Love isn’t beautiful.

And neither is the final riff of my guitar as it bleeds into silence.

I wait for him to say something, anything. But he just stares at me with his whiskey-colored eyes as if he knows I need him. And I do. My album won’t record itself and he’s the best producer in the business. But I made a mistake.

I crossed a line.

Now I’m at his mercy, and his brand of destruction is going to ruin more than my career.