She squeezes my shoulders. “What happened with Lillian wasn’t your fault. You two were young. Friends taunt each other. If something went wrong, it doesn’t make you responsible.”
“I know you keep saying that, but I can’t help how I feel.”
“And I get that, but you can’t let it become everything you are.”
“But I’m all dark and freaky because of it.”
She waves me off. “Men love dark and freaky.”
I laugh, but it quickly fades. “I’m not the same person. What if he sees those bits and decides he doesn’t like them?”
She shrugs. “Travis Phoenix is chasing you. He has also known you practically your whole life. I can’t ever see something scaring him off.”
I nudge her with my shoulder. “Why are you so smart?”
“Good genetics,” she says, tossing her hair.
I laugh. “Let’s find me something sexy to wear.”
An hour later, I settle on short black shorts, a white blouse, lace-up black sandals, hair pinned up loosely.
We’re just finishing some light makeup when a fucking limo arrives. I stare at Reagan and she lets out a loud scream. “Stop, this is like a fucking fairytale.”
“A limo, is he serious?” I say, flushing.
“Girl, enjoy it. Go. Go.”
God damn you Travis, never one to do things quietly.
“IT’S LOVELY TO MEETyou, I’m George.”
I slide into the luxurious limo and smile at the man holding the door open for me.
“Hi, George,” I murmur, awed by the mini-fridges, miles of space, and sheer luxury of the situation.
George closes the door and the car starts moving, as if we’re just gliding on ice. It’s incredible. When we pull up before the towering Phoenix Records building—multiple stories high, its name glowing in giant letters—I can’t help staring. I had no idea Travis had done something like this with his life, and I can’t help but feel bad that we didn’t get to share it with each other sooner.
“Wow. I’ve never seen this place,” I breathe as George helps me out. “I can’t believe he did all of this.”
He nods. “It’s a beauty. Head inside, ask reception for Travis. He’s expecting you.”
Inside the lobby, glossy white tiles and pale walls stretch out beneath a wide wooden desk. A pretty young blonde receptionist looks up at me like I’m interrupting her nap. I’ve seen more energy come from a ninety-year-old woman than this girl. Gosh, Travis really needs to hire better, more enthusiastic staff.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Travis. I’m Violet.”
She sizes me up, scrunching up her nose. “Fine. Take a seat. I’ll call him.”
Fifteen endless minutes later she points to the elevator and dismisses me with a grunt. I press the top-floor button and steel myself. When the doors open, I'm hit with the unmistakable buzz of a record label in full swing. Assistants hurry past with coffee trays and stacks of promotional materials. Marketing teams huddle around mock-ups of album covers, pointing at font choices and color schemes.
Through a glass wall, I glimpse the heart of it all: a state-of-the-art recording studio where sound engineers hunch over mixing boards studded with blinking lights, adjusting levels while three young women in headphones stand clustered around microphones, rehearsing harmonies for what could be tomorrow's hit single.
“Hello, can I help you?” A kind voice at my elbow. I turn to see a friendly woman—she’s older, maybe in her forties, and has soft blond hair and kind blue eyes.
“I’m here for Travis...”
“Ah, you must be Violet.” She smiles. “Right this way.”