Page 11 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

"Watch unknown indie artist Callum Reid sign life-changing deal with Pinnacle Records #musicindustry #indiemusic #pinnaclerecords"

The video already has millions of views.

And just like that, the past I've tried so hard to bury comes rushing back. Great fucking timing.

FOUR

Callum

But your shadow lingers on my floor

Monday, February 17

Needle & Bean

285 W 4th Street, West Village

2:21 PM

"Don't play stupid,kid. You signed away more than some piddly songs in Nashville."

Morrison's voice crackles through my phone as I push through the door of the vintage vinyl store that doubles as a café. It’s so West Village. The blast of warm air and coffee smell hits me, but my stomach's too knotted to appreciate it.

"Those rights were mine the minute you signed. Everything you wrote. Everything you will write. You think Pinnacle's gonna want damaged goods?"

"That contract was predatory and you know it." I keep my voice low, nodding thanks to the barista as I order black coffee. Vinyl records line the exposed brick walls, their covers telling stories of other artists who probably had this same conversation.

"Predatory?" Morrison laughs. "I gave you exactly what you wanted. A ticket out of Charleston. A chance at the big time. Not my fault you didn't read the fine print."

"I was twenty-one."

"Old enough to know better. Old enough to leave that girl behind for a shot at fame." His words hit like a punch to the gut. "Now look at you. About to be somebody. Shame if Pinnacle found out their new golden boy doesn't even own his own songs."

I drop into a worn leather armchair in the corner. "What do you want?"

"Now we're talking business. I want fifty percent of your Pinnacle deal. Straight off the top."

"That's insane."

"Maybe. But that's what owning your entire catalog is worth to me. Unless..." He lets the word hang there. "You want me to make some calls? Let everyone know the truth about Nashville's almost-was who?—"

I end the call. My hands shake as I set the phone face-down on the table.

Fucking Morrison. Fucking Nashville. Fucking fine print I was too naive to understand.

The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain. It's better than remembering how I played right into his hands. Better than remembering what—who—I left behind to chase this dream.

I pull out my notebook, trying to focus on the new track Pinnacle wants. Something commercial. Something safe. Everything my music used to not be.

That's when I see her.

Auburn hair catching the afternoon sun as she thumbs through her phone at a table by herself. The same shade that's been haunting me since the masquerade. But it can't be?—

She looks up when the barista yells the name, "Sienna."

My heart stops.

2:44PM

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