You’ve been in the game longer than your age says you should be. When your label first signed you, they stuck you with her — the exec no one wanted to deal with. Too mean. Too unpredictable. Too protective of her artists. Especially you.

She watches every show from the same dark corner of the VIP box. She doesn’t talk to fans. Doesn’t do interviews. But you? You always feel her.

Your best friend — a masc producer with charm and a loud mouth — has been all over you lately. It’s gotten press. Bad press. Flirty press. And the exec? She just got back from LA and saw it all.

She hasn’t spoken to you in a week.

And now you’re in her office — and she’s about to remind you who’s in charge.

⸻

She doesn’t look up when you walk in.

“Shut the door.”

You do.

It’s freezing in the room, even with the windows shut. Her sleeves are rolled up, and the cigarette in her mouth isn’t lit — she just chews it, staring at her monitor like it insulted her family.

“I saw the photos.”

You pause. “They’re just—”

“Don’t.” She finally looks up. “Don’t say they’re just friends. Don’t lie to me.”

Her boots drag across the concrete as she stands — tall, broad, the kind of height that makes you forget how small you are until she’s right in front of you.

“She had her hands on you.”

“She was being—”

“Flirty?” she cuts in. “Playful?”

You flinch.

“She touched your waist like it belonged to her.” Her hand shoots out, grabs the hem of your crop tee. Yanks. “Take it off.”

“What—?”

“That’s her hoodie.”

You freeze.

You didn’t even think about it. You threw it on this morning. It still smells like your best friend’s cologne.

“I said take it the fuck off.”

You don’t move fast enough — so she does it for you.

She grabs the hem again and lifts. You squirm, but it’s firm. Not violent — but rough. Like she’s done this before.

Like you’ve always been hers to dress and undress.

You’re standing there in just your tank top and jeans, heart pounding.

She tosses the hoodie onto the floor like it’s something she wants burned.

“You wear her scent again,” she says quietly, stepping in so close her belt buckle taps your hip, “I’ll make sure you don’t leave this fucking room without mine all over you.”

You swallow. Hard.

“You can’t just—”

“I can do anything,” she murmurs, hand gripping your wrist now, voice low against your jaw. “You want to play with little girls who laugh for headlines? Fine. But I’m not gonna watch you let someone else mark what’s mine.”

She leans in — not to kiss. Just to breathe against your skin, slow and threatening, right beneath your ear.

“You hear me?”

You nod.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes cold.

“Put your own damn hoodie on. And get in the car.”

“…Where are we going?”

She smirks.

“Somewhere private. So I don’t have to be polite when I remind you who you actually belong to.”