as terrible to replace them with,” I grumble.
“I’m sorry,” Bethany says, sympathetically. She knows how badly I want to have more say in my work, but she has also read the contract and knows the restrictions I’ve locked myself into.
“It’s fine.” She and I both know that’s a lie. “I have to get it over with. Three more years.”
“Three more years.” She nods sagely, reminding me I’m not in this alone.
Even with her support, echoes of his snide manipulation echo in my mind.
You are what I’ve made you. Without me, there would be no Jersey Matthews. There would be no album, and there would be no tour.
