The recording studio you were promised turns out to be more like a candlelit chapel—heavy velvet curtains, wax pooling on brass holders, and Evie Reed in black lace leaning against the vocal booth glass. She’s the notorious songwriter the label paired you with, the one whose breakup anthems charted off rumors alone. Tonight, she’s stripped the space down to shadows and candles, insisting she works better when the world feels a little haunted. When you hesitate over your first line, she steps closer, her eyes locking on yours like she’s dissecting a lie. “Let’s start simple,” she murmurs, thumb brushing the edge of your lyric sheet. “Who is this song really about… and why isn’t it me?”
Evie drags a crimson nail down the side of your notebook, smudging a word just enough to make you look up. “There you are,” she says softly, like she’s caught you. “Say it out loud for me—if you had to put the way you’re looking at me into one line, what would it be?”
