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I cut him off. “No. What I pulled tonight saved lives. What you pulled was backing a lying, obsessive staffer who fabricated an assault claim to punish me for rejecting her.”

His jaw twitches.

Ellis slides a folder across the table. “We have the evidence. Statements, surveillance, prior incidents, international complaints—enough to make your HR team sweat for the next five years.”

Another folder follows. “And this?” Ellis continues. “Proof of coercion, creative suppression, and contract violations by your executive team. Including blackmail, misallocation of tour funds, and manipulation of artist royalties.”

Whitmore’s face turns to stone.

I look him straight in the eye. “I’m walking,” I say. “You’re going to release me from my contract, all claims dropped, ownership of my master recordings restored, and the statement you’re going to issue will thank me for pioneering a new era of artist-led social responsibility.”

“This is blackmail,” one of the L.A. execs snaps through the speaker.

I smirk. “No. This is me finally waking the hell up. And if you try to fight me… I’ll bury you in court and the press.”

Ellis lifts his brow, calm as ever. “Your move.”

The room falls into silence, the tension so thick it hums in the walls.

And I sit there, still in my sweat-soaked shirt, heart pounding like a war drum—but for the first time in years, I feel clear.

Because I’m done being owned.

And I’ve got people worth fighting for now.

“Fine,” Gerald Whitmore finally growls, his face ashen, sweat dampening the collar of his thousand-dollar shirt. “You want out? You’re out. Clean break. But if this goes public—”

“It won’t,” I cut in, my voice cold. Final. “As long as you hold up your end.”

Ellis nods, already tapping out notes on his tablet. “We’ll need paperwork drawn up by morning. I’ll send the terms to your legal department. If you fail to deliver, the full documentation—including the internal memos—will be forwarded to the press.”

“Jesus Christ,” one of the New York suits mutters. “You really came loaded for war.”

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the glass. “No. I came ready to survive. There’s a difference.”

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating.

I let it hang there. Let them feel it.

Then I turn to Reggie.

He’s been quiet since I dropped the first folder. Sweating through his dress shirt. Picking at his cuticles like it might save him. “Reggie,” I say, my voice quiet. “You’re fired.”

His head jerks up. “What?”

“You were supposed to have my back,” I continue, calm and steady. “But you let that woman into my space, ignored my warnings, and chose the label over me every single time.”

“Eddie, come on,” he stammers, standing. “I didn’t know—”

“No,” I say flatly. “You didn’t want to. Because doing the right thing might’ve cost you leverage. Or status. Or whatever the hell it is you tell yourself that justifies screwing over your clients. So this is me, officially cutting ties. I want nothing to do with you. We’re done.”

His jaw works, like he’s scrambling for something smart to say.

But I don’t give him the chance.

I turn back to Ellis. “You’ll finish this?”

Ellis nods once, cool and composed. “I’ve got it. Walk out clean. We’ll handle the bloodbath.”