Page 20 of Royal Bargain

“Miranda Voss told me you were someone worth meeting. I listened to your Soundcloud. You’ve got some true, raw talent. I can take you places. But I want to know what it isyouwant, Annika.”

I nod, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve been singing and writing music for as long as I can remember. I want a career I can be proud of,” I tell her. “Not some flashy pop princess imagecrafted by my father’s goons. I want to be heard, and I want to do it on my own terms.”

Ingrid leans back, studying me. “And what exactly are those terms?”

I hesitate. “I want to be honest in my music. I want to perform. Maybe release an EP. Play small venues, build real momentum. I don’t need to be some kind of mega superstar. I just want a chance to be heard.”

She makes a noncommittal noise, drumming her nails against the table. “Ambitious. But grounded. I like that. Still, if you’re serious, you need to be all in. No running back to your father or your little Irish protector when things get tough.”

Her words feel like a slap to the face, but I force myself to hold her gaze. “I’m not going back.”

“Good.” She raises one eyebrow. “Because this business doesn’t reward the faint of heart. We all have things we have to do to survive, Miss Volkov. Sacrifices to make. You need to be prepared for that. Just how far are you willing to go?”

There’s something in her voice that makes me pause. Like she knows that cost intimately. I don’t ask. Not yet. But the weight of it settles between us, sharp and silent.

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” I insist. “I don’t need my hand held. I’ve been around my father’s world my entire life. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

Ingrid studies me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nods slowly and rummages through an enormous handbag before pulling out a tablet and placing it on the table in front of her.

She flips the cover open and drags her finger across the screen, and begins speaking. “I’m setting you up to perform as the opening act for one of my smaller clients at White Swan Cafe,” she says, referencing a local music venue. “This is just togauge interest in you, see what kind of audience we can lure in. We’ll go from there and see how it goes. Sound good?”

I nod, heart thudding. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Ingrid doesn't look up as she taps through a few more screens, her expression unreadable. “You’ll need to put together a thirty-minute set—covers are fine, but I want at least two original pieces. Think of it as your soft launch. This isn’t about going viral. This is about proving you can command a room.”

“I can,” I say, sharper than I meant to. But I mean it. I need this.

She finally meets my eyes again, and something shifts, a flicker of approval that’s barely noticeable but it’s enough to make me sit up a little straighter.

“I’ll have my assistant send you the details,” she continues. “Clean up your social media. I don’t want any times to the Volkov name if we can help it. You’ve got one shot to make a first impression. Don’t waste it.”

My breath slips out in a slow woosh as I give her a weak smile. “Thank you. I won’t.”

Ingrid reaches into her bag again, this time pulling out a sleek leather folder. She lays it on the table with care, flipping it open to reveal a contract already filled out in crisp, professional print.

“This is a short-term agreement,” she explains. “It gives me and Arctic Snow Records the right to represent you for a trial period—just long enough to see if we’re compatible. Standard language. You’re free to walk away after the term if things don’t work out.”

She slides a pen across the table.

“This locks in your slot at the White Swan Cafe and gives me the green light to start building a brand around you. If you're serious, sign it. If you're not…” She tilts her head. “Well, I’m busy. And I don’t do charity.”

My hand hovers over the pen for half a second, the decision weighing on me.

But the truth is, I already know the answer.

So I sign on the dotted line, a mix of confidence and anxiety swirling about in my gut.

“Good,” Ingrid says quietly, closing the folder with a soft snap. “Welcome to the music industry.”

She rises, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “My assistant will be in touch by tonight. Be ready.” She walks off without looking back, the swish of the curtain the only sign she was ever there.

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the ink on the page like it might come alive and bite me. Then I hear the faintest rustle behind me.

“You didn’t even read the fine print.”

I jump a little as Aleksey steps out from behind one of the floor-to-ceiling velvet panels. He’s been there the whole time, probably lurking in the shadows like some kind of protective, judgmental ghoul.

I roll my eyes. “I skimmed it.”