I jump to my feet and take a place, center stage, in front of the desk. "Stop, all of you. I'm right here. No one has asked me what I think."

Low grumbles echo in the room until I give each of the men a warning glance for silence.

"All right," Conner says. "What do you think?"

"I think I can't perform tomorrow night. I don't have any songs for this club." I point upwards, to the top floor.

Noah and Jacob, standing opposite me both frown in confusion. Don't they know where the club is?

I continue, though. "I'm here for one reason." I pause, heart pounding. "I want answers about what happened to my brother eight years ago."

The room erupts.

But what I hear, over and over, is the word accident.

Accident? I'm shaking in rage. My apartment was broken into by an obsessed stalker, my career is in tatters, I can't talk to my parents and have no other family, but somehow, for me it all comes back to that night.

Keith didn't have accidents.

The men, except for Van, who wasn't there that night, are all shouting at me, at each other.

Van leans back on the sofa, arm across the seat back, studying me with his dark eyes, expression thoughtful. We lock eyes. He slowly takes a cigarette from a case in his pocket and places it between his lips without lighting it. He nods, as if he knows what I'm thinking.

What I'm thinking is, I have to make these men understand me.

I take my tuning fork from my own pocket. The tuning fork Keith gave me for my fourteenth birthday, right after I announced I wanted to be a professional opera singer and my parents were already discouraging me.

He bought me a tuning fork, and told me to fight for my dream.

I smack it against the desk and hold it to my ear.

The note la sings through me.

These men only understand what you force them to understand.

I find my note and launch into Mozart's Queen of the Night aria from the Magic Flute. Swelling and lifting, my voice bounces into the upper stratosphere, surprising the men into stunned silence.

My lungs fill to hold the impossible high notes, my diaphragm tightens to support the trilling staccatos. On and on.

They don't move and I keep singing, caged bird that I am, shattering their preconceived notions of me being quiet and docile. Showing them who I am. Showing them that I am not made for a nightclub stage.

Showing them I will not stop asking questions.

I hold the final note, returning to my original la.

Van is grinning at me like an idiot—his forgotten cigarette dangling from his lip. Ty looks shocked, like an alien has materialized in our midst.

The others begin to clap, but hesitantly, afraid of breaking some spell I have cast.

"That's not human," Jacob says, waving at me. "That thing you did with your voice, it shouldn't happen."

I nod. "Normally I would get a bouquet of flowers now, but I'll take the inhuman voice comment as a compliment, instead."

Conner points at me. "I told you. She doesn't belong here."

Devon studies me, hand on his jaw. "Do you know who my best pole dancer is?"

I scoff. Really? That's what he asks me after I execute an a cappella Mozart aria from memory?

"A lovely young woman who was on track to being prima ballerina until she twisted her ankle. Now she makes nearly two hundred K a year, instead of the twenty she was making in the corps before coming here," Devon says. "You'll be amazing. And you will sign."

"If I refuse?" I ask.

"Then you can stay with me," Conner says.

Several others mutter dangerously, but I'm not sure if it's to offer me a place to stay or tell Conner to back off.

"If you refuse, and you leave," Devon says, "Then I can't protect you from the kidnapper or anyone who else who might want to hurt you. This club is made to prote—" He stops himself suddenly and changes where he is going with the sentence. "This club's name is protection, itself. I have security." He motions to the office. "We will all work together to make this be your new home."

Conner clears his throat, disagreeing, but the others watch me intently, silently going along with Devon's offer.

I can't fight anymore—in my heart I don't want to fight. This place, these men, have the answers I want about Keith. Time to stop dragging this out. "All right. I'll sign. I don't know how, but I'll sing for you."

Devon fists one hand in victory, then addresses the others. "Out. Let's get back to work."

Faces tight, the other file from the office, except for Conner.

"Go," Devon says. "It's decided."

"As your partner," Conner says, low and dangerous, "it's my job to tell you, you are an asshole and you're making a monumental mistake." He's talking to Devon, but his attention falls on me at the last part. I swallow.

Mistake or not, I have to stay close to these men—all of them—if I want answers. I will not be silent. I will not stop asking questions.

"As head of H. R., this is my expertise," Devon says.

"What about the stage? When are you taking her there?"

"When she's ready." Devon hitches his chin for Conner to leave. Disapproval flicks across Conner's face. He's worried, but I don't know why.

"It's all right," I say, feeling useless.

Conner closes the door.

The contract is already on the desk, gleaming white paper and crisp text of black lines. He flips through the first copy to the last page, signs, and motions for me to come closer.

"Sign every page, at the bottom. This is the best contract you'll get in your life."

With his every word, he wounds me. He's brutally cold. Once again, I'm filled with anger.

This man insults me, corners me, tells me he's just being honest when he cuts me down, and withholds what I truly desire.

My lower lip trembles.

His eyes move from mine to my lips and he sways, almost moving forward.

Then, the moment ends. He's nothing but a millionaire club owner, and I'm a nobody employee.

As I sign the last page, he says, "Do not go to the club until we hold your debut."

*** ONC 1015 word count. Gilded cage? Prison? New home? How is this going to work for Avery, really? Thanks as always for checking out my story! ***