Page 3 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

I love my job. Finding raw talent and shaping them into industry powerhouses is its own kind of addiction. But being trapped inside four walls, chained to a desk, surrounded by resentment and reminders that I’ll never be the one on the stage? That’s the part I loathe.

I grew up lurking these halls, tiptoeing past interns and engineers, sneaking into the studios where legends carved their dreams from blood, sweat, and guitar strings. It’s where my love for music evolved.

And where my bitterness grew.

It’s what kept my father away when I needed him most. Because he was too busy creating stars from dust and vinyl to notice his son was unraveling.

And this place didn’t just steal my dad. It stole my brother too, piece by piece, until I thought all that was left was ambition in a suit.

Graham was obsessed with this business even before he was old enough to obsess about anything. He became controlled by the need to prove he could run the family legacy and not assume the head role because of his name.

And it all ended up being for nothing because Dad and his partner sold the company without letting either of us know.

This building swallowed time. My father’s. My brother’s. Now mine.

That’s not to say I don’t love this company. I do, but it’s a complicated love.

This box I’m confined in? Not even a little.

So I run. Not from the business—the music—but from the building.

I spend most of my time scouting and recruiting, traveling across the country, and sometimes the world, looking for undiscovered talent.

I don’t have my brother’s tenacity and business acumen.

I may not have the talent myself, but I sure as fuck know artistry when I hear it.

I recognize the spark and brilliance…the It factor it takes to make a successful musician.

Unfortunately, this week I’m grounded. Contracts to draft, artists to evaluate, campaign decks to approve. Locked in a glass and steel coffin masquerading as a skyscraper.

Okay, fine—it’s a sleek office. Floor-to-ceiling views of Manhattan, remote blinds, and soft leather couches that provide refuge when your mind is exhausted don’t scream prison, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still a cage determined to make me miserable.

So I spend every chance I get looking for excuses to be anywhere else. I probably should have a cubicle instead of a barely used office, but I’m the A the anger doubling.

Me: Tell him congratulations for surviving the year. It’s a real accomplishment in this family.

The guilt slams into me the minute I hit send. Shame that I’m taking my anger and frustration out on someone who didn’t ask for this any more than I did threatens to drown me in a current so powerful it burns my lungs.

And I deserve every second, because once again, I let my emotions control my actions.

Over the last six months, I’ve tried to move past the enmity that seeped into my bones.

There has been a shift. My anger isn’t misplaced anymore.

And his existence— he no longer carries my blame.

He never deserved it. And on those days, I feel like maybe I can move past it all.

Let go of the past, the trauma…the raging guilt and shame.

Then the nightmares return. Whether it’s sapphire eyes tormenting my dreams or the dark eyes that condemn me, they always find their way back, and I’m reminded all over again how I didn’t ask for any of this.

It’s not fair to either of us, but I’m supposed to be the understanding one.

I hope one day I will be, but apparently, it won’t be today.

Before he bestows me with whatever bullshit he disguises as wisdom, I shut my phone off. With a growl, I grab my shit, leaving the phone behind, and walk out, determined to do whatever it takes to make all of this go away .