CHAPTER 8
BELLS
The buzzer sounds at exactly 2:00 PM.
Exactlyon the hour.
Like Carmine Caruso has been standing in the lobby with his finger hovering over the button, waiting for the second hand to hit twelve.
A man after Rex's heart, I think, watching Rex cross to the intercom with something that might be grudging approval in the set of his shoulders.
"Caruso," Rex says flatly into the speaker.
"Steele. Punctual as promised."
Rex buzzes him up without another word.
The four of us have arranged ourselves in the living room with varying degrees of casual professionalism. Phoenix is on the sectional, freshly showered with his blond hair still damp, wearing a black button-up that makes him look almost tame. Rafael is wearing dark jeans and a burgundy henley, his kraken tattoo visible where he's rolled the sleeves to his elbows. He'spositioned himself on the opposite end of the couch from Phoenix, the space between them feeling strangely deliberate.
Have theystillnot addressed what happened between them during my heat?
I've claimed my floor pillow again because old habits die hard and sitting lower than everyone else gives me a weird sense of control. Like I'm watching the room from a strategic vantage point instead of just being too small for furniture built for giant alphas.
Rex stands by the window, arms crossed, mask firmly in place. He hasn't said more than ten words since the email discussion this morning, but his presence fills the room like smoke.
The elevator dings. Footsteps in the hallway.
Then Carmine Caruso walks through our door, and I immediately understand why Meridian picked him.
He's in his late thirties, maybe early forties, with silver threading through dark hair cut in the most quintessentially corporate style I’ve ever seen. He moves like someone who's spent decades walking into rooms full of difficult artists and walking out with exactly what he came for.
"Mr. Steele." He extends a hand toward Rex first. Rex stares at the hand for a long moment before shaking it once, firmly, and dropping it like it burned him.
"Phoenix. Rafael." Carmine moves through the room, shaking hands, making eye contact, projecting the kind of easy confidence that comes from knowing exactly what he's doing. "And Bells. I've heard a lot about you."
"Good things, I hope," I say, shaking his hand.
"Interesting things." His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary. "Your transition from The Reverie has generated quite a bit of industry chatter. People are curious about the mysterious new voice of Vespyr."
"Just keeping them on their toes."
"A valuable skill in this business."
He settles into the armchair across from the sectional, declining Phoenix's offer of coffee with a brief headshake. His briefcase opens with a soft click, revealing a tablet and several folders organized with color-coded tabs.
This guy doesn't fuck around.
"I'll be direct," Carmine says, pulling out the tablet and setting it on the coffee table. "You don't want me here. I understand that. No band wants a label-appointed overseer breathing down their neck during what should be a creative process."
Rex blows a puff of air through his nose.
"But here's the reality." Carmine leans back, hands folded over one knee. "Meridian is investing significant resources into this comeback tour. They need assurance that investment will pay off. My job isn't to control your artistic vision or tell you what to sing. My job is to make sure the tour actually happens, that it runs smoothly, and that everyone makes money. Including you."
"How reassuring," Rex says flatly.
"It should be." Carmine doesn't rise to the bait. "I've been doing this for twenty-three years. I've worked with artists who make you look like the picture of mental stability, Mr. Steele. I've talked musicians off ledges, literalandmetaphorical. I've rebuilt careers after public meltdowns that would've destroyed anyoneelse. I'm not here to be your friend or your therapist. I'm here to do a job, and I'mverygood at it."
The room goes quiet.