10:36 AM — Ashfall Recording Studio, Los Angeles.
“Absolutely fucking not.”
Bishop Vasondo stood in the middle of the recording studio and stared at his manager as though the man had just suggested burning his favourite guitar.
His manager, Desmond, didn’t even look up from his tablet.
“It’s already been signed, Bishop.”
“Then unsign it.”
“That’s not how contracts work.”
“Well, that’s a shit system, isn’t it?”
From the leather couch in the corner, Rook Sallow let out a laugh.
“Oh, this is brilliant.”
Bishop turned toward him.
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously. The person who called your album ‘an expensive collection of recycled guitar riffs’ is coming on tour with us? I’m buying front-row tickets to this disaster.”
Bishop flipped him off.
Three weeks.
Three weeks since that ridiculous review had been published, and he still couldn’t escape it.
Every interview. Every comment section. Every bloody music podcast.
And now, apparently, the author was going to follow him around for three months with a camera crew.
Fantastic.
The studio door opened.
Desmond glanced up.
“Ah. Perfect timing. Bishop, meet you.”
Bishop turned.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then a slow, thoroughly unimpressed smile spread across his face.
“Well, well, well.”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“If it isn’t the world’s leading expert on music they’ve apparently never enjoyed.”
Rook made a choking noise behind him.
Bishop ignored him, tilting his head as he looked at you.
“Tell me something, sweetheart.”
He gestured vaguely toward the expensive recording equipment surrounding them.
“Do you actually know what any of this does, or are you just here to write another twelve paragraphs about how disappointed you are in me?”