"Nothing like that," Diana replied, a faint chuckle escaping despite herself. "Just 'Enjoy the evening.' Polite, distant. Like I was part of the scenery."
"Classic," Zari said, rolling her eyes. "These types don't waste words on small fry. But now? You're not small fry anymore—at least, not to him."
Diana's smile faded. "That's what scares me. Why me, Z? I'm not like the others. Elara? She was Oscar-bound before him. Sophia Reyes had that viral collection. Me? I'm the girl whose single flopped and whose boutique is about to shutter. What does he see—a charity case? Or just easy prey?"
Zari reached over, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. "Hey, stop that. You're Diana freaking Sinclair. Voice of a generation, remember? You had a Grammy nomination. Maybe he sees the fire that's still there, under all the crap. Or maybe he's got a thing for underdogs. Who knows with these billionaires? Half the time, it's ego—collecting talents like Pokémon cards."
"But at what cost?" Diana whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "I read about the women. They all come out better, but... changed. Silent. Like they've signed away more than just time."
Zari hesitated—actually hesitated, her usual quick wit faltering.
That alone terrified Diana more than any headline. Zari was the unflappable one, the rock.
If she was pausing, the news was bad. Or big.
"You turned down the first offer last week," Zari said quietly, her eyes fixed on the tablet as if drawing strength from its glow. "The one of two fifty grand a day. I told them no, like you asked. Firmly. No room for negotiation."
Diana nodded, remembering the conversation vividly. Four days. A million total. She'd laughed it off then, called it absurd and unrealistic. But that was before the lease notice, before the full weight of Lumière's collapse hit.
"They came back," Zari continued, her voice dropping even lower, as if the walls might be listening. "Tripled it."
Diana's heart stopped, a cold jolt racing through her veins. "Seven fifty grand? For one day?"
Zari shook her head, finally meeting her eyes. "Originally for the four days still. But I pushed back—hard. You know.... so that they knew you weren't some escort service; this had to be on your terms or not at all. Negotiated it down to two days. One and a half million total. Upfront. Non-refundable. Wired to an account of your choice before you even step foot on his property."
Diana's jaw dropped, the number hanging in the air like a surreal dream—or nightmare. One and a half million.
That was someone's net worth, a small fortune casually tossed her way for what? A fling? Did he want her to do something even more?
The implications swirled in her mind: private jets, secluded estates, expectations unspoken but implied. "That's... insane," she breathed, her mind reeling. "Why triple it? Why not just move on to someone else?"
Zari shrugged, though her expression was grim. "Because he wants you, Dee. Specifically. His rep was clear—this isn't about the money for him; it's pocket change. It's about the arrangement. Two days. Discreet, luxurious, no strings beyond the NDAs. But the payout... it could save everything. Pay off the loans, restock Lumière, get the team back on payroll. Hell, you could even cut Ryan a check and tell him to get help for real this time."
Diana's throat tightened, the weight of it all pressing down. "But what if it's not just 'companionship'? What if he expects... more? And even if it's not, Z—people will find out. They always do. My reputation, my music... it'll be tainted. 'The singer who slept her way back to the top.'"
Zari's face softened, and she scooted closer, wrapping an arm around Diana's shoulders. "I know. I've thought about that too. We can build in safeguards—your own transportation, emergency outs, even a panic button app if it makes you feel safer. And as for the rep? Screw 'em. The industry's full of hypocrites who climbed on worse. You do this, get the cash, relaunch on your terms. Prove them wrong with a killer album."
"But am I proving them wrong?" Diana countered, pulling away slightly to face her. "Or just confirming every stereotype? I started this to make music that mattered, Z. Not to... trade myself for survival."
Zari sighed, running a hand through her ponytail. "I get it. Believe me, if there was another way, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops. But we've exhausted the options—loans denied, investors ghosting, even that crowdfunding idea bombed in projections. This isn't trading yourself; it's a strategic move. Like signing a label deal, but with better perks and no creative control clauses."
Diana looked out at the city lights again, the glittering expanse blurring through unshed tears.
She thought of the eviction notice stuffed in her drawer, the red ink screaming urgency.
The life she deserved—one where she could create freely, travel without fear of bills, help those she loved without sacrificing herself.
And she thought of the girl who once believed talent was enough.
That wide-eyed teenager busking in parks, dreaming of stadiums and impact.
That girl was dead, buried under contracts and betrayals. What remained was a woman fighting to stay afloat.
"Can you do this?" Zari asked softly, her hand finding Diana's again. "Can you really do this? Because if you say no, we'll find another way. Somehow. I won't push you into something that breaks you."
Diana swallowed, her throat dry as sandpaper. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken fears. But in the end, the math was merciless. Survival demanded compromise.
"I can," Diana whispered, the words tasting like ash. "For Lumière. For us. I can."
Zari reached for her hand and squeezed, holding on tight as if anchoring her against the storm ahead.
Neither of them slept that night.
Diana lay staring at the ceiling, mind racing through scenarios—luxury laced with danger, power dynamics she couldn't control.
Zari stayed beside her, scrolling through logistics on her tablet, murmuring occasional reassurances.