21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Willow

"This is my fucking show, and I can do whatever I want…?"

"Willow. Not a question. A statement. Try it again." Claire says in a way that makes me want to follow all of her instructions.

"This is my fucking show, and I can do WHATEVER I WANT!" I yell the last part just to make sure it's not a question.

"There it is. Remember, we're in and out of this meeting. Give them enough but no negotiation or deep discussion today. They're going to need time. Also, we have a late lunch reservation at the place with the spicy salmon wontons and we will not be late," Claire says, looking back and forth between me and Emilie.

I tuck my phone into one of my favorite bags—a black leather Prada—before I walk into the meeting to discuss my next project with the label. Beads of sweat form on my lower back. Tripp calling right before we left was a good thing. Kind of like he knew I needed a distraction. Between Tripp and Claire's affirmations, my brain is busy in a good way.

His call gave me hope there's something between us. Right now, I'm choosing to hold onto that. I tend to lean into the negative but I'm working on it.

My label and I have a solid relationship, which is a good thing since the industry is so tumultuous. With so many talented artists breaking through on new channels, all thanks to social media, we're all looking for what's next .

My most recent album and stadium tour exceeded all expectations, and everyone was insanely pleased with the outcome. I was successful before the tour, but I've blown other markets wide open—people who didn't listen to me before are inhaling my previous albums. I'm guessing the label knows just how much based on the suits sitting around the conference room.

Cue even more sweating.

"There she is… our girl, Willow," Erik, my product manager, announces as I walk in. He's the type who needs control of the details or at least having a hand in them.

If announcing my arrival wasn't terrible enough, he starts to clap, and the entire room follows his lead. My cheeks turn hot, and it takes everything I have not to stare at my shoes.

"Oh, stop it. It's nice to see everyone." I reach for handshakes because if I'm shaking their hands, they certainly can't be clapping.

When the introduction fanfare is complete, thank god, I grab "my seat", determined by the steaming mug of peppermint tea.

Claire takes a chair next to me, reaching for the foamy cappuccino waiting for her and sucking down her first drink. Claire is a lot of things: a tenacious manager and a caffeine addict are just a few of them.

Emilie sits on the other side, an iced coffee in front of her. I pat her shoulder as we get settled. This is her first label meeting—she was so nervous she didn't want to come. I don't need her here, but part of hiring her was about growing her portfolio and giving her the gift of experience. To be honest, she's the type of person who could learn anything and kick everyone's ass in the process.

"First, let's recognize a job well done by Willow and the whole team." The sound of clapping fills the room again, making it hard to grab a breath. Claire squeezes my knee under the table, knowing how much I hate this .

"Yes, yes. We know she's the queen. Hate to rush this part, but we've got another meeting to get to." She gives me the smallest of Claire smirks, the kind only I can detect.

I try not to laugh because Claire's meeting really entails sushi and spicy salmon wontons.

"Sure, our girl's got things to do." The way my skin crawls every time they do that. Our girl . Gives me the ick. "Obviously, the last tour and album were a homerun. Wouldn't change a thing. Well, except for a few more international dates, right?" he says with a wink. "Kidding, kidding."

I know he's not. The label wanted to add more international dates, but I didn't have it in me. I'd already been touring for almost a year, on and off. I ached for home and my own space. Plus, the tension with Dexter was too high, and I knew another international leg would kill us. Without a doubt.

Didn't matter anyway.

Before I can respond to the subtle jab about more tour dates, Erik gets focused.

"You asked for a bit of a break from planning and solidifying what's next. So, I'll kick it to you. Why don't you tell us what's on your mind, what you've been working on, whatever you got." He claps a bit too loudly and then leans forward, clasping his hands, which are borderline too big for his body, on the table. Erik is muscular in a way that makes you wonder if it's a healthy choice.

I can feel Claire looking at me, trying to channel all her bad bitch energy. Generally, the label execs and bigwigs don't bother me. She knows I'm about to flip the script and we have no idea what kind of response we'll get it.

Why is it so damn difficult to ask for what I want? I've done my part, put in my time, paid my dues, but that doesn't still the shaking hands and anxiety. I reach my hands around the mug of hot tea, a perfect distraction.

"Thank you for everyone's time and the kind words about the tour. It was such a great experience. Core memories. But I'm ready to get into what's next." I take a breath to slow my heart rate.

"Don't tell me you want to act," Erik says, panic all over his face.

"What? No! It's nothing like that." I put the tea to my lips, dragging the silence a second too long. "The next album, I want it to be more acoustic vibes. More like someone's sitting next to me when they listen to the record. I also want to play all the music for it. I don't want to use a band." My mouth is like sandpaper.

"What happened with the band? We can find someone else—" Erik's voice cuts me off.

"Nothing happened. I love the band and we'll most likely work together in the future. Here's the thing, I need this album to be more… intimate." I feel like I'm a teenager, trying to convince my parents to let me go do something.

The room is filled with mixed reactions, as expected. Some of the suits sit back with their arms crossed, and some lean in forward with what I'm hoping is intrigue.

"I've done the massive tours. The press. The appearances. The million-dollar stage designs and costumes. For this next album, I want to play intimate, acoustic shows. Like venues that hold a thousand or less."

"That's definitely a direction," Erik scoffs, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It's a massive pivot. But the music I'm writing will be perfect for this. It will give me a chance to really connect with fans." My voice wants to drift off at the end, but I fight it.

"Is this about the ticket prices?" Erik asks .

The damn ticket prices. I could not believe what people were paying to come to my concert. By the time I caught wind of it, it was too late to change, or at least that's what the label insisted. The guilt ate at me, and I made a promise to myself I'd never let that happen again.

"That's part of it but I want to do something different. I want to showcase other areas of talent. I think an album like this will resonate with my fan base. And to be honest, I need this." My voice cracks a little at the end, but I think I'm the only one who notices.

"The thing about smaller venues like you're talking about is that they're not very lucrative," someone points out. I knew this would be the sticking point.

"You deserve to be paid for your hard work—" someone else interjects like it's not just about the money for them and sounds of agreement follow.

"I've been paid. I have more money than I'll get to spend in this lifetime. My last album sold more units across more formats than anyone projected, by a long shot. There's no reason to think this one won't do the same, or better."

Erik leans back and clasps his hands behind his neck. He stares at the ceiling, kind of rocking in his chair.

"Here's the deal. I don't even need to be paid for the tour. Keep my cut. Pay the team, the venue, and the label can have what's left."

I know what I'm proposing is unhinged, and while it's insane to have an artist work for free, the people across from me seem to relax a bit at the offer.

"How many songs do you have?" Erik questions with a side-eye look.

"She has enough but that's under lock and key until we all get on the same page. I know this wasn't what you were expecting, so we'll let you mull it over," Claire says while starting to gather her things, indicating we're ready to go. This is why she's my manager .

"We can't just buy into something without hearing any of it," Erik says.

"Come on, it's our girl , Willow. You know it's going to be fucking great. We don't need the greenlight today. Think about it. Let us know if you have questions or ideas. Let's get together soon. Emilie, you'll schedule that for us?" Claire stands.

Emilie nods and follows suit.

"I know this is surprising, but I'm really excited about what I've got. I can bring a sample next week, just in case." I stand up and smile. I try to make eye contact with everyone in the room because I know I'm asking for something that's hard for them to give. But I've given a lot too.

I follow Claire and Emilie, not breathing until we're far from the conference room.

"Honestly, that went better than I thought it would. Proud of you," Claire says as we exit the building.

Emilie bursts out laughing.

"I'm sorry. It's not funny. I was so nervous in there and you know how I get," Emilie says, trying to smooth her reaction. Her first reaction is always laughter.

"Thank you for not doing that in there," Claire says but smiles at the end.

My stomach flips thinking about going against the grain, what I've asked for.

"Claire, I've got to hand it to you. You've got some balls," Emilie says.

My head snaps to Claire, worrying that she'll be offended. But she smiles.

"Thank you, Emilie." Claire puts her hand on her chest in gratitude. "I do have balls. And you know what? They're bigger than Erik's."

"I don't think anyone doubts that," Emilie says.