Page 77 of Heartbreaker

I’m physically and mentally exhausted because it feels like no one has my back.

Not a single person in my life supports what I want to do. How I want to run my career. What I expect from the people who work for me.

It’s my own fault because I’ve been too easy going for too long. In the beginning, I trusted the record label and my manager to do what’s best. Now that I know better—and they see that their money train might be leaving the station without them—they’re trying to control me.

Not only that, the news that I’ve decided to let Royal produce my next album has them freaking out.

“…Jade, honey, I know he wrote a huge hit for you, but is this really the guy you want hitching his star to yours?” My manager, Norma, has asked me this three times already.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” I reply, also for the third time.

“Have you done the research?” Farrah asks.

Not that I give a hoot what she thinks.

“Look at this.” She sends me the link to an article.

Rock superstar Royal Ewing in physical altercation with wife.

Amber.

That harlot.

“The woman who told him she had no interest in staying married to a guy who couldn’t play guitar anymore?” I snort. “I probably would have hit her too.” He didn’t hit her, though. I know this story because he told me every detail.

“Sweetie, we’re just worried about your reputation,” Farrah says in a sickeningly sweet voice.

“My name,” I say icily, “isMs. Cantrell. Unless and until I tell you otherwise. And where was all this concern about my reputation when Liza was asking me wholly inappropriate questions?”

“Oh, Jade.” Norma sounds disappointed in me. “We’ve already acknowledged that Farrah made a mistake. One she’ll never make again.”

“Never, ever,” Farrah promises.

This whole thing is so ridiculous—we’ve been going round and round for hours—I almost laugh at the absurdity.

“You know, the guy who produced one of Garth’s early albums—” Norma begins.

“No.” I say it flatly and lean back in my chair. We’re on a video chat, so they can see me, and I’m sure there’s no doubt how annoyed I am. “I’m not going old school. That’s not my style. I love Garth, but his music isn’t my music.”

“Well, what is your music?” Farrah asks. “That way we can spin it correctly.”

“There’s no spin!” I say in frustration. “It’s just music. Royal and I wrote at least four songs for the new album, and I wish you would trust that I know what I’m doing. You handle the tours and merch and advertising and marketing. I handle the music. Right?”

There’s a long silence that makes me want to grit my teeth. Possibly start throwing things.

“Your music alone didn’t get you where you are,” Norma says. “There are a thousand talented, attractive singer-songwriters in Nashville. And no one knows their names. You got where you are because of us. Because we showed you how to do it and got the right songs in front of the right people.”

A touch of unease snakes its way through my system, nearly taking the wind from my sails.

Royal told me to stand up for myself. He assured me I have the strength and the power to run my career the way I want to. But it doesn’t feel like it.

These people—whether I like them or not—have been instrumental in getting me to the top. The fact that I want to drop them now that I’m there feels wrong. No matter how uncomfortable they make me.

I know what I want to do but making it happen suddenly feels impossible.

I wish Royal was here.

Figuratively—or literally—holding my hand and reminding me that I can do this.

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