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The thirty-minute drive to the office building was an exercise in masterful self-control for Ariel. Edward navigated the downtown traffic with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her knee in a casual, proprietary gesture that made her skin crawl. He talked the entire way, a monologue of their shared future, which was in reality a blueprint for her exploitation.
"The label is really excited about your sound," he said, his voice filled with a manufactured enthusiasm she now saw right through. "They see you as the next big crossover artist. That whole classical training with a contemporary edge thing? It's very marketable." Marketable. Not brilliant, not revolutionary, not even talented. She was a product, a commodity to be packaged, promoted, and sold for his benefit.
Esther leaned forward from the back seat, her cloying, expensive perfume filling the confined space of the car. "And once you're established, Edward and I can finally start collaborating with you on some projects. Imagine, the three of us creating something together! It would be so special." The translation was brutally simple: once Ariel was locked into a contract that stripped her of all creative control, they would attach their names to her work, riding her talent to the success they could never achieve on their own.
"That would be amazing," Ariel said, infusing her voice with a perfect note of shy, breathless enthusiasm. The lie tasted bitter, but it was a necessary poison.
The office building rose before them, a cold monument of glass and steel reflecting the afternoon sun. As Edward pulled into the dim, subterranean parking garage, Ariel's heart began to pound against her ribs. It was not a rhythm of fear, but of thrilling, vindictive anticipation. She had rehearsed this moment in her mind for a decade. The curtain was about to rise on her first act of revenge.
They rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor in a tense silence. The doors opened onto a sterile reception area, a soulless landscape of gray carpet, white walls, and black leather furniture. "Ariel Jones?" the receptionist asked with a practiced, impersonal smile. "They're ready for you in Conference Room B."
Edward’s hand found the small of her back, not guiding but herding her forward. Conference Room B was exactly as she remembered it: a long, polished table dominating a space with a panoramic, intimidating view of the city. Three executives waited inside, arranged on one side of the table like a panel of judges. Marcus Webb, the vice president, sat in the center, his smile all teeth and no warmth. To his left was Jennifer Park, the razor-sharp legal counsel. On the right sat David Chen, the head of A&R, the only one who looked at her with something resembling genuine appreciation for her music, which only made his complicity more damning.
"Miss Jones," Marcus said, his handshake firm and controlling. "Please, sit."
Edward guided Ariel to the center seat before settling beside her, his physical presence a clear message: he was part of the deal. Esther flanked her other side, completing the cage disguised as a support system. Marcus launched into his well-rehearsed pitch, painting a glossy, seductive picture of success while carefully avoiding any mention of the contract's predatory details. Ariel knew them by heart. The label would own everything she created for the next decade, control her public image, and take seventy percent of her earnings. It was a trap, and Edward had not just led her to it; he had helped build it.
"We believe you have a unique voice," David added with a tone of false sincerity. "With our guidance, we can create something truly special." Their guidance. Their control. Their profit.
Jennifer slid a thick document across the table. The contract. As Ariel stared at it, a wave of revulsion washed over her. Her synesthesia, always heightened by strong emotion, transformed the document into a thing of horror. The white pages glowed with a sickly, discordant yellow light, the black text writhing like a nest of snakes. A low, ugly hum pulsed from it, a frequency of deceit only she could perceive.
"I've gone over everything, Ari," Edward leaned in to whisper, his breath warm against her ear. "It's all standard industry practice. You're in good hands."
Marcus produced an expensive, heavy-looking pen and set it beside the document. "If everything looks good, we can finalize this today and start planning your debut immediately."
The pen gleamed under the cold fluorescent lights. Ariel reached for it, her movements slow and deliberate. The room seemed to lean forward in unison. Edward’s hand found her shoulder, squeezing with encouragement that felt like a vise. Esther let out a small, triumphant sigh.
"I'm so proud of you," Edward murmured, his lips close to her ear. "This is just the beginning."
He was right about that. Ariel's fingers closed around the pen, its weight cool and solid in her hand. In her first life, she had signed without a moment's hesitation, her hand shaking with excitement. That naive girl was dead. A sharp, visceral memory flashed behind her eyes: Esther’s face, twisted with satisfaction as the life drained from her body. The image was the final catalyst, the spark that ignited the fuse.
Ariel set the pen down. She pulled the contract toward her, her expression unreadable. She reached the signature page and paused, letting the silence in the room stretch until it was taut with anticipation. Then, she picked up the stack of papers with both hands. She looked from the document to the smug, expectant faces around the table. Her mismatched eyes were clear, calm, and as cold as a grave.
"My music is not for sale," she said.
And slowly, deliberately, she tore the contract in half.