Vice was not surprised when Aaron called with the news that the label wanted a meeting to discuss their progress on the album. They were nervous, Aaron suggested, about two producers so new to the role handling such a major album for the label and just needed some reassurance. Vice had other thoughts. “Mr Rich is causing waves,” he said to Victor. “Well, we are prepared for that, aren’t we?” Victor was not flustered. “So, we will go, let him try to bring us down, and show him up.” Mirage spent half an hour on the phone to her lawyer, and then another twenty minutes talking to Aaron when she was told. They leaned against the kitchen bench and watched her pace the patio, on the phone, her body language growing tenser by the minute. “Something went down,” Vice murmured. “What do we know about Mr Rich?” “Leans more towards popstars, seems to like young women as artists,” Victor replied, bracing his arms against the bench, and leaning into them. “Solid results as a producer, but Mirag

The music pounded out of the nightclub, and the lights flashed through the open doors guarded by burly, black clad bouncers. The line-up was extensive, the waiting club goers bouncing on the spot with excitement, trying to catch the attention of Vice, Victor and Mirage as they posed on the pavement in front of the entrance. Mirage laughed and shimmied for the cameras, sending the silver tassels on her dress dancing. “I have my producers here tonight,” she said in answer to a question. “We are taking a break from recording my next album,” she pressed herself against Vice’s side and pouted for a photo. “Mirage!” Someone from the roped off queue into the club called out her name and she excused herself to chat with her fans, posing for a selfie photo before returning to Victor and posing for another photographer. “Yes,” Victor answered a question thrown at him from the photographer’s ranks. “We are producing Mirage’s next album. It has an edgier sound than her previous albums, which w

Mirage checked her online profile and saw that her last photo with Vice and Victor was trending. As Aaron had suggested, she had been filling her online profiles with photos of her time in the studio, and selfies with Vice and Victor, sample clips of her music, and musical bloopers to entice her fans. And it was working. Combined with the professional photographs of their nights out clubbing, there was a huge hype building around her album, and the edgier sound and topic. She set the phone down on the hall table, flicked her hair out over her shoulders, and dropped her robe, draping it over the back of the couch where they sat around Vice’s laptop, as she walked towards the pool. “Holy f-k,” she heard Vice say, his voice dropping a decibel. She did not have to check to see if they followed her as she stepped out on the patio and strolled down the steps into the pool. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that they were shedding their clothing at almost manic speed. “A glass o

Mirage saw Mr Rich enter the dance studio in the mirror as she finished the track with her backing dancers. It was like being stabbed in the gut with an icy blade for him to appear so unexpectedly, cheerfully greeting those in her crew that he knew from previous tours, casual and easily confident, as if he had every right to be there. She took a drink from her water, and wiped herself off on her towel, ignoring him until he crossed the dance floor to her. “F-k off,” she told him, without looking at him. “You shouldn’t be here.” “Now, that is a bit hostile,” he replied smoothly. “You have had a bit of a bad attitude over the last twelve months, as your music demonstrates. Become a bit sour. You know what they say, sugar catches more flies than vinegar.” “I am not interested in flies. Buzz off.” “I am here as a favour, you would be wise to be more polite,” he leaned against the wall. “My car is out front. Join me for a meal, and we will talk business.” She rounded on him. “You thin

Alexei was the biggest man she had ever seen, Mirage thought looking up at him from under her eyelashes. Victor was big – broad shouldered and tall – but Alexei’s biceps were thicker than her thighs, and he was at least half a head taller than his brother. His black t-shirt with the logo of his company on the left breast and back, was stretched to its limits on him. He had a handgun holstered on his hip, and an earpiece permanently installed in his left ear. His blonde hair was cut military short. He caught her looking at him and grinned. “Alright?” “All good,” she looked straight ahead, flushing. Caught checking out her boyfriend’s brother, she scolded herself. At least it had not been the leery sort of checking out, more the holy shit, you are big, sort of looking. Her mental self-talk was not helping, but she reasoned it was better embarrassed about being caught gawking then nervous over the meeting. The limousine pulled to a stop, and Alexei stepped out first, standing at the d