He doesn't plan to ask.
It slips out.
Between schedules.
Between revisions.
Between another meeting about "alignment."
They're in a smaller office this time.
Less glass.
More paperwork.
His agent sits across from him, tablet balanced on her knee.
Efficient.
Composed.
Always two steps ahead.
He watches her scroll through projected numbers.
Projected growth.
Projected reach.
Projected expansion.
Everything projected.
Nothing certain.
"What would it take," he asks casually, "to break it?"
She pauses.
Not confused.
Just calculating.
"Break what?"
"The contract."
The word lands heavier than he expects.
She sets the tablet down slowly.
"Zane."
His real name.
Not Calder.
Not here.
"This is a one-year binding agreement with performance obligations and image investment clauses."
He nods.
"I read it."
"Did you?" she asks gently.
He doesn't answer that.
She taps the screen and rotates it toward him.
Pages of legal language.
Fine print.
Clauses.
Sub-clauses.
"You signed for a twelve-month term with promotional exclusivity. They've already invested in branding, styling, production, marketing rollout."
Her voice stays calm.
Professional.
"You can't just decide you don't like the direction and walk away."
He exhales through his nose.
"I'm not saying I don't like it."
She raises an eyebrow slightly.
He doesn't clarify.
"What would count?" he asks instead.
"As what?"
"As legitimate grounds."
She leans back in her chair.
Considers.
"Medical issues. Family emergencies. Contractual breach on their end. Something provable."
He nods slowly.
"So if I'm just… unhappy?"
"That's not a legal argument."
The word unhappy sounds childish when she says it.
Small.
He straightens in his seat.
"I didn't think it would feel like this."
"Like what?"
He searches for language.
Controlled.
Filtered.
Adjusted.
"Like I'm being rewritten."
She studies him carefully.
"You are evolving."
There's that word again.
Evolving.
He almost laughs.
Instead he rubs a hand over his jaw.
"And if I don't want to?"
She doesn't soften.
"You signed."
The room feels smaller now.
Less polished.
More rigid.
He stands and walks toward the window.
The city stretches below.
Unapologetic.
"You built this," she says quietly behind him. "You wanted scale."
"I didn't want to disappear."
The words slip out before he can stop them.
Silence follows.
She doesn't immediately respond.
When she does, her tone shifts slightly.
"You're not disappearing. You're becoming bigger."
He keeps his eyes on the skyline.
"That's not the same thing."
She gathers her tablet.
"If you're serious about breaking it, I can review exit options. But understand this — they won't let you go easily. Not with the projections they've built around you."
Projections.
Expectations.
Ownership.
He nods once.
"Look into it."
"I will," she says. "But don't get your hopes up."
After she leaves, he stays standing by the window.
Hands in his pockets.
City noise faint through reinforced glass.
He signed because he believed in momentum.
Believed in expansion.
Believed he could handle scale.
He's handled worse.
Built from less.
So why does this feel—
Constricting?
He pulls out his phone.
Sunny sent a voice memo earlier.
He hasn't opened it yet.
He presses play.
Her voice fills the quiet penthouse.
Casual.
Unpolished.
Laughing halfway through a sentence.
"I forgot to tell you— Laura actually smiled today. Like fully smiled. I think we're witnessing history."
He closes his eyes.
Lets it play through.
No editing.
No scripting.
No strategic positioning.
Just her.
Just real.
When it ends, the silence feels heavier than before.
He looks around the immaculate penthouse.
The curated wardrobe.
The pre-approved sound.
The projected future.
And for the first time since signing—
He feels something sharper than discomfort.
Trapped.
Not physically.
Contractually.
He signed himself into a version of success.
And now he has to figure out whether he can survive inside it.