Page 63 of Better than Famous

"He kidnapped you, effectively," Terrence corrected, checking a heavy gold watch on his wrist. "Look, we have the statement drafted. We release it tonight to coincide with Margaret’s filing. You apologize for the lapse in judgment, you thank the authorities for ’rescuing’ you, and you announce a hiatus to recover from the trauma. We imply that legal action is being taken against Coleridge."

Mindy’s head moved back and forth like she was watching a tennis match. “Sutton, how do you feel about this?” She was the only one I’d spoken to since I got back who knew anything near the real story. How there had been nothing coercive about Dove Key.

"Legal action, Margaret?" My voice rose incredulously. “Against Ben?”

"A restraining order," the lawyer suggested, tapping her stylus against the table. "It helps the optics. It shows the judge you are taking proactive steps to distance yourself from the threat."

The silence following her suggestion was absolute. I stared at them. These expensive, polished professionals were paid thousands of dollars an hour to manage my existence. A spark ignited in my chest, catching on dry kindling and roaring to life.

I vaulted to my feet. The movement was sudden enough that Mindy jumped in her chair. I placed my hands flat on the table, leaning forward. My arms didn’t tremble. My posture didn’t shrink. "Get out."

Terrence blinked, his slick smile faltering for the first time all week. "Excuse me?"

"I said get out." My voice dropped lower, vibrating with pure steel. "Get out of my house. Get out of my life."

"Sutton, be reasonable." Margaret reached for her leather briefcase, her tone clipped and authoritative. "We’re trying to save you."

"You aren’t saving me." I locked eyes with the lawyer, refusing to yield an inch. "You’re managing a crisis. You’re protecting a brand. I am not a brand. I’m a person. And I am entirely done being managed."

Pushing away from the table, I pointed a finger directly at Terrence. "You’re fired. If I see your name attached to a single press release about me, I will sue you for breach of confidentiality so fast your head will spin. Got it?"

Terrence opened his mouth to argue, took one look at my expression, and snapped his jaw shut. He gathered his folders in silence.

I turned my attention to Margaret. "You work for me. You do not work for the label. If you want to keep your retainer, you will have the paperwork ready to sever every last professional and financial tie I have to Nash the second the courthouse opens tomorrow morning. You will file a brutal counter-petition to crush this ridiculous conservatorship stunt before a judge even looks at it. And you will never, ever mention a restraining order against Ben Coleridge again. Am I clear?”

Margaret stared at me, her mouth slightly open. For the first time since she took my case, she viewed me not as a file to be processed, but as a genuine threat. "Understood."

"Good. Now leave. Both of you."

Mindy pushed her chair back and stood up. Her usual anxious energy vanished, replaced by fierce loyalty. She marched over to the heavy oak doors and pulled them wide open. "You heard her. Out."

Terrence opened his mouth to argue, but Mindy stabbed a sharp finger into the hallway. Papers were shoved into bags. Within thirty seconds, the dining room was empty save for Mindy and myself.

Mindy blew out a long, shaky breath as she returned to me. "Nash is going to go nuclear."

"Let him." Exhaling, a massive weight lifted off my shoulders.

"Okay." Mindy rubbed her temples. "But seriously, Sutton. What exactly are we going to do?"

The remaining adrenaline drained from my veins, leaving a hollow, echoing uncertainty. "I don’t know."

I left the dining room, my bare feet carrying me down the long hallway to the music wing. Heavily soundproofed and perfectly climate-controlled, it centered around a nine-foot Steinway concert grand piano. Mindy followed quietly, offering no pressure, just a steady presence.

I sat on the bench. The leather was supple and cold. Lifting the fallboard, the keys gleamed under the recessed architectural lighting. It lacked the character of the upright in the cottage. There were no creaks or groans, no soul Ben had lovingly restored with his own calloused hands. This Steinway was a flawless, deeply professional machine.

But it would do.

Placing my hands on the keys, I didn’t reach for the upbeat, synth-heavy pop anthems Nash had engineered. I played a C major chord, soft and resonant. My mind traveled back to the humid dark of the cottage living room. I traced the melody I had improvised that night at Ben’s. It was the slow, aching version of “Neon Heart.”

As I summoned the memory of Ben standing in the shadows, my anxiety receded. He hadn’t analyzed the marketability of the bridge or suggested a faster tempo. He had simply acted as a witness. A sentry guarding the door while I found my footing. My fingers slipped from the familiar progression. They lingered over a different set of keys, testing a new chord. A few hesitant, emerging notes rang out in the quiet room. The melody was unsure and fragile, but it had a solid spine. It wasn’t a breakup anthem or a club banger. It was the beginning of a new song.

"Sutton?" Mindy asked softly from the doorway.

I let the final note hang in the air until it faded completely. Turning on the bench, I met my assistant’s gaze. The uncertainty was still there, a knot of apprehension about the impending war, but the path forward was finally clear.

"I’m going to do what I’ve always done," I told her. "I’m going to write a song straight from my heart. You just heard the start of it. And then I’m going to sing it to the entire world. Give me your phone."

Mindy fumbled for her pocket. "Don’t you have yours?"