Rael stopped in the hallway, his boots silent against the marble floor. The label’s upper wing was usually sterile and calm, but today the air felt heavy. From behind Elara’s office doors came voices—low at first, then sharp enough to cut through the wall.

“All I asked for was your loyalty,” Elara’s voice snapped, cool but edged with something raw. “Who do you think covered up your scandals for you? Who made sure the press never printed that you overdosed during your own tour?”

There was silence—then a man’s voice, deep and rough. “You think that gives you the right to control me?”

“You pulled the wrong trigger,” Elara hissed. “And now the label is bleeding because of you.”

Rael froze. He had never heard her sound like that. Usually, her tone was measured, unreadable. This was different—there was venom in it.

Then the door burst open. A man stormed out. Rael blinked—he knew that face. Kane Ruther, the so-called golden boy of the industry, the one who had been topping charts since Rael was still playing clubs. But lately, Kane’s fame had been cracking—the last album tanked, the label was bleeding money, and his reputation had taken hit after hit.

Their eyes met. Kane’s were wild, almost desperate, and for a second Rael saw what fame did to people when it started slipping away. Kane brushed past him without a word, the scent of cigarettes and cologne hanging behind like smoke.

Rael lingered in front of the door, uncertain. He had seen Elara handle chaos before—negotiations, reporters, his own tantrums—but never like this. He lifted his hand and knocked once.

“Come in,” her voice said, low again, controlled.

He pushed the door open. Elara sat behind her desk, one hand pressed against her temple, the other still on a stack of papers. The blinds were half closed, slanting lines of afternoon light across the floor.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” she asked without looking up.

“Kind of hard not to.” He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Didn’t know you could bite that hard.”

She exhaled through her nose, finally glancing up at him. “Kane made a mistake. A bad one. He tried to leak a story to bury another artist’s release. It backfired.”

Rael whistled low. “That’s low, even for him.”

“He’s desperate,” she said simply. “When you start slipping, you start clawing. The industry teaches you to fear irrelevance more than death.”

He walked closer, dropping into the chair across from her. “And you? You sound like you’ve seen that too many times.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she adjusted the papers in front of her with deliberate calm. “I have.” Then she looked at him. “That’s why I keep telling you to pace yourself, Rael. One bad decision, one wrong person trusting the wrong headline—it can end overnight.”

He smirked, though the unease in her tone made his chest tighten. “You think I’m gonna end up like him?”

“I think you’re smart enough not to.” Her voice softened. “But you have his fire. The difference is—someone still has time to teach you how to use it without burning everything around you.”

That silenced him. There was something in the way she said teach you—not cold, not managerial, almost protective. For a moment, he saw not the unshakable woman who managed his chaos, but a tired strategist who’d watched too many artists self-destruct.

He leaned back, eyes tracing the lines of light across the room. “You know, it’s weird. Everyone keeps saying you’re untouchable, but right now you look… human.”

Elara’s lips curved into a small, humorless smile. “Don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

Rael laughed under his breath. The tension in the room slowly began to fade.

After a while, she reached for a folder. “You came here for a reason, not to eavesdrop. What do you need?” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Just wanted to tell you I finished the lyrics for the new track.”

Her eyes lifted again, calm and assessing. “Good. Bring them tomorrow. Tonight, go home and rest.”

“Rest?” he echoed, standing. “That’s a new kind of punishment.”