Page 49 of A Song for Another Woman

“You’ve got a stadium tour with trucks loading in six weeks, Cade. I don’t have the luxury of letting you go feral in that mausoleum.”

I look around the bedroom. He isn’t wrong about the mausoleum part. “I’m putting the tour on hold,” I say.

The silence on the other end is so complete I can hear him breathing. Then he laughs once. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Cade.”

“Call the promoter in the morning. Tell them I’m postponing.”

“On what grounds? Temporary insanity?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Personal reasons don’t cover thirty-eight sold-out dates and enough insurance clauses to choke a lawyer.”

“Then legal can earn their money.”

He goes very still. I can feel it through the line, that cold managerial quiet before he starts choosing weapons. “This is about her.”

I don’t answer.

Duke swears under his breath. “You’re committing career suicide for a woman who won’t even take your calls.”

For years, Duke has spoken about Emmy like she’s weather affecting an outdoor shoot. Manageable if inconvenient. I let him. Sometimes I even felt grateful because he handled the ugly parts while I kept my hands clean.

My hands were never clean.

“She doesn’t owe me a call,” I say.

“She owes you a conversation before you light your career on fire.”

“No, Duke. She doesn’t.”

He huffs out another laugh, meaner this time. “You know what happens if you pull this tour? Melody’s team eats the wholefield. Silver Creek starts asking whether you’re reliable, and the fanbase starts looking for someone less complicated. We have a Lonesome Strings launch tied to this. Do you understand that? The signature line, the documentary piece, the limited run with the burn engraving. You walk away now, and they’ll bury you in breach language.”

“The guitar deal is done too.”

This time he actually shouts. I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at the wall while he burns through every stage of panic in under a minute. Money. Contracts. Optics. Sponsors. Momentum. The wordmomentumcomes up three times, like momentum is a god we both promised to obey.

When he finally stops for air, I say, “I’m not putting my name on a guitar built around a song that helped humiliate my wife.”

“It’s not built around the song. It’s built around your resurgence.”

“My resurgence cost her too much.”

“Your resurgence paid for that house you’re sitting in.”

I look at the marble floor, the bed no one has made, and the framed award on the dresser because some stylist once said trophies should look casual. “No,” I say quietly. “It paid for a lot of things. None of them were home.”

Duke lowers his voice. That’s worse. “Listen to me. I get that you’re hurting. I do. But this is the moment you cannot blink. Ride the wave, stabilize the brand, let the noise die down, and then we can figure out the personal side.”

The personal side. My marriage. My wife’s face on a jumbotron while America studied the smallest crack in her smile. Her sitting in the third row while I thanked another woman like revelation and tossed Emmy gratitude like a tip.

The personal side.

“I’ve been riding the wave,” I say. “That’s the problem. It's finally dragged me under.”