Page 7 of Stolen Voices

No, I don’t. I sing to survive. For now.

“Calliope.” Eli says my name, and it’s like a balm to my racing heart. How does he know my real name? Nobody has called me Calliope in eight years. “What doyouwant?”

What do I want?

A simple yet loaded question. Unshed tears prickle my nose, but I don’t let on. It’s been so long since anyone has asked me that question. Unfortunately, I can’t answer that question because what I want isn’t possible … yet.

I go with an answer as close to the truth as I can get without tipping off my manager. “I want the right people around to help guide me towards my goals. People I can trust. People who know the business, and are intuitive and loyal.”

Loyal.I frame the end of my sentence almost like a question, hoping he catches on. I need people to be loyal to me, unlike Silla.

He sits there silently for what feels like minutes when it’s only been seconds, making me feel raw, exposed, and under the microscope of his scrutiny. His expression gives nothing away. I can’t tell if my answer was to his liking. I bristle at that thought.

Why the hell do I care if he approves?I don’t. That’s not why I’m here. And yet … I have this unfamiliar need to seek his validation.

“I see.” Eli’s left eye—the one that’s half brown and blue like the ocean—turns dark as we lock gazes.

I implore him to see what I cannot say. A small part of me thinks he saw through my pretense. Until he speaks.

“Got it. Fame and fortune,” he grunts. I can hear the disdain in the timbre of his voice. He didn’t see a damn thing. Or worse yet, he just doesn’t care. Maybe coming here was a mistake. “Cookie cutter, like the rest.”

Cookie cutter? What the hell?

Coming here was definitely a mistake. The man sitting across from me has no clue what I have gone through. Who is he to judge me?

I might not have chosen this career path, but I still want to be me. Silla has yet to let me break from the teen pop scene. I was hoping these two would see that and help me develop as a songwriter, not just a performer. I’m tired of the bleach-blonde hair, the designer clothes, and the meaningless songs I have been forced to sing, written by men older than my father who know nothing about women.

Anger burns in my stomach at Mr. Miller’s audacity.

“I didn’t say that.” My voice is steady, no hints given of the raging roller coaster of fire that zips through my veins, burning my insides.

“You didn’t have to,princess,” he sneers, planting his large hands on the table.

“Don’t call me that,” I seethe.

He stands in what feels like a power move.

I shoot to my feet, the chair flying out behind me. “I don’t think Blaze is the right place,” I grit through my teeth.

“Wait!” Hudson puts a hand on Eli’s shoulder. “Eli.”

Eli breaks eye contact with me and faces Hudson. They engage in a silent argument.

All eyes turn to Silla as she slams a fist on the table, then taps her nails. “Sit down, Callie.”

I don’t. Instead, I stay standing—another act of defiance I will pay for later, but I couldn’t give one damn about the consequences. Something in me is telling me to stay where I’m at and not move an inch. Not to bend the knee for Silla in front of Eli.

“Please, Callie. Don’t go. You came to the right place. We can help you,” Hudson pleads. Something about the softness in his green eyes roots me to the ground.

I glance at Eli. The hostility and displeasure that have plagued his face since I met him are gone, replaced by what I can only assume is intrigue. Respect? I can’t tell.

That’s right. I’m not the pushover I pretend to be. I have an agenda of my own. “Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll stay?” Hudson asks.

I pull my shoulders back and tilt my chin up. Eli’s gaze meets mine in a silent standoff. His lip quirks, and I swear the smile he’s fighting fits his face better than the rude, combative glower the man has had directed my way for the past hour.

My blood boils for an entirely different reason. The spot he touched on my hip prickles, and the air in the room shifts and comes to life with energy.