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“They’re downstairs,” he says. “Conference room just off the executive wing. Reggie’s already there with Gerald and two of the VPs. Others are dialed in from New York and L.A.”

I nod, jaw tight. “You got the files?”

He taps his chest. “Everything.”

“And the lawyer?”

“Waiting outside the room.”

I suck in a slow breath, the heat of the show still burning beneath my skin, adrenaline surging in my blood—but this is a different kind of fire now.

Controlled. Cold. Focused.

Nico steps back, motioning toward the hallway. “You ready?”

I wipe my face one last time and toss the towel over a chair. My voice comes out like gravel laced with steel. “It’s about time.”

We walk through the underground corridor, the echo of the arena behind us—crew voices, metal cases rolling, gear clattering like swords being sheathed after a war.

This isn’t a dressing room debrief.

This is battle.

We reach the lower level, where the lighting is softer and the air-conditioned chill hits my damp skin. The hallway narrows, all sterile white and brushed steel, ending at a tall set of double doors with tinted glass.

My lawyer, Ellis, waits outside. Sharp navy suit, sleeves rolled at the cuff, tablet tucked under his arm. He’s got the calm of a man who eats corporate executives for breakfast.

“You good?” he asks, eyes sharp behind wire-frame glasses.

“I’m ready,” I tell him.

And then we step in.

The doors sweep open.

All heads turn.

Inside, the room is sleek and cold, a long glass table surrounded by executives in expensive suits. Gerald Whitmore is at the far end, red-faced and stiff, flanked by two execs with too-slick hair and nervous expressions. Reggie sits closer to the front, fidgeting like a man who knows he’s about to get gutted.

On the screen at the end of the room, five faces join via video call. L.A. and New York offices. PR heads. Legal. Someone from A&R I’ve never spoken to.

Every single one of them turns to me like I’ve walked in with a flamethrower.

They’re not wrong.

“Gentlemen,” Ellis says smoothly, taking a seat. Nico stands behind him like a stone wall. I drop into the chair at the head of the table, across from Whitmore.

I lean back.

Elbows on the armrests.

Calm.

Controlled.

“Let’s make this quick,” I say. “You tried to bury me. You failed. So now we’re going to talk about how I walk out of this building tonight free from your leash. Or we can do this the hard way.”

Whitmore huffs. “You think this circus you pulled tonight earns you the right to dictate—”