Page 40 of Before You Fell

A second later, another message arrives.

Damon: Label wants the hook sharper, less vague, and more blood.

Then, because apparently hell has Wi-Fi and business hours, a third one appears.

Damon: Studio at ten. Don’t be late.

I stare at the screen until it goes dark in my hand.

For a few seconds, I stay lying under the covers as morning light presses against the curtains. My body is heavy in that strange, hollow way it does when sleep has not done its job.

I close my eyes and try to breathe through the tightness sitting low in my stomach.

I sit up fast and the room tilts, just enough to make my throat pull tight. For one quiet second, crawling back under the covers feels almost reasonable. Let the whole machine run without me.

I get up anyway because I’m not the kind of girl who disappears just because the day has teeth.

By the time I reach the studio, I have sunglasses on, my hair pulled back, and a black coffee in my hand that’s strong enough to strip paint. My boots hit the polished concrete with more confidence than I feel, which is one of my better talents. I appear put together while my insides quietly discuss collapse.

Damon finds me before I’m halfway down the hallway.

He steps out of the control room in a charcoal shirt and his phone already in his hand.

“You saw my messages?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Well good morning to you too.”

“I need the revisions.”

“The song is three days old, Damon.”

“The song has to earn its place.”

My fingers tighten around my coffee cup. “It already does.”

“Not yet.” Damon steps closer, lowering his voice as if that makes the pressure seem more professional. “The label likes the chorus and the concept but they don’t think the second verse hits hard enough.”

“They don’t think,” I say, keeping my voice even. “You mean they skimmed it between meetings and decided that pain needs a cleaner structure.”

“They’re paying for an album that sells.”

“And I’m writing the songs that give them one.”

His eyes hold mine without a flicker of guilt. “The first verse has teeth. The hook is close. The second verse loses momentum.”

“It gives the song somewhere to breathe.”

“It softens the hit.”

“No, it stops the song from sounding manufactured.”

“The label is not paying for a diary entry.”

Heat climbs up the back of my neck. I remove my sunglasses and regard him. “No. They’re paying for me.”