𝟓𝟑. 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬

                                    

                                          
Suki barely had a moment to revel in the afterglow of her Grammy win. The morning sun had only just begun to filter through the living room windows, casting a soft glow on the awards now nestled proudly on her mantelpiece. But before she could even pour herself a cup of coffee, there came a thunderous knock on her front door. She felt a familiar tension in her chest, the kind that usually followed unexpected visits from her label. But this time, she was ready. This time, she wasn't going to shrink back.
Wrapping her robe more tightly around herself, she checked her phone, where her lawyer's number was already prepped and ready on speed dial. With a deep breath, she opened the door.
Three executives from her label stood there, their designer suits pristine, their expressions sharp, and their impatience tangible. Without so much as a greeting, they pushed their way inside, filling her living room with their presence as if they owned the place—something they probably believed. For years, Suki had watched them operate this way, walking into rooms like they held all the cards, dictating who she should be and how she should act. Today, though, that would change.
"Suki, let's get right to it," the lead executive began, his voice a blade, cutting straight to the point. He was a tall man with thinning hair and a perpetually tight expression, his gaze a steely reminder of every contract she'd ever signed, every dollar he thought he'd made her. "This whole Tallulah Rose stunt? It's done. You've got your Grammy, you've got your attention—but it's time to get back to business. No more Tallulah. We need you as Suki Monroe, focused on the brand we built. No more split identities. It confuses the market."
Suki crossed her arms, feeling her spine straighten, her resolve hardening like steel within her. His words were clinical, dismissive—as if she were just another piece of machinery. Another exec spoke up, backing up his colleague's words with an air of smug certainty.
"Remember your contract, Suki. You're bound to us, and we're not interested in any kind of narrative we can't control. Tallulah Rose is over, and you know it."
The words echoed in her living room, bouncing off the walls as if they belonged to another era—a time when Suki might have felt smaller, when their words would have cut her down. But now, after the Grammy win, after last night and Drew's support despite never having spoken after their breakup, with the newfound belief he'd given her, Suki felt only the swell of pride and courage rising in her. She had spent her whole career bending to their will, letting them define her story. But last night had shown her she didn't need to do that anymore.
She took a steady breath, and with a calm that made her heart race, she pulled out her phone, dialing her lawyer and pressing the call button. She kept her gaze fixed on the execs as she set the phone to speaker. They exchanged uneasy glances, some of the arrogance finally cracking in their polished veneer.
"David," she said into the phone, "I think it's time we clarified the situation. Can you tell these gentlemen the terms of my contract?"
The silence stretched as her lawyer's voice came through, strong and resolute. "Gentlemen, Miss Monroe has fulfilled her obligations under the three-album contract. All three of those albums reached number one on the charts, as stipulated. Your contract does not extend indefinitely, and per the terms and the timeline, Suki is entirely free to pursue her next steps independently. She has no further obligations to your label."
The executives' eyes narrowed, and she could see the panic just beneath their icy exteriors. The lead executive, his jaw visibly clenched, leaned forward. "So that's it, then?" he sneered, his voice laced with frustration. "You're just throwing it all away? Do you really think you can survive in this industry without us? We're the ones who got you to this level. Without our budget, our press machine, our distribution network, you're nothing more than an amateur with a guitar. Going independent is career suicide, Suki."