Page 5 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)
XAR
T he sterile, fluorescent-lit conference room feels suffocating as Liv’s words hang in the air.
Before any of us can respond, the door swings open, and a group of label executives files in, their expressions a mix of frustration and disappointment.
They don’t waste time with pleasantries or introducing themselves.
We know who they are, and beyond the initial signing meeting with them, we’ve barely had any interactions. Liv always handles everything.
Being in front of them now is like being called before the headmaster. Nothing good is going to come from their presence here today.
“Blaise,” one of them begins staring right at him, “we’ve tolerated your antics for weeks now. The late nights, skipping rehearsals and sound checks, the erratic behavior, the onstage disruptions. Last night’s stunt was the final straw.”
Blaise shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t meet their gaze. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, though the sincerity is questionable.
Dickhead.
Another executive leans forward, steepling their fingers. “Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore. Your actions are jeopardising not just your reputation but the band’s future, as well as this label’s image. If this continues, we won’t have a choice but to drop you.”
The weight of their words settles over us, heavy and unrelenting. Blaise’s face pales, but he remains silent.
Liv clears her throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “The label has come up with a solution,” she announces, her tone measured. “It’s not ideal, and frankly, it’s not something any of you will like, like I said, but it is what it is and you will hear me out because the alternative is even worse.”
The executives nod in agreement, and one continues, “Effective immediately, all upcoming appearances are cancelled, except for the charity gig in the new year. We’re sending you to a remote location to sort out your differences and work on the new album.”
A sputter of protest rises from Blaise, but they’re not finished. “If the album doesn’t meet approval standards by the new year,” another executive adds, “we’ll have no choice but to drop you. No second chances.”
Blaise opens his mouth to argue, but the executive raises a hand, silencing him. “You can either take this opportunity to fix things, or we can send you to rehab, given the recent revelations about your ‘addictions’.”
Blaise’s face flushes with indignation. “I don’t need rehab,” he snaps, his voice tinged with defiance.
He better be telling the fucking truth abut that. He swore when he got clean it was for good this time, and we trusted him. I trusted him. I can’t be in a band, a pack , with a junkie.
“Good,” the executive responds coldly. “Then you’ll accept our terms.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, the slight quiver in my voice betraying my apprehension.
“Silver Sands,” Liv replies, her gaze unwavering. “It’s a small seaside village in North Devon. Remote, quiet, and perfect for what you need. We’ve rented a cottage with a studio for you. You’ll have everything you need but it’s remote and out of the public eye.”
We all pull out our phones, typing in the location. The images that appear are of a desolate stretch of coastline, far removed from the bustling cities we’re accustomed to. The realisation sets in – this is happening, and there’s no escaping it.
“When do we leave?” Blaise asks, his tone resigned.
“Now,” Liv answers, standing up. “Pack your things. You’re leaving in an hour. We had the bulk of the equipment sent to the cottage after last night’s show.”
So this ‘intervention’ – aka punishment stunt – was probably already planned and in place then.
I don’t say the words that are on the tip of my tongue - that’s it’s nearly Christmas, that we have plans, have families to spend it with, because they all know it would be a lie. We’re a pack - all we have is each other.
And I’m not even sure we have that anymore.
The room falls silent as we process the gravity of the situation. Our future, both as a band and as individuals, hangs in the balance, and the path forward is uncertain at best.