It had been three weeks since Maya left Los Angeles. In that time, she'd played for neighbors, written six new songs, and relearned the rhythm of quiet days. The scandal that had chased her home was already fading from the headlines.
One warm afternoon, she was on the porch tuning her guitar when a black SUV pulled up in front of the house. The driver stepped out and opened the back door, and a tall man in a faded denim jacket emerged.
Maya recognized him instantly—Marcus Kane. A legend. A songwriter whose records had been part of her childhood soundtrack. He wasn't the kind of artist who chased trends; he built them, brick by brick, song by song.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked, nodding toward the porch steps.
"Uh… sure," she said, still stunned.
"I've been following your career," Marcus began. "And I saw what happened in Seattle. That took guts."
She laughed without humor. "It took panic."
"Call it what you want," he said, "but walking away when you know something isn't right—that's rare in this business. I think you've got more in you than the industry's let you show."
He handed her a worn business card. "I'm starting an independent label. Artist-owned, artist-run. You'd have full creative control. No executives telling you what to wear or sing. Just music. Yours."
Maya turned the card over in her hands. "Why me?"
Marcus shrugged. "Because I can hear when a voice has a story it hasn't told yet. And yours is still waiting."
They talked until the sun slid low, the shadows stretching across the porch. When Marcus left, Maya stared at the card, heart racing.
This wasn't a promise wrapped in glitter like Evan's offer had been—it was something steadier, quieter. Something that felt like hers to choose.