Chapter 1
– Riley –
The alarm drags me out of sleep at 5:40 a.m. For a moment, I don't know where I am.
The bed is too big. The room is unfamiliar. The air smells different.
Then I remember. Los Angeles.
The realization hits all at once, and I sit upright so quickly I nearly tangle myself in the sheets.
Today is my first day of work.
For a moment, I just sit there. The room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioner.
Three days ago, I was still in Germany.
Three days ago, my mother stood with me at Munich Airport, clutching my hand so tightly that I thought she might never let go.
I can still picture her face. The forced smile. The red eyes. The way she kept insisting that everything would be fine while clearly not believing it herself.
A strange mix of excitement and guilt settles in my stomach. I never wanted to hurt her. But staying would have hurt me.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and walk toward the window.
Outside, Los Angeles stretches endlessly into the darkness.
Even at this hour, headlights move through the streets below. Palm trees line the road in front of the hotel, their silhouettes swaying gently in the breeze.
For a second, it doesn't feel real.
I actually did it. I left. No more lectures. No more pretending everything was fine. No more walking through Berlin and being reminded of things I'd rather forget.
My phone lights up on the nightstand. Ella. A smile immediately appears on my face.
Already awake?
A second message follows before I can answer.
Please don't accidentally get fired on your first day.
I laugh softly.
Good morning to you too.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
You love me.
Debatable.
Liar.
Shaking my head, I set the phone down. The smile lingers for a moment before slowly fading.
If anyone had told me six months ago that I'd be living in Los Angeles, preparing to spend the next eight months on the road with a management company, I would've laughed in their face.
Now it feels like the only decision I could have made. But beneath the excitement, beneath the jet lag and the nerves and the thrill of being here, something else still exists.
Berlin. A shared apartment. An empty side of the bed. Questions I never asked. Answers I was too afraid to hear.
I push the thoughts away before they can settle.
That's exactly why I'm here. To stop thinking about it. To start over.
And if crossing an ocean is what it takes, then so be it.
By the time I'm dressed and ready, my nerves have transformed into something dangerously close to excitement.
Not because of Los Angeles.
Not because of the tour.
Because this is real.
For years, professors stood in front of classrooms and talked about theoretical clients and theoretical crises.
Meanwhile, I spent every lecture wondering when we would get to do the actual work.
Now I finally would.
I glance at myself in the mirror one last time.
White blouse. Black jeans. Gray cardigan. Professional enough.
Hopefully.
A knock sounds at the door.
When I open it, an older man with kind eyes stands waiting beside my luggage. "Ms. Storm?"
I nod.
"Jonathan." He offers his hand. His smile immediately puts me at ease.
As we leave the hotel behind, I find myself staring out the window. The city feels enormous. Every intersection looks like something out of a movie.
The streets are wider. The buildings taller. Even the sky somehow seems bigger.
Jonathan notices. "First time in Los Angeles?"
"Is it that obvious?"
His smile appears in the rearview mirror. "Only slightly."
I watch a group of joggers disappear around a corner. "Everything feels so different."
"It'll feel normal faster than you think."
"I hope so."
"You'll be surprised what people can get used to."
Something about the way he says it makes me wonder how many nervous assistants, artists, and interns he's driven around over the years.
Probably hundreds. And somehow that thought calms me. Maybe everybody feels lost at first.
Jonathan certainly doesn't.
The drive to Crescendo Management takes twenty minutes. Twenty minutes during which I learn:
Jonathan has worked for the company for years. He has a wife and two children in Boston. He genuinely enjoys his job.
And apparently, Sloane Mercer has spent the last week talking about me.
"You'll like her," Jonathan says, while guiding me into the building and showing me the way.
The reception area alone is bigger than my entire university department back in Berlin.
People move through the lobby carrying laptops, coffee cups, and stacks of folders. Nobody seems rushed. Yet everyone seems busy. Like they all know exactly where they're supposed to be.
Unlike me.
"I hope she likes me."
He chuckles. "Trust me. She does."
The woman at reception gives me a visitor badge and directs me toward the elevators. Before leaving, Jonathan assures me we'll see each other again later.
While I wait for the elevator, I study the framed photographs decorating the wall.
Concerts. Award ceremonies. Magazine covers. Successful artists smiling beneath bright stage lights. Several names mean nothing to me. Others sound vaguely familiar.
One photograph catches my attention.
A dark-haired man stands on stage with a guitar, microphone in hand, thousands of lights glowing behind him.
The plaque underneath reads:
Adrian Crow – Pacific Music Awards
The name feels familiar. I've seen it somewhere before. Maybe in one of Sloane's emails. Maybe in the tour schedule.
Before I can think about it further, the elevator arrives.
The seventh-floor offices are even more impressive than the lobby below. The company's logo stretches across a marble wall. Employees move through the lobby with purpose. Everyone seems to know exactly what they're doing. I immediately feel like I don't.
"Hello, Riley!" I turn. Sloane Mercer is already walking toward me. Confident. Elegant. Perfectly put together. I suddenly become aware of every wrinkle in my cardigan.
Her handshake is firm. Her smile professional. Warm enough to be welcoming. Sharp enough to be intimidating.
"Welcome to Crescendo."
—-
Ten minutes later, I'm sitting in a conference room with a schedule thick enough to qualify as a weapon.
Before opening the schedule, Sloane studies me for a moment. Not unkindly. More like she's trying to figure something out.
Finally, she folds her hands on the table. "Why management?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"Why management?" she repeats. "Most people your age want to be performers. Why do you want to be the person organizing everything behind the scenes?"
I hesitate. The easy answer would be because I enjoy it. The truthful answer is more complicated. "I like solving problems."
Sloane raises an eyebrow. "Everyone says that."
A laugh escapes me. "Okay. Then maybe because I like preventing problems before they happen."
That earns the first genuinely impressed look I've seen from her. "That's a better answer."
Encouraged, I continue. "I like planning things. Organizing things. Creating something people don't notice unless it goes wrong."
For the first time since we sat down, Sloane smiles. A real smile. "Good."
"Good?"
"Most people think management is glamorous." The way she says the word makes it sound ridiculous.
"It isn't?"
She laughs. "No. It's schedules, logistics, emergencies, and fixing problems nobody else even noticed."
"Sounds perfect."
Her eyes narrow slightly. As if she's deciding whether she believes me. Apparently she does. "Maybe Jonathan was right about you."
I blink. "Jonathan talked about me?"
"Jonathan talks about everyone."
She looks at me for another moment. "This," Sloane says, while opening the schedule folder. "is your life for the next few months."
I stare at it. She isn't joking.
"We fly to San Francisco this morning. First show in two days. Interviews. Press. Rehearsals. Travel. Meetings."
My pulse speeds up. Not from fear. From excitement. This is exactly what I wanted. No simulations. No classroom exercises. No pretending.
Real work. Real clients. Real responsibility.
Sloane watches me carefully. "Still excited?"
I grin. "Absolutely."
"Good answer." She leans back in her chair. A satisfied smile appears. "I think we're going to work very well together, Riley."
I hope she's right.
Then Sloane folds her hands together."Oh. And one more thing."
I look up.
"Your first client is Adrian Crow."
For a moment, I simply stare at her.
The name sounds familiar. Not because I listen to his music. I don't. But because I've seen it repeatedly over the past week.
Emails. Schedules. Phone calls. Tour documents.
Adrian Crow.
Adrian Crow.
Adrian Crow.
Apparently, half the company revolves around him. Which seemed excessive for someone I'd never heard of.
Sloane watches my reaction carefully. "You know who he is, right?"
"Sort of?"
That makes her laugh. "Well, you'll know a lot more by the end of this tour."
I glance down at the thick schedule lying in front of me.
Eight months.
Eight months on the road.
Eight months helping manage the career of a man I'd never met.
Eight months without my mother.
Without Ella.
Without Berlin.
Suddenly this feels a lot more real.
Sloane's expression softens. "We'll be very busy," she says. "I'm not going to pretend otherwise. But if you ever need help, come to me."
I smile. "Thank you. I will."
She glances at the clock on the wall and immediately stands. "Good. Because we need to leave for the airport in fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes later, I find myself carrying a coffee and a pink-frosted donut through a private airport terminal.
Of course, we're flying by private jet. How could it be otherwise? An airport employee in an orange vest led us through an unattended boarding gate and then across the tarmac. When the small plane came into view, I had no more doubts.
There are already four people sitting inside the plane, which has room for about 15 people. Two girls and two guys, all just a few years older than me. They greet us kindly as we pass them to take seats further back.
When the engines start shortly after and we slowly roll toward the runway, Sloane notices my unease.
"You'll have to get used to this plane. We'll be flying in it often," she says sympathetically, fastening her seatbelt.
Flying has never been my thing. Often enough, after endless discussions and tears on my part, my family had given up and we just drove on vacation—to Italy, France, or Scotland. No trip was too long for me if it meant not flying.
Only Ben had managed to convince me twice to fly somewhere with him. Look where I am now, Ben. Would you believe it?
I try to push my thoughts of him away. He's not good for me. He threatens my fresh start and my determination to be happy here on the other side of the world. Too often I let my dreams and goals be talked down or even forbidden. Never again!
"...right?" Sloane asks. If she weren't looking at me so intently, I wouldn't have even noticed she was talking to me.
"Sorry?" I ask, perplexed, and she starts laughing.
"Wow, your fear really is that bad, huh?"
"It's okay," I reply, digging my nails deeper into the armrest as the plane slowly takes off.
She watches me, amused, and then says, "I asked if you throw up when you fly."
"No! Don't worry."
"Okay," she says and turns back to her laptop.
Trying to distract myself, I glance over at the four people at the other end of the plane. They're playing some kind of card game—as if we were on a train and not in an airplane.
That thought doesn't help with the nausea, Riley.
Who are they? How many people will be on tour? Are they all nice, or will there be a few real idiots?
I'm suddenly very aware of how little practical experience I have, and I sincerely hope Sloane will forgive any mistakes and support me. She knows I have no experience, but her little speech at the office about my own events and the future unsettled me a bit.
The group laughs. The two men have short brown hair. One of the women is blonde, the other almost black-haired. They're very loud—and kind of odd. Next to them, I feel almost uptight. They look so carefree, like they're enjoying life to the fullest. I feel the urge to sit with them and laugh along. But I doubt I'd ever fit into their group.
—
A short time later, we arrive at the hotel for the next three days in San Francisco. I survived the short flight without any vomiting incidents, and the feeling of stepping off the plane and breathing fresh air was indescribable. I push away the thought that I'll have to do it all again in three days.
Sloane and I agree to meet at the elevator in half an hour so she can finally introduce me to Adrian and the rest of the team. Until then, I can rest in my room and unpack my things.
The hotel room is similar in size to the one in Los Angeles. A large king-size bed takes up about half the room. Thick red curtains hang in front of the window, and a small hallway leads to the bathroom and the door.
I decide to freshen up, put on some makeup, and reapply deodorant.
I briefly consider calling my mother, but it's still very early morning at home, and I don't want to wake her. So I unpack my small suitcase and put my toiletries in the bathroom.
After 25 minutes, I meet Sloane at the elevator, and together we go to the top floor. There are only two doors, each labeled "Suite," and she knocks on the one on the right.
A suite, of course. I've never set foot in a suite in my life. Why would I? Hotels are for sleeping, not for having a fancy room you barely use. But what did you expect from Adrian Crow? A standard room? One like yours, with nothing but a bed and a small bathroom?
The door opens, and the dark-haired women from the plane greets us with a grin.
"Sloane, babe! Finally!" she says, then turns to me. "Hi! I didn't introduce myself earlier. I'm Quinn!"
"Riley. Nice to meet you," I reply, shaking her hand.
She waves us inside, and we follow her.
The sight of the large room we step into completely impresses me. My apartment in Berlin wasn't even close to being this big.
From the entrance area, steps lead down into a large living space, where a C-shaped couch sits in front of a huge window. A magnificent chandelier hangs above the coffee table. To my right, there's a bar with stools; to my left, a small hallway with several doors and a spiral staircase leading upstairs.
"Adrian! Sloane is here!" Quinn calls and disappears through one of the doors.
My gaze wanders to the huge window, offering a wonderful view of the harbor.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sloane hugging someone, and I turn back to her.
That must be him. Tall and slim, his short brown hair styled back, dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans. He's not wearing shoes, just black socks.
"Riley," Sloane calls, waving me over.
"Adrian, this is my new assistant, Riley. From now on, fully responsible for your well-being."
Smiling kindly, he extends his hand.
"Hi. I'm Adrian. Nice to meet you."
I take it automatically.
Somehow, meeting him feels far more significant than seeing his name on a schedule.
Which is ridiculous.
I met him thirty seconds ago.
