Page 118 of Before You Fell

The first executive, a woman with silver-rimmed glasses and a smile that has never known warmth, folds her hands. “We are all concerned about Willow, but we need to be realistic. The cancellation caused major backlash. Sponsors are asking questions. Venues are demanding reassurance. The international press has picked up the story and there is speculation about substance abuse within the band.”

Jax laughs once. “Speculation? That’s cute.”

Damon gives him a glance.

The female executive continues. “We cannot afford any more uncertainty. The tour has to go ahead.”

Cruz tilts his head. “Was there a question in there or did you just bring us here to watch you polish your balls?”

The man beside her glares. “This is serious.”

“No shit,” Cruz says. “Our friend is in rehab.”

“And the best thing for everyone,” Damon cuts in, “is stability. Work. Routine. Controlled messaging. Phoenix stays visible. The band performs. We do not let the story collapse.”

Collapse.

Cute word. Clean word. The kind of word people in expensive suits use when they mean a woman nearly died and everybody is pissed that it interrupted the schedule.

“The story,” I say, my tone coming out harsh enough to polish the table. “That’s what she is to this label now?”

Damon’s jaw tightens. “That is not what I meant.”

Jax mutters, “Jesus.”

Damon leans forward, palms flat on the table. “You think I am being cruel because I am the only person in this room willing to talk about reality. The tour is happening. The trucks are moving. The crew is scheduled. Venues are booked. Insurance and sponsors are already nervous. You do not get to disappear because of Willow Hart.”

The silver-glasses woman lets out a breath. “Phoenix, the public loves you because you are volatile. They will not love you if you become unreliable.”

There it is. The machine prefers its assholes to be profitable.

I lean back in my chair and glance around the room. Jax is watching me too closely. Jett is quiet in that way that says he already knows where the landmines are. Cruz’s jaw is clenched. Damon looks as if he wants to muzzle me and monetize the footage.

I want to tell the executives to shove the tour so far up their asses that the encore comes out their throats.

Instead, I picture Willow walking through those glass doors without me.

“The tour goes ahead,” I say. “On three conditions.”

Damon blinks. He knows me well enough to know I never surrender without slipping a knife into the deal. “What conditions?”

Jett’s eyes narrow. Cruz looks at me.

I point at Damon. “One. You keep Willow’s name out of your fucking mouth unless you’re asking how she is. The next time you talk about her as if she’s a headline, a liability, or a scheduling conflict, I walk.”

I let that sit.

Damon opens his mouth.

I hold up another finger. “I’m not singing those shitty, fucking songs you dragged in to replace hers.”

Damon’s mouth tightens. “They’re commercially tested.”

“They’re commercially shit.”

A smile tugs at Cruz’s lips.

I keep my eyes on Damon. “When Willow comes out of rehab, you hire her back.”