“We’re not sure yet,” Jake says. “But with the Rugby deal moving as fast as it is, legal wants eyes on it immediately. They don’t want to risk any delays.”
Yeah. No shit.
Major League Rugby wants this yesterday.
Which means everyone’s scrambling, double-checking, covering their asses.
And now I’ve got to do the same.
Except I’m not guessing.
I know my work.
“Give me ten minutes,” I say.
“David, if you can get here faster?—”
“I said ten.”
I hang up. Run a hand through my hair.
Exhale slow.
Not panic.
Never panic.
Because this?
This is my lane.
And I’m good at what I do.
I track everything. Every sample. Every license. Every original beat I’ve ever touched.
If there’s a flag, it’s either a mistake—or someone else got too close to my sound.
Either way?
I’ll handle it.
I always do.
Still—my gaze flicks toward the door.
Toward her room.
Hilary. My Sunshine.
Sleeping.
Soft.
Unaware.
And for a split second, I consider ignoring the call.
Staying.