Breakdown Read online

  After a week of silence, I felt myself unraveling. Every day without a solution cost the company money. Every moment of checking my phone for her call or text shredded my nerves. I couldn’t recall what I’d eaten—if I’d eaten—and had fainted during a meeting with Research and Development.

  This morning Merritt had appointed a member of the kitchen staff as my personal chef, assigning him the ridiculous task of ensuring that I ate balanced meals and stayed hydrated—with beverages that didn’t contain profuse amounts of liquor.

  I detested being monitored and controlled…mothered. This morning, as she ordered the kitchen staff to babysit me, she’d reminded me of my mother—blonde and effortlessly confident, observing me with prying and pitying blue eyes.

  So, in defiance, I’d taken a teaspoon and introduced each of those beautiful, Instagram-worthy gourmet meals to the Garden Suite toilet.

  Merritt approached me now in the recording wing of the museum-like main house. I’d come here to escape her surveillance.

  “Glad I found you here instead of bent over a toilet.” Her tawny eyebrows rose meaningfully. “Dieting?”

  “I don’t need an intervention. I used to diet as a way to handle anger.”

  “Before the hairpins and rubber bands?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you angry with me, Soph?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I’m pissed at the situation. But, seriously, you were being bossier than usual.”

  “Sorry. That’s how I’ve been coping with the situation. Acting like a raging bitch, making enemies of the people closest to me.” She stood beside me in front of a glass-walled studio, twisting her wedding ring.

  On the other side of the wall, audio engineers in the control room manned gear as Palmer Sims, lead rapper of 714, laid down a track before his flight to New York to tape a spot on a late-night talk show. 714’s next explicit album wouldn’t officially release until August, but the group would drop an under-wraps single, “Snatch,” in a few weeks. People were going to lose their shit.

  Our label was banking on it.

  “Imogen called me,” Merritt said softly. “One meeting. One conversation. Tomorrow.”

  She appeared sunnier than the clear-skied afternoon outside this centuries-old fortress. Not a gold strand defied her by slipping free of its elegant knot, and her Tiffany-blue dress didn’t dare insult her with wrinkles. The only teardrops on her were the colorless diamonds dangling from her earlobes.

  “Are you afraid to confront her, Merritt?”

  “No.” Concern made her irises sparkle like cut crystal. “Are you?”

  “Do I look afraid?”

  My stomach whined and Merritt smiled a sad smile. “You look hungry.”

  Okay, so I should’ve at least tried to keep down the beef tenderloin and sautéed spinach the kitchen assistant had brought to my office a few hours ago, or the eggs Benedict and mandarin orange slices that had been wheeled to me on a tray adorned with bursts of vibrant flowers this morning.

  I packed a hell of an appetite. I’d been a skinny kid who progressed to birdlike-slender thanks to puberty that had arrived with twinkle and thrill, like an unwanted fairy godmother bestowing upon me the gift of sex appeal while I’d been preoccupied with punishing myself for being…what?

  Too tall.

  Too unusual.

  Too inadequate.

  Too everything and not enough anything.

  Exploiting my metabolism or magic, or whatever the fuck allowed me to eat with abandon and be spared the skin and body consequences others complained about, I ate for reasons that had nothing to do with hunger.

  Drew genes, my father had said once. For generations our ancestors hadn’t the freedom or money to eat at will, and he figured that he and I were making up for it. But while he was a robust man, as broad as a barn, I was still just a bird.

  Maybe, once this meeting with Imogen Creed was over, I’d go back to the normalcy of snacking, staring at my phone, and sleeping with men who were useful to Perversion’s bottom line.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

  “I’m not sure if I should.” She faced the glass again.

  There were cards and dice, and the room was hazy with the mingling smoke of cigars and weed. Still, music was being made, and neither of us would interrupt.

  Perversion had an unspoken “blind-eye” policy. Artists and producers had one job, to make the company money. Most performers brought in entourages. Some had food and hookers delivered to the recording lounges, and stretched out on leather couches with Cristal and video game controllers and nameless women in their hands between sessions. Some preferred to come in alone, work without distraction, and leave.

  What they did once they departed the security gates was what made them liabilities, from bringing guns in clubs to letting the cops catch them riding dirty with fake tags, open booze, and copius amounts of product in their rides.

  They frequently relied on the company’s legal team.

  “Who are they?” Merritt gestured to the scatter of women outfitted in lingerie and stilettos. “Palmer’s muses?”

  “He promised them pool access after he wraps up in the booth.” I shrugged, clarifying, “They’re rentals. Fuck-and-go.”

  “Of course, they are.”

  Like several of our label’s artists who weren’t attached to relationships and families, Palmer preferred to flaunt his groupies. But their novelty wore off damn fast. The women who’d accompanied him today would be onetime guests, but at least he’d allow them a glimpse of Perversion experience: expensive liquor, a ballroom-sized indoor atrium pool, and memories of being catered to before they were dropped.

  “You don’t look afraid,” Merritt finally said. “But I can sense that you are.”

  I glanced around. The sounds of footsteps and conversations from open rooms were muffled. “This isn’t fear.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Guilt.”

  Merritt frowned, her perfection slipping. “What happened with Imogen was necessary. Our only option.”

  “Yeah, just as it’s our only option to beg her to help save the company we took from her.”

  “We didn’t take it from her. This was our company too. When her father killed himself, she put Ezra in as CFO and you in as COO.”

  “And you as a producer, not as CEO. That was her place.”

  Merritt drew me to a vacant corridor that was grand even in its simplicity, with a stone water feature and tropical plants that stretched toward high skylights. Trickles and splashes filled the air. “Imogen and I have a long history, but here’s the CliffsNotes version. She and I were born to be friends. My uncle had invested in Perversion before either of us were even conceived. This place is a part of me too. Imogen and I grew up on this label’s music.”

  “I get it. You and she were perfect for each other.”

  “But we weren’t, Sophie. She and her brother were exceptional in everything they attempted. If you’d ever heard her sing opera or play the drums or rap…my God. Every detail about her was fucking magnificent, and I hated her as much as I loved her.” She swatted at her dress, smoothing wrinkles that didn’t exist. “That kind of perfection, it needs to be cultivated and guided—and it puts pressure on the people standing too close. I thought she’d leave me behind once she figured out how ordinary I am, so whenever she had an idea, I went along with it. No matter how fucked it was. It’s how we took Perversion.”

  “You had help,” I reminded her, aggravating an old wound. “A-Town Sound fell to build this company in hip-hop.”

  “I know. Sacrificing that label earned you your place on the executive floor. No one’s discounting that or saying you don’t deserve it. Remorse is a vulnerability in this business, and it won’t help anybody.” She nodded, as if to convince herself. “Imogen became CEO becaus
e she was next in line after Atticus cut out. It was a matter of birthright, not that I don’t have what it takes to lead this company.”

  “You’re not just a little freaked out to come into that office every day knowing a man killed himself, his son vanished, and we booted his daughter out to make it possible?”

  “Not even a little. Sawyer Creed committed suicide. That was his doing, not ours. Atticus left. That’s on him, not us.”

  She was wrong. It was on me. She just didn’t know. There were so many things she and Ezra and even Imogen didn’t know.

  “Imogen instigated a war in New York, trying to steal talent from the wrong label, and we all—including the rest of the board—agreed we wouldn’t let her take us and this company down with her. We had to let her go.”

  “Now she’s back.”

  “Not to stay. Not to influence anyone.”

  “Are you shitting me, Merritt? Who’s to say she won’t demand our jobs the second she walks into this building?”

  “Who’s to say we’ll agree?” Merritt’s face was flawless steel now. “She doesn’t control Perversion. We do. The thing is, Soph, you don’t grow up with a person like that as your closest friend without absorbing part of her. If she wants to fight for the CEO seat, then she’ll fight me. Not you and not Ezra.”

  “He won’t let you face her alone. Neither will I.”

  “Thank you.” She patted my arm, then peeled back my sleeve. “Make sure you’re not wearing this rubber band when Imogen arrives. She can sniff out fear.”

  “I said I’m not afraid.”

  “Guilt and fear? Just different shades of weakness.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Sophie

  Security was on high alert. Some blended in with maintenance staff, others disguised as landscapers tending to the grounds, several patrolled from a distance as a team monitored surveillance footage from a room that had once been a nursery in the nineteenth century.

  Imogen Creed wasn’t walking into an ambush; we were arming ourselves against a potential invasion. She was violent and had a vendetta.

  A vice president title at Gash Lyrics offered the appearance of stability—that maybe she wasn’t as volatile as she’d once been. It was possible that she’d built a new life in Los Angeles and had something to lose should she fuck up. That didn’t mean she cared. If she was the same woman who’d shot herself during her own birthday party, had skipped her father’s funeral to handle company affairs, and had attempted to set fire to Perversion’s boardroom, she could damn well walk through the double-door front entrance and deliver a message from hell.

  I drifted into the foyer. Under normal circumstances I appreciated the modern upscale glory that exuded from textured walls, antique furnishings, and Art Deco brilliance. No expense had been spared to make this place a lesson in luxury.

  Just as none had been spared to manipulate my image on the wall. Lighting had lent sensual warmth to my skin, emphasized the gloss of my tousled hair, coaxed a smile from my brown eyes. Merritt and Ezra appeared confident in their photos, as I did, but digital enhancements had softened my frowning mouth as effectively as they’d transformed the colors of Merritt’s dress, Ezra’s loosened necktie, and my waterfall earrings to a wealthy, unapproachable gold.

  “You okay, Sophie?”

  I looked to Ezra as he walked over with an easy swagger. How did he do that?

  “Okay…is a goal. I’m getting there. Actually, I was just thinking that my portrait is such a lie.”

  “Show me the lie.” He wrapped an arm around me and studied the portrait. “I see a smokin’ hot, powerful woman. Jesus Christ…I get why that reporter compromised his job.”

  Jack Lowdnes, a leading cable news anchor, once a celebrity in his own right for journalistic integrity, had been escorted from these premises last year after being caught masturbating while staring at my portrait. He’d resigned, earning himself a new household name—Jackoff Lowdnes.

  “You’re so full of shit, Ezra. Charm doesn’t work on me.”

  “This is truth, not charm. Fuck charm.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Save it for someone who gives a crap.” But I felt fluttery, as I did whenever I ventured into his orbit. “Besides, Lowdnes blamed me for what he did. He said that showing off my tits with a sheer top and styling my hair as if I’d just been screwed were to elicit sexual arousal—that by masturbating in this lobby, he was giving me what I wanted.”

  “Then I guess I’ve got only two comments. First comment, he’s a fuckin’ idiot. Second comment, you are smokin’ hot and powerful—with beautiful nipples.” Ezra kissed me as I giggled, and when he bit my lips, I felt a full-body rush. It was as if I was roller-skating at breakneck speed…naked. “Quit thinking of reasons to blame yourself for what needed to be done years ago, Sophie. Concentrate on what needs to be done now. Imogen’ll be here any minute.”

  “I know.”

  “Then don’t stand here waiting to greet her at the fucking door. Go upstairs. She’ll be escorted to the boardroom.”

  “Aren’t you coming too?”

  “Eventually.” He set me loose, sending me off with a swat on my ass. “I’m the one who’s going to escort her up.”

  My nerves tingled, as though to scream Bad fucking idea!

  “Come with me, Ezra. Merritt should be wrapping up her conference call. We should all be together.”

  “Go upstairs,” he said with finality.

  Pissed to be dismissed, but choosing not to engage in a petty battle, I threw up my hands and took the stairs to the executive suites.

  No C-level assistants were onsite today. They’d been surprised with Braves tickets as rewards for their dedication and patience while the company underwent “slight challenges” that weren’t slight at all. Nikita Jade hadn’t retreated in her war against Perversion, but we’d released an official statement that was vague yet could be interpreted as a veiled threat. While the media spent days obsessing about it, we’d use the time to strategize a countermove.

  I entered the boardroom to find Merritt already there, accessorized with earbuds as she entered notes into her tablet. She waved her stylus pen and tugged a bud free. “Thanks for sending me this audio.”

  “Of course.”

  Palmer Sims had wrapped up in time to collect his lingerie-clad guests and the rest of his entourage and get to the airport. I had endured the smoke-filled studio to collect a raw recording to provide to Merritt. The song felt like a threat—its harshness more in the quality of Palmer’s voice than in the lyrics of 714’s poetry—and that was the beauty of it.

  714 had sustained us for years, had a reliable chart presence, and wasn’t afraid to experiment with their sound. Yet one group couldn’t carry a label of Perversion’s caliber in the music industry’s current climate.

  “‘Snatch’ will breathe in new life,” I said, parroting video-view and download projections from a recent meeting. An Academy Award–winning director and internationally acclaimed choreographer had been brought on board this project. Filmed on crime-torn Chicago streets and a yacht that had been purchased specifically to be trashed by a wrecking crew and dressed with graffiti, the video simulated everything from orgies to freebasing to murder for hire. 714 wanted people to feel perverse and disturbed, and Perversion was committed to helping the group accomplish that.

  “The single—714’s entire new album, even—won’t sustain our edge through the year, Soph.” Merritt put away her buds and tablet. “We’ve already established that, haven’t we? That’s why Imogen’s coming here.”

  An unfortunate truth. There was zero guarantee that even an evil genius could save this company after the damage Heezy Floyd, Authentix, and Nikita Jade had inflicted.

  What then?

  A knock called us to our feet. Then the door opened to reveal Imogen at Ezra’s side.

  The photographs captu
red at various industry and charity events over the past two years hadn’t lied. She’d changed.

  A white billowy dress with a hemline that stopped at the tops of her thighs lent her an almost angelic softness. Her amber-brown hair was gathered into a messy bun atop her head, revealing discs dangling from her ears that resembled platinum record albums.

  A pair of aloof blue-green eyes set in a square-shaped face paused on Merritt before they settled on me. “Atticus is engaged,” Imogen said. “He’s happy without you. When y’all broke up, I think the one who ended up broken was you.”

  Fuck, that was painful to hear. I took my seat again, so that I wouldn’t launch myself across the room and slap the California glow off Imogen’s face.

  Ezra reached over as if to reprimand Imogen with a touch to her arm, but she whirled on him and whispered a single syllable. “Don’t.”

  “Take a chair, Imogen. I’ll get you a drink.”

  “Chardonnay, if you can spare the expense.”

  “Of course we can.” With the deliberate movements of one battling his temper with every breath he took, he filled a delicate crystal glass and thrust it at her.

  Droplets of chardonnay escaped the glass, splashed her dress, and dripped onto the floor. “Careful, Ezra. You spilled in me.” She sipped the drink. “Oops, I mean on me.”

  A look of solemn warning passed between them, and the air pressure seemed to change.

  “I can get you a fresh drink,” I offered to ease the tension as I blotted her dress with a napkin.

  “No, I’m good.” She surveyed the room for a moment before something, perhaps a memory, captured her. Her eyelashes fluttered and she whispered, “Home.”

  The conference table allowed the four of us to each claim a side. With Merritt at the head and Ezra at the foot, that left Imogen and me to face each other. But after a moment’s consideration, she took the chair closest to Ezra and scooted it closer.

  Moments ago she’d snapped at him for mishandling her drink. Now she was cozying up to his side and watching Merritt.