There's a moment right after good news lands when the world holds its breath, waiting to see whether you'll celebrate or cringe. I sat in my still-smells-like-new-paint office, staring at Alessia's three-sentence e-mail:
Board approved your single.Budget secured.Congratulations.
Three lines. Zero exclamation points.Corporate haiku.
I should've been whooping loud enough to set off the fire sprinklers. Instead, I waited for the hidden clause: P.S. Bring your kneepads. My phone remained silent. No quid pro quo, no after-hours "strategy session," no bouquet of apology roses that smelled suspiciously like sexual harassment paperwork.
I leaned back, fingertips drumming a jittery rhythm on the armrest. Recognition tasted like honey but felt like a bear trap sweet until it snapped shut. A month ago Alessia Ryvenhart wouldn't have bothered with official channels. She'd have cornered me, purred iced compliments, then assigned me to the janitor closet when I didn't melt. Now she was handing me a budget on a silver platter and telling the press to keep my name out of their sewage? Either enlightenment hit her like a brick, or she was building a prettier prison.
Nova barged in without knocking because Nova never knocks.
"Tell me it's true," she said, eyes glittering. "Budget secured? Headline-level green-light? The rumor mill's in cardiac arrest."
I spun to face her. "It's true. But…" I waved an invisible caution flag. "…you know who signed off. The queen of fine print."
Nova collapsed into the spare chair, purple hair flaring around her like a rebellious halo. "Sera, honey, budgets don't come with Trojan horses. They come with line-item oversight. We can read."
"Line items are easy. Intentions aren't."
She cocked her head. "You think she expects a down payment in… personal favors?"
"Better to be paranoid than headline number three in her scandal anthology."
Nova tapped her phone. "Let's list the facts. One: She approved your proposal faster than Finance approves coffee filters. Two: She publicly cut ties with her high-maintenance entourage. Three: She's suing anyone who implies she's still a playboy. Doesn't that sound like someone trying to change?"
"Or someone re-branding," I shot back. "Marketing loves a redemption arc."
Nova sighed, the kind that suggested deep pity for my trust issues. "So, what she becomes your creative patron, catapults you to stardom, then drags you to her penthouse dungeon? Feels inefficient."
"She's an alpha," I muttered. "Inefficiency is their kink."
Nova's laugh burst out, squeaky and bright. "Look, you're right to stay cautious. But maybe this isn't predation. Maybe she finally cleaned up her emotional litter box."
I wanted to scoff. Instead, my shoulders sagged. "I don't know how to drop my guard without dropping my dignity."
She stood, squeezed my arm. "Then keep the armor on. Enjoy the view, keep your exit routes sharp. But don't sabotage your own victory because you're afraid the floor is lava."
She left me with that infuriatingly reasonable advice and an afterimage of confetti I refused to toss.
3:15 p.m.
I padded to the studio booth on the seventh floor my sanctuary. Soundproof walls, faint scent of foam and solder, dim track-lighting that turned anxiety into soft shadow. I cued up the newly funded track, adjusted the mic, and let the intro play. The strings broadened, and I breathed with them inhale on bar three, exhale on bar five.
There, in that controlled silence, I let myself feel it. Approval. Momentum. The giddy fear that everything might actually go right.
I hit "record" and tried a new harmony line, something fragile that curled around the lead vocal like ivy. Halfway through, my voice cracked emotion or coffee overdose, I couldn't tell. I stopped the track, head bowed, and allowed exactly one grin, small and secret.
Progress. Real, undeniable progress.
Then the intercom buzzed front desk.
"Miss Lin? Ms Ryvenhart has blocked twenty minutes at six p.m. to review next-step logistics with you. She asked if that's convenient."
My stomach dropped to my sneakers. Logistics. Alone. Twenty minutes.
"Tell her… yes," I croaked. What else could I say? No, thanks, I'd rather keep speculating about your motives from a safe emotional distance? Click.
I stared at the soundboard, pulse drumming. Twenty minutes could be innocent. Or an ambush with ergonomic chairs.
5:55 p.m.
I stood outside Alessia's office clutching my tablet like a riot shield. The receptionist waved me through, eyes full of curiosity she'd never voice. I inhaled—citrus blockers, engage—and stepped inside.
Alessia was alone, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to humanize the statue. She gestured to the chair opposite her desk. "Sit, Miss Lin."
Miss Lin. Formal but not frigid. I sat, crossing ankles, tablet ready.
"First," she said, voice low but steady, "congratulations. The board approved unanimously. That's rare."
"That's your doing, not mine," I replied.
Her mouth quirked. "The music convinced them. I merely interpreted."
I frowned compliments from predators often concealed fangs. "Thank you."
She leaned forward, forearms on the desk. "We'll roll out a phased campaign. I've allocated a discretionary buffer studio extras, digital pushes, whatever creative flourishes you need. Your autonomy remains intact. You'll report directly to A&R, not to me."
A rush of relief. "I… appreciate that."
A short nod. "Second, we'll host a soft-launch showcase. Fifty industry pros, live‐stream component. You're comfortable performing two songs?"
I nodded slowly. "Yes. When?"
"Three weeks."
Adrenaline spiked. "Tight. Possible."
"That's what I calculated." She slid a slim folder across the desk timeline, budget code, marketing contacts. Nothing vaguely romantic. Strictly business.
Our fingers didn't touch, but static fizzed in the quiet. She noticed; I saw the micro-tightening of her jaw. She reclaimed her hands.
An awkward beat stretched.
"So," I ventured, voice a shade too dry, "no secret clauses about late-night celebrations?"
Her brows lifted. "I don't mix business with… extracurriculars, Miss Lin. Not anymore." There was a rueful curve to her lips, but the eyes held. "You have my word."
I searched her face for cracks mockery, hunger, scripted sincerity. Found only exhaustion and a faint, wary respect. It rattled me more than lust could have.
"Then let's work," I said softly.
Something in her shoulders loosened.
Meeting over, I rose. Our gazes locked in a détente neither of us fully trusted nor wanted to break. I managed a professional nod and slipped out, pulse sprinting.
Nova cornered me in the lobby, practically vibrating. "Well?" she hissed.
"She was… professional."
Nova's grin spread. "No fangs?"
"Minimal fang." I toyed with my blocker patch. "She gave me control of the project, no strings."
Nova's brows shot up. "Plot twist: Alpha CEO Respects Boundaries."
I shook my head, half-laughing. "Could still be a long con."
"Then let it play out," she said, linking our arms. "If she steps out of line, you scorch the earth. But maybe let yourself celebrate first?"
I exhaled, a sliver of tension peeling away. "Celebration. I barely remember how."
"Step one," Nova declared, "ramen that isn't a health-code violation. My treat."
We spilled into the street where neon bled on wet asphalt, city humming like an analog synth. My chest felt lighter hopeful, tentative, stupid. But alive.
I looked up at the tower's dark windows, wondering if Alessia watched from behind one. Wondering whether wolves could unlearn old habits without growing new ones that were just as sharp.
Baby steps, Nova had said. Watch the floor but dance anyway.
For the first time in months, the music in my head wasn't drowning the chords resolved, finally, into something close to trust.
Now to see whether the wolf kept her distance… or learned to dance at the tempo I set.