Page 2 of Giving Chase

My lips quirk in a sardonic smile. If only they knew just how involved I'd been in Incendiary Ink’s journey. Late-night studio sessions, heated arguments over creative direction, stolen moments in hotel rooms with Chase...

"Be that as it may," I continue, pushing the memories aside, "it's unprecedented. And… complicated."

Cassidy Townsend, our head of legal, leans forward, her sharp blue eyes narrowing. "Complicated how, Eliza? From a legal standpoint, I don't see any issues. Our contract with them is over, but that doesn't preclude you from participating in the ceremony."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course, Cassidy would see it that way. As the wife of Jake Townsend, lead singer of Murderous Crows, another of our top-selling bands, she's used to the blurred lines between business and personal lives in the music industry.

"It's not about legalities, Cassidy," I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "It's about optics. Our relationship with Incendiary Ink wasn't exactly smooth sailing towards the end. Do we really want to dredge all that up again?"

The room grows quiet. Everyone remembers the scandals, rehab stints, and explosive arguments that occasionally spilled into the public eye.

Cassidy's lips twitch into a knowing smirk. "Sometimes, Eliza, dredging up the past is exactly what's needed to move forward. Look at Jake and me - we've weathered our share of storms, and Murderous Crows are stronger for it."

I bristle at the comparison. Cassidy might think she understands, but she has no idea about the complexity of my history with Chase and Incendiary Ink.

"With all due respect, Eliza," Richard chimes in, "I think you're letting personal feelings cloud your judgment here. This could be a huge opportunity for the label."

Before I can retort, a familiar voice cuts through the tension.

"Mom, you can't be serious."

My head snaps up. My son, Justin, stands in the doorway, a knowing smirk on his face. At thirty, he's the spitting image of his father—my first ex-husband—but with my steel grey eyes.

"Justin, what are you doing here? This is a closed meeting."

He shrugs, unrepentant. "Jenna let me in. Said it was important." He strolls into the room, perching on the edge of the conference table. "You have to do this, Mom. It's Incendiary Ink. It's Chase."

The name sends another jolt through my system. I keep my face impassive, but inside, a storm is brewing. Chase Avery. The one that got away. The man who has simultaneously been my greatest professional triumph and my most profound personal regret.

"I don't have to do anything," I reply, my tone clipped.

Justin leans in, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "You've been burying yourself in work since their farewell tour. Maybe it's time to face the music, don't you think?"

I glare at my son, but there's no real heat behind it. He knows me too well, damn him.

I turn back to the board, all of whom are watching the exchange with varying degrees of interest. "I'll think about it. That's all I can promise for now. I must let the Rock Hall know by the end of the week, so you’ll know when they know. Meeting adjourned."

As the board members file out, chattering excitedly among themselves, I remain seated, lost in thought. Justin squeezes my shoulder as he passes.

"For what it's worth," he says softly, "I think it's about time you and Chase figured your shit out."

With that parting shot, he's gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a decision that threatens to upend the careful balance I've maintained for years.

Chase Avery. Incendiary Ink. The Hall of Fame.

"Well, fuck," I mutter to the empty room. I have a feeling my life is about to get a lot more complicated.

March 10, 2004

The thrum of bass vibrates through the soles of my Manolo Blahniks as I push through the doors of The Viper Room. At thirty-five, I feel almost ancient amid the sea of twenty-somethings, but I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. I'm Eliza fucking Kerr, the youngest head of A&R in Blackmore Records' history, and I'm here to do my job.

I check my flip phone one last time before tucking it back into my purse. No messages from Mrs. Goldstein, Justin's babysitter.I push down the familiar pang of guilt. Eight-year-olds should be tucked in by their mothers, not paid caregivers. But this is my reality – single mom by day, talent scout by night.

The smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and a hint of something less legal assaults my senses. It's a far cry from the sterile, air-conditioned offices I left an hour ago, where I was negotiating a multi-million dollar contract renewal. But this – this grimy, pulsing underbelly of the music world – this is where the magic happens. It's also where dreams shatter, and hearts break. I should know; I've been on both sides of that equation. Rising stars can’t always handle the heat, and shooting stars burn out. This business isn’t easy for anyone. Not everyone can handle the pressure involved in being a success.

I scan the dimly lit room, my steel-grey eyes adjusting to the darkness. The crowd is a mix of industry types like myself, trying hard to look casual in their designer jeans and vintage band tees, and the genuine article – young, hungry music lovers with an edge that can't be bought at Barneys.

A flash of copper catches my eye. "Eliza! Over here!"

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