Dylan paced the length of my office while I stared out the window. I could just glimpse the top of the cluster of buildings on Sixth where Nite Owl was located. Where I’d left Chase this morning with only a swift kiss and a mumbled goodbye.

I didn’t even really know why I went to his loft last night. Except that he made me feel … special. And not for what I did, or who my friends were, or what I could do for him. Just because.

“Did you hear me, T-Rex?” Dylan asked as he hovered in front of my desk.

Abandoning my daydream, I spun my chair around and then opened my laptop.

“No,” I said as I pulled up my email. “But I can guess. And just like I told you the last ten times, Harper will sign. Now sit down, you’re making me crazy.”

Falling into the chair, Dylan raked a hand through his hair. “How do you know?”

Irritated, I typed in my password. “I just do. Harper wants to be a rock star not a porn star.”

My conviction never wavered, even as I cleared my schedule in case I needed to get ahead of this thing. Opening a message from Metro Music, I cursed.

Dylan leaned forward, hands clasped like he was bracing for bad news. “What is it? What did she say?”

Glaring, I peered at him over my screen. “It’s about the album. Why didn’t you tell me that none of the tracks were salvageable? Trent is threatening to bail on the project if you don’t get your head out of your ass.”

I glanced over the lengthy list of grievances from Trent, the famed producer it took me months to woo.

Dylan hung his head. “The tracks aren’t that bad,” he insisted with zero conviction. “I played one for Tori yesterday and she—”

“Tori isn’t producing your album!” I slammed my head back against the chair, squeezing my eyes shut. “The only reason Leveraged isn’t harnessed to a three-album deal like everyone else is because of the contract I negotiated. If the band defaults on this album, the label has first right of refusal on the next one. Do you understand what that means? They could put a stop to your next album. Either that or we pay Metro a shit ton for all the studio time they gave you.”

“What do you want me to do?” Dylan jumped to his feet. “As soon as this shit is squared with Harper, I’ll re-record the whole fucking thing! I’ll get it done in two weeks!”

“You better. Because the PR department already wants to kick this shit into overdrive. They sent over a picture they have of you and Harper in the studio. You looked pretty cozy.”

Dylan pressed his palms flat on my desk, glaring. “I never said I didn’t know the girl, T-Rex. I don’t just fuck women without a conversation. I’m not Beckett.”

The words ripped through me like a bullet, leaving a gaping hole in their wake.

Falling into the chair, Dylan ground the heel of his hand into his forehead and groaned. “Fuck, Taryn. I’m so sorry.”

Indignation forced me upright, and I tapped out a reply to Metro with numb fingers. “Don’t say another word. For all of Beckett’s bullshit, he’s never put me in this kind of trick bag.”

A moment of silence stretched into several, and just when I got my bearings, the door to my office flew open and Tori stormed in.

“Have you seen the email from Metro?”

For a second, I breathed a sigh of relief because I thought she was talking to Dylan. But that fierce amber gaze was settled on me.

“I just got it. Why?”

Tori gaped at me, incredulous. “Because you hired Trent. You gave him artistic control. Have you heard the tracks? This guy obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing. And if you weren’t so busy avoiding Beckett, you would’ve been in LA overseeing the album.”

“Belle,” Dylan interjected, taking hold of her arm. “It’s not—”

“It’s not what?” she roared, shaking off his grip. “Did you forget how to sing? No. This guy is a hack. He doesn’t know how to blend.” Vibrating with anger, she dug her fist into her hip and said, “You need to fix this, Taryn.”

A reply so venomous crawled up my throat, I felt it burn all the way to my lips. But at the last moment, I caught sight of the one inch scar on Tori’s neck where they’d inserted her trach tube all those years ago. My focus shifted to Dylan, hanging his head and waiting for the fallout that would never come.

“I will,” I said calmly.

In the wake of the easy victory, I thought Tori might soften, but instead she turned on her heel and left.

Dylan shoved to his feet, and lingering by my desk, he said quietly, “I’ll talk to her, T-Rex. I’ll make it right.”

But he wouldn’t. And we both knew it. Still, I gave him a nod to assuage his guilt.

And with that, he was gone, chasing after Tori. Like always.

Swiping away an angry tear, I sent an email to Trent, begging for more time.

When my phone buzzed, I picked it up without thinking, and my heart slammed against my ribs when I read the message from Harper.

You’ve got a deal.