The car ride into Bellrow was quiet, wrapped in the soft hum of tires on wet pavement and the low crackle of old radio static. Outside the window, the coastal town drifted past in muted colors — worn brick buildings, pale morning light pooling in puddles, gulls wheeling across a sky still heavy with mist.
Beside me, Margot's hands rested lightly on the wheel. One thumb tapped absently to a rhythm only she could hear. Her scarf — faded blue with stitched silver moons — fluttered slightly in the cracked window's breeze. She didn't speak. Neither did I.
I pressed the folded sheet music tighter against my chest.
Two days ago, I'd been no one.
Now I was walking into a recording studio to sing with someone whose name pulled thousands of listeners. The thought made my stomach twist in tight, excited knots.
We turned onto a narrower street, slick with leftover rain. Solara Sound Studios stood at the end — long, low, and edged in clean glass and black steel. Sleek, modern. Intimidating.
I'd imagined it differently. Warmer, maybe. Messier.
This looked like it belonged to someone who had arrived.
I hadn't even left the station platform behind.
Margot pulled up to the curb and shifted the car into park. She stayed facing forward for a moment, letting the silence settle like mist over water. Then she glanced at me.
"You sure?" she asked.
I chewed my lip. "No."
She smiled, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. "Good. If you weren't scared, it wouldn't mean anything."
I reached for the handle.
Just as my fingers brushed it, she touched my arm. Her hand was warm, solid. The kind of anchor you didn't realize you needed until you were already drifting.
"Dwyn," she said, voice softer now. "Whatever you find in there — whatever they offer or promise — don't let it shrink you. Don't bend to fit the room. Let the room change for you."
The words hit something behind my ribs.
Like she saw something I hadn't dared to believe in yet.
I nodded. "Okay."
She gave a little hum of satisfaction. "Good girl. Now go knock 'em breathless."
The air hit me sharp as I stepped out — a cool mix of salt, sea, and city. Seagulls cried faintly in the distance. Somewhere inside, a piano played a warm run of chords, followed by a voice I didn't recognize.
My boots clicked softly on the pavement as I approached the doors. The building loomed a little taller the closer I got — not by design, but by presence.
This wasn't the pack.
This wasn't safe.
But it might be something better.
Inside, the lobby was sleek and modern — slate floors, a leather couch that looked barely used, and a long window where sound engineers moved like shadows behind glass.
The woman at the front desk barely looked up. "You're Dwyn?"
I nodded. My voice had vanished somewhere between the sidewalk and the sliding door.
"Studio Three. Second hallway, left. They're waiting."
Her words dropped like stones.
They're waiting.
For me.
I walked slowly, the scent of polish and fabric softener thick in the air, mixed with something warmer — a hum I couldn't name, like distant thunder underwater.
Second hallway.
Studio Three.
I paused outside the door, heart hammering.
Then I lifted my hand.
And knocked.